Sunday, August 22, 2010

Eat, pray, READ

I maybe could have handled it if they'd cast someone else. Kate Hudson, perhaps, or even Cameron Diaz. But the minute I heard that Julia Roberts was cast to play author Elizabeth Gilbert in the film version of Gilbert's book "Eat, Pray, Love" I knew I wasn't going to be buying a ticket.
The whole idea of making the wildly popular book into a movie was a dubious prospect from go. Most of the action in the book transpires in Gilbert's head, particularly the "pray" section. So how, I wondered, could that be accurately portrayed on film?
Then I saw the previews and realized how: cliches and gimmicks. Julia as Elizabeth tumbles from her bike and is swept up by her lover-to-be. That isn't the way they really met, but why let reality get in the way of a good story, right?
In fact, having seen several clips from the film, I find it almost unrecognizable when compared to the book. The old school of "Let's take a great book, throw it in a blender, add some big stars, and simplify it for the easy digestion of the audience."
Ok, I'll admit to making sweeping judgments about a film I haven't seen. But I've seen enough movies based on books I loved that were either dumbed down or rewritten beyond recognition by filmmakers who either underestimated their audience's intelligence or wanted to turn the movie into their own creative statement.
Another case in point: the new film "Beezus and Ramona." Anyone who's ever read even one of the beloved series of books authored by Beverly Cleary knows that Ramona was not a little princess wanna be, and Beezus was no adoring, indulgent big sister.
What makes the "Ramona" books so endearing is the way they capture the irritations, pleasures and misunderstandings of family life. It's real. Parents quarrel and lose jobs, pets die, siblings battle. But in the end the message is always the same: families struggle together, grow together and, above all, love one another through thick and thin.
I hope that children who see the cutesied-up version of Cleary's stories will pick up the books and not quickly put them down because they don't resemble the movie. I hope they'll recognize themselves and come back for more.
I wish the same for those who see "Eat, Pray, Love," and for anyone who ever saw a movie based on a book, ever. No matter how amazing the film adaptation of a book may be, and some truly are glorious visual tributes to the originals, there's nothing like the movie screen of one's own imagination to bring characters and events to life in the most vivid, memorable - and personal - light.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Traverse City North

It's not as if I don't realize how unreasonable I'm being. I just want Marquette to become a more vital, job-accessible city, and not change one iota in the process.
So Indy and I were strolling along, rejoicing in the newly cool, dry air. As we approached Mattson Lower Harbor Park I tried unsuccessfully to ignore the scraped-clean earth boxed in by an ugly chain link fence locked with a seriously thick chain and heavy-duty padlock.
"Coming in 2011" the sign bragged about the soon to be built hotel. I stared over the fence and construction equipment, wondering how much longer I'd be able to view Lake Superior from that spot. Resentment is a tough lump to swallow and it leaves a bitter taste. I tried to keep in mind that this hotel would attract tourists and create jobs, but overriding that was the thought that a handful of rich guys were tearing up the lakefront in order to make themselves even richer.
As I walked away I knocked my hand against the orange plastic fence blocking off the lot next to the chain-link imprisoned area. The sudden "ow" and the tiny mark on my knuckle felt like a rebuke. You can't fight progress.
Over the years I've heard people grumble that developers are "turning Marquette into another Traverse City." I've never been to Traverse City, but that doesn't sound like the worst proposition in the world. More shops (maybe a Barnes and Noble to console us after the loss of B Dalton), more entertainment venues, more entertainment.
I can hear you already. Yes, that would mean more changes to the city I don't want changed. But here's a crazy thought: how about making use of existing buildings instead of constantly tearing up the landscape with newer, sleeker, less attractive constructions? The downtown area is small-town cozy and welcoming, yet buildings stand empty while white siding mini malls pop up like dandelions all over town.
And while I'm ranting, how about trying to attract more industry instead of building fancy condos most of the population can't afford?
I love Marquette. It's friendly, beautiful, and as comfortable as my favorite sweatshirt. It's not that I'm resistant to changes in my city, really. I'd just like to see them made for the good of many instead of a few.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Rocking out, Mom style

So I stayed up past my bedtime again, knowing full well that it would take at least two days to recover from such wild hedonism. And it did. It's actually been three days, and I'm not even sure I've completely recovered.
I went to the Wild Rover on Friday night with my friend Jan to watch this awesome band perform: Dan Daniels and the Southern Gents. I may be a tad prejudiced in my assessment. I happen to be the mother of Dan Daniels.
The Rover is a restaurant by day, bar by night. We got there around 9, when things were still in restaurant mode. In keeping with the night's theme of "So what if I feel like crap tomorrow," I ordered a little delicacy known as Irish nachos. That would be homemade potato chips languishing under a thick blanket of melted cheddar, garnished all over with tomato and green onion, all accompanied by a side of sour cream for dipping.
When I ordered the waiter asked me what kind of meat I wanted on my nachos. "None," I replied, feeling marginally virtuous. Those cheese slathered, deep fried taters may be glistening with grease and sparkling with salt, but by God they're meat free!
At 10 o'clock the lights were dimmed and the band took to the stage, which holds a banquet table when the Rover is in restaurant mode. Jan and I moved up front, the better to cheer the lads on and watch a roomful of adults - legally, anyway - get progressively, uh, happier.
I've seen Dan perform enough times now to not well up at the sight of him onstage, handsome, confident, joking with the audience and his bandmates. I've not, however, gotten over my amazement at his musical prowess, and that of the rest of the band. They play an eclectic mix of blues, '50s and '60s rock and their own compositions, all with lots of young-guy joy and energy.
But it's Dan who commands most of my attention, of course. I love watching him get what I call music face, that look of painful ecstasy that performers get when they're expressing the essence of their hearts and souls through their voice or instrument. I know when a song isn't going right when I see him scowl and bare his teeth in disgust. When he rises up on his toes, following the notes, or when he gives a lighthearted little kick a la Bo Diddley, I want to hold up a sign that reads, "That's my boy!"
Another band mom, Mary, mother of Matt, tapped my wrist on her way to the dance floor (location of a table for four during restaurant hours). "How often do we get a chance to dance to our own kids' music?" she called.
Good point. Before long Jan and I, along with Karleen, Dan's girlfriend, were out on the floor, too.
One gent, a stocky, thoroughly inebriated chap, stood in front of the stage throughout most of a set, expressing his appreciation for the music by shouting "Fuck you!" at random moments.
"Hey, hey, language!" Daniel chided him. "My mom's here!"
The evening was a blast from nachos to encore, a powerful rendition of Jimi Hendrix's "Machine Gun."
My favorite moment occurred at the band's first break. I walked up to Dan and he smiled down at me.
"I see you got front row seats," he said.
"Are you embarrassed?" I asked, half teasing, half wondering if I was overdoing my mother of the rock god routine.
"No, I'm really glad you're here," he said, with enough warm sincerity to melt cheddar cheese over potatoes.
"So can I hug you in public?" I asked, pushing the embarrassing-mother envelope a little further.
To my surprise, Dan answered, "Of course you can. You're my mom!"
I think, of all the unexpected events and surprising scenes that can occur in a bar on any given Friday night, a loving hug between a mom and her son has got to be one of the rarest. And without question, one of the best.
We left at 1:30 a.m. When I got home my left ear was ringing and my right ear was buzzing. My back and neck ached from sitting on a hard wooden stool. I tried not to think about the fact that I had to get up in five hours to get ready to attend a recovery-oriented activity.
Sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll is the typical nightlife trifecta. The young folks can have it. I'll take Irish nachos and motherhood with my rock 'n' roll.
And maybe a little less amplifier.