Two Gourmets [briefly] Unite

In an ongoing theme for the month of December (and in a tribute to my favorite film) I present the latest from two of my favorite people to love/hate:

Maybe it's not always a Good Thing:
Martha Stewart ended her brief relationship with Sir Anthony Hopkins, because she couldn't separate him from his famous character Hannibal Lecter. Stewart, 65, appeared on shock jock Howard Stern's radio show last week and admitted she had second thoughts about romancing the Welsh-born star after watching The Silence Of The Lambs while they were dating. She said, "Oh, I loved him, but he was... scary. I was going to invite him up to Maine; I have this beautiful home in Maine... but then I reconsidered because I saw that movie again. Do you want someone eating your brain while you are sitting in your beautiful dining room in Maine?" Hopkins won an Academy Award for his portrayal of Dr, Lecter, but the accolades weren't enough to sway Stewart. She adds, "I would have probably had a very nice relationship with Anthony Hopkins, but I couldn't get past the Lecter thing."


Hmmm, I wonder if any of Martha's former "manfriends" ever say that about her.

From Cannibalism to Eating My Words

I always loved Janet Maslin as a film critic, and mourned her switch over to books, but have continued to enjoy the crackle of her writing. This review of Hannibal Rising is just another brilliant example. Though I have an extreme love of both the film and book versions of Silence of the Lambs and Manhunter, I was thoroughly disappointed by Harris' Hannibal--so much so, that I threw the book across the room when I finished it. I'm in a slightly different position this time having read an early draft of the Behind the Mask (aka Hannibal Rising) script before the novel. I do have to admit that it wasn't my favorite, and Harris has definitely turned Hannibal into a caricature, but the script with producer input is very different from the single-minded version of the author's novel. It will be interesting to see the final product on screen, though I may end up eating my own words...
Below find JM's review of Hannibal Rising.

From Soup to Guts, the Making of a Foodie
By JANET MASLIN
Published: December 8, 2006
This is what Thomas Harris’s readers would least like to hear from Mr. Harris’s flesh-eating celebrity, Dr. Hannibal Lecter: “I deeply regret any pain I may have caused for the victims and their families. For years I have helplessly battled the problem that caused me to misbehave. I intend to seek treatment for it immediately.”
Now for the second-least-welcome thoughts about Lecter. And these, unlike the above, actually were written by Mr. Harris. They come from “Hannibal Rising,” his final (please!) effort to cash in on a once-fine franchise that fell from grace. Plot points: Hannibal suffered a terrible trauma in childhood. Bad, bad men cooked and ate his baby sister. This gave him no choice but to become a cannibal himself. Monkey see, monkey do.
Does that motivation sound primitive? It shouldn’t. It is no more crude than the revenge plot that drives “Hannibal Rising” or the market forces that impelled Mr. Harris to cough up this hairball of a story. The book is the evil companion piece of a forthcoming film version of “Hannibal Rising,” for which Mr. Harris also wrote the screenplay, and is the supposed story of how the man became a monster.
“Here in the hot darkness of his mind, let us feel together for the latch,” Mr. Harris writes ludicrously. “By our efforts we may watch as the beast within turns from the teat and, working upwind, enters the world.”
Poetic pretensions notwithstanding, this particular beast is not slouching toward Bethlehem. Little Hannibal is headed from Lecter Castle in Lithuania (once home to Hannibal the Grim, a 14th- to 15th-century forebear) to Paris, by way of some grisly detours. “Hannibal Rising” begins as the Nazis invade Lithuania and drive the Lecters into hiding. Then it makes a meal of darling little Mischa Lecter, who cried out heart-rendingly for her brother (“Anniba!”), as her captors boiled a big pot of water.
On the theory that one such hellish vision is not enough, “Hannibal Rising” flashes back to it repeatedly. Supporting roles in Hannibal’s memory sequences are played by the corpses of his mother and beloved Jewish tutor. Suffice it to say that he is a scarred and lonely 13-year-old by the time he reaches France and encounters a vision of beauty: Lady Murasaki, the stately, exquisitely alluring Asian wife of Hannibal’s uncle.
Picture the magnificent Gong Li in this role — or just wait, because she’ll show up soon enough in the film version (due early next year). It will require all of her formidable acting skills to deliver dialogue like: “You are drawn toward the darkness, but you are also drawn to me.” Or this: “If you are scorched earth, I will be warm rain.” Hannibal himself, equally purple with Mr. Harris’s prose, prefers to speak in cricket imagery. For instance: “My heart hops at the sight of you, who taught my heart to sing.”
Despite lovely Lady Murasaki’s willingness to rain on him, Hannibal shows signs of teenage trouble. When a butcher makes crude remarks about Lady Murasaki’s anatomy, Hannibal savagely attacks him. “Flog no one else with meat,” a French police official warns him, but Hannibal will not heed that warning. While the book contains tranquil moments (“Hannibal sat on a stump in a small glade beside the river, plucking the lute and watching a spider spin”), Mr. Harris has not been summoned back from the Land of Writer’s Block to create lute-playing scenes.
A word about this elusive author: he has produced only five books since 1974, and his cult reputation as a superb thriller writer was once well deserved. After “Black Sunday” (about a blimp poised to attack a full stadium at the Super Bowl), he introduced Dr. Lecter and built two top-notch books around him: “Red Dragon” and “The Silence of the Lambs.”
Then something went terribly wrong. It took 11 years for Mr. Harris to add a new installment (“Hannibal” in 1999) that turned crisp, riveting precision into self-parody. The character lost all traces of his brilliance and ate the brains out of a living man’s sawed-open skull.
That was a hard act to follow, horror-wise. “Hannibal Rising” doesn’t come close. Its sadism is subdued (though still sickening), and its young Hannibal sounds nothing like the older one. The reader who begins with this new book will have no idea why any of the older ones are well regarded. Nor is there any notion of what makes Hannibal diabolically clever — beyond his rooting for Mephistopheles while watching “Faust” at the Paris Opera.
That glamorous setting is one of many, many theatrical cues and flourishes featured in the new book. Mr. Harris has specialized in highly visual imagery since his Super Bowl blimp days, but “Hannibal Rising” takes this tendency to crass extremes. Leaving no doubt that this book is part screenplay, Mr. Harris provides background music (part of Humperdinck’s opera “Hansel and Gretel” for the eating of Mischa), symbolism (the brutalization of beloved swans), horror-prone settings during Hannibal’s medical school years (“Night in the gross-anatomy laboratory”) and grandiose locations for big thoughts. Hannibal’s major epiphany conveniently comes while he is contemplating the votive candles at Notre Dame.
Although much of “Hannibal Rising” is earnestly cinematic (watch out for an underwater corpse “no longer bald, hirsute now with green hair algae and eelgrass that wave in the current like the locks of his youth”), this material also has its campy side. The cannibalism is ugly but silly, with Hannibal menacingly wielding mayonnaise during one sequence. The story’s main villain is so evil that he’s seen getting a pedicure from a woman with a black eye.
And when this villain turns desperate, so does Mr. Harris. “We are alike!” the character cries. “We are the New Men, Hannibal. You, me — the cream — we will always float to the top!” Pity the poor actor forced to say those lines. Then remember that cream can turn sour.

