Sunday, January 26, 2014

A Greenwich Village Girl Reflects on "Inside Llewyn Davis"

IN case you have been visiting another planet since November 2013, let me bring you up to date: the reality of global warming is still being debated by a few idiots, New York City has a dynamic new mayor (hooray), and the Coen brothers have birthed a new film, "Inside Llewyn
Davis," their idiosyncratic take on the burgeoning folk music scene in Greenwich Village in 1961.  Hooray?   Not so much.  Not from this born and raised Villager.

                                                        *                                *                                *

   There seems to be a wide disconnect in reactions to the film (a stunning 94% rating by critics on, but only a 76% rating by viewers).  A reviewer I hugely respect, A.O. Scott of The NY Times, has practically made a full-time job out of his enthusiasm for the film.   To be so out of sync with someone whose taste I generally trust puzzles me. Could it possibly be because of my over-eager anticipation to see and hear a tale about the old Greenwich Village, replete with a stunning soundtrack and quirky characters, shot on location all over the streets of my childhood? 

    Rumors abounded for months before the film’s release.  I had previously seen and admired virtually all