Insomnia in the Vertical Hour

I'm resurrecting the blog now that my insomnia has returned. I'm not sure if it's strictly insomnia or due to the fact that I saw the Vertical Hour last weekend and cannot get the play out of my head. I went to the play without having read any reviews--I like to try and go in with a clean slate when possible. After I came out however, I felt compelled to read as many as I could to see how many other people agreed with me. The best came from Variety via David Rooney:

"[Moore] is stiffly self-conscious here. Early on, it's as if she's trapped in a L’Oreal commercial, tilting her face into the light with an expression of beatific serenity that goes against the scene's argumentative nature."
I think that just about sums it up the first few scenes. I really admire Julianne Moore's work, especially in Vanya on 42nd, but it took a while to warm up to her--and her character--in this play. There's something about David Hare's writing of Nadia that is too clunky, and makes it quite obvious that a man wrote her.

A side gripe: did they really need to hire a legend like Ann Roth to "design" those costumes? I could have run over to the Gap and H&M with a $200 budget and gotten the same stuff! Clearly, she was slacking.

Also, this was another great quote from Rooney's Variety review: "Nadia's closing line displays a heavy hand that's perplexing, if not downright inexcusable, from a writer of Hare's intelligence."
What was also inexcusable to me was when Oliver says to Nadia, "I can tell you're a woman that's been badly hurt."
Umm what woman hasn't been? Was that a quick summary for those members of the audience that had decided on a quick snooze and just woken up? David Hare did a much better job at conveying a woman's longing for her former life in PLENTY. That too was a bit of a mess, but then, whose life isn't?

I am a huge fan of David Hare's work, so naturally was a bit disappointed. Not to fear however, with exquisite acting by Bill Nighy (I LOVE that Americans are now 'discovering' him) the play is saved by him during its own vertical hour.

Ode on a Tangent (or Ode to an Assistant)

So I should be packing for my whirlwind three-day vacay, but instead have decided to check out Maureen Dowd's column, which then lead me back to Gawker's coverage of K-Fed's Teen Choice Awards "performance," which then lead me to literary hot-or-not, and the Penguin UK blog (this is totally not a good idea, people are supposed to think publishing is mysterious, not realize the boring reality of it).

So all of these tangents got me thinking, how would Maureen Dowd ever know about K-Fed (or even his nickname) if not for her assistant--whom I'm sure is a constant checker of Gawker like the rest of us minions. That's the thing about assistants, we are the inside man, we know it all. My brain has always been constantly tapped for useless information gathered from all over. I'm beyond jeopardy into well into the realm of the obscure. Would our employer counterparts ever be able to function, let alone create, without our useful knowledge of...well, everything? Inspiration comes from nature, muses, lovers, whatever metaphor Keats chose to tap, but what about assistants? We deserve our own category of kudos. Could you picture Shakespeare, Scott, or Rossetti sitting back, musing on their assistant as a source of poetic inspiration? That will be the day.

To my fellow assistants, we all know what lies beneath. Now back to work.

Virile Equinox

VIRILE: Having or showing masculine spirit, strength, vigor, or power.

I belong to a fancy gym. The kind where they advertise spa benefits just as much as they do the benefits of working out. Tonight I ran next to a former actor. Well, I can't say ran because I was simply walking fast, and he wasn't exactly next to me, he was lifting weights across the room from my treadmill, and I'm not sure if he's a former actor, but after his series ended, I don't believe he appeared on anything else. You get the picture.

So he's lifting weights the size of downtown hipsters and I'm walking like suburban moms power walk at the mall. I casually watched him check out his toned muscles in the mirror, and I wondered what he was thinking. Did he think the muscles would help him win that role, win back his wife--who has conveniently filled the "nnifer" role in another man's life--or was he just in it for the vanity, the virility, whatever you want to call it? He certainly wasn't doing it to stay fit. He took too many breaks for that. He lifted, spotted someone, grabbed a bottle of water at the juice bar, came back up, checked out CNN, spotted another guy, lifted, disappeared for ten more minutes, watched some more TV...you get the picture. He didn't want to be notice by strangers, but he definitely wanted to notice his biceps in every mirror of the gym. Gay men don't waste as much time at the gym checking each other out as this guy was checking himself out.

I finally tore myself away from his pretty-boy shtick long enough to look around to see who else was checking him check himself out. Two women next to me were fighting over the results of an inane reality show and didn't even notice him. The guy on the bike next to me kept sneaking furtive glances at "biceps" trying to figure out who he was. The spotting partner just kept rolling his eyes. I checked out "biceps" one more time. His arms glistening with sweat (or water, since he wasn't doing enough work to warrant actual sweat). "I am man," those biceps called out to us, "see me curl."

Disenchantment in the Age of Enlightenment

I want to be 18 again. Not because I loved college (I NEVER want to suffer through an Ithaca winter again!), but because I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I had a goal, career path, and job that I really loved. I already had two years experience under my belt and I was only 18.

Now I'm 25, I have even more experience under my belt, have deviated away from my initial career path--not because I didn't like it, but because there weren't any jobs that gave me health insurance--and don't know what the hell I want to do. I know what I like (hard work, risk, creativity, encouragement) and what I don't (a paycheck under $40,000/yr.), but that sort of leaves me either overqualified for entry-level positions, but under-qualified for anything above the $35,000 bracket. How's a girl to win? New York is supposed to be a city that never sleeps, takes gambles and risks on things like the stock market and cable TV, but yet I can't find someone to take a gamble and hire me. Why is this so damn hard? Here's a list of the craziest offers I've ever received:

1) Entry-level job at big corporate media company: $31,000+benefits (sit in cubicle all day and use computer. No break. (I actually took this offer)

2) $600/week, no benefits, desk, office, computer etc, working for indie producer (I took this offer too, spent three months sitting on a couch reading, and hated it)

3) $15,000/yr. no benefits, no overtime, but would be expected to work overtime. I laughed, thanked them for the offer, and promptly hung up.

4) $55,000/yr full benefits, dental, paid vacation (3 weeks), as an assistant to a powerhouse publisher. It turned out they were crazy. I was warned by several people to expect my phones to be tapped, mental and verbal abuse, and possible physical side effects to occur. (I decided this wouldn't be a wise move. I was harassed for 4 days by said company after turning down the offer, and had to screened calls for a week).

5) $30,000/yr, benefits, no over time (but 18 hour days expected, 6 days/week) no lunch or pee break (I kid you not). Massive amounts of verbal abuse. 20 page confidentiality agreement. Lots of damage control to be done. (I reluctantly took the position, but they decided to re-neg and hired internally at the 11th hour...literally 11 hours before I was to start working). And no, this wasn't for Scott Rudin.

I could keep going, but you might think I'm crazy for passing these opportunities up. I know people would kill for them, but most of these jobs would kill you first. The way I look at it, I've saved myself many ulcers, acid reflux issues, massive therapy bills, loss of sleep, and loss of mind. I always thought there would be some sort of middle ground here, like those movies where the editor takes a gamble on a bright, talented, young-but-naive journalist who hits it big with the scoop of the decade, and gets the man. What happened to that ideal life?

Risks, gamble, whatever you call it, at eighteen, it all seemed possible. Maybe it's not age at all, maybe all I need is to move to Vegas.

Flashback: 1987

I don't need Mr. Blackwell to tell me my straight-legged jeans are out of style.

Everywhere I go lately I see the 80's. From those skinny jeans to acid-washed, The New York Dolls, punk, and lacy vests straight out of Pretty In Pink, I'm getting nauseous. It's not necessarily because I don't like the style per se. I think it could be very London-hip. I too danced around to Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, and loved Madonna's look just as much as the next child of the 80's. But what I fear, are those people--that decidedly large demographic of them--who think it will now be okay to wear heather grey leggings with white slouchy socks and big tee shirts with things like unicorns on them. I'm afraid of the people who will take this trend a step further and dig out their old frayed-edge shirts with the colored beads dangling from ends. The thought of those plastic beads tapping together is enough to cause a shiver to run down my spine. Will this mean the end of fashion?

After 1989, we were all sent into a fashion rut. Remember the days of Doc Martens with blue jeans and white tee shirts? We were blank canvases waiting for someone to throw paint onto us. Unfortunately, it was only a few years later when grunge hit the Northern Pacific music scene, and everyone was wearing flannel. Flannel might be fine if you're lining a sleeping bag or modeling for an L.L. Bean catalogue, but it just doesn't look right when you're riding on a New York subway. Maybe the Bounty Man can pull it off...but seriously, isn't his shtick old already too? I mean the PLAID flannel!?!? Ugh, what woman (or man) really wants someone running around their downtown loft wearing that and a pair of construction boots?

So ladies and gentleman, does this mean the demise of fashion? Or, are we just cycling through the generations? In two years, I predict fashion will head back to the age of Romanticism. In fact, I have my Seventeen magazines circa 1997 to prove it.

Woodstock: Revisited

In my ongoing quest to be more adventurous, I left my UWS haven this weekend and set off for my country home. Technically, the place isn't exactly mine alone. I have a few roommates, a lovely middle-aged couple, a Tibetan Terrier, and a college student who comes and goes. Some might also refer to these individuals as my parents, sister, and Simon, my dog. I prefer to think of them as my Savings and Loan, drycleaners, and restaurant, all rolled into one.

But I'm getting off track here. My roommates and I decided to take a trip up to a deeper part of the country, Woodstock, NY. home of peace, love, and music. We heard that the place was a quaint little town, a bit hippie, but much cleaner and quieter than those 3 days back in '69. When we rolled into town, the first thing I noticed was the tie-dyed clothing stands. Everywhere. There was also a flea market, manned entirely by the '60's holdovers that were never able to find their way back home after dropping all that acid. It's official, the baby boomers are well into their AARP days. Walking sticks have replaced buffalo sandals--I'm guessing walkers won't be too far behind--and green tea has replaced the ganja...well, maybe I'm pushing it there.

At the flea market, I ran into Carl, who fits the above description to a t. Wearing his "vintage" tie-dyed tee and jeans, he was selling belt buckles. Not just any belt buckles, these things were pimped out. He kept pushing the butterfly buckle on me because, “don't all females like pretty butterflies?” The variety of buckles was astounding. Any Texan would be convulsing with joy to find such an assortment. From monogrammed buckles to American flags, peace signs to snakes, and even a Yankees one encrusted in "diamonds,” which Carl kept telling me to "take into the sun and admire the bling on that baby." I suddenly felt like I was getting a used car.

Sadly, we left Carl behind and continued through the market stalls. It was better than Costco. From drain pipes, to clothing, vintage Ike pins, to bronzed baby shoes and inspirational records, these people really combed through the depths of their dugout basements and laid out their finest in the trunks of their VW wagons. I could still make out faded "Don't blame me..." stickers on the bumper.

Though no one rolled around naked in mud, I'm happy to report the 60's are still alive and well (though they might have a few aches and pains now) and grooving to the same old tunes, but maybe with brand new hip or two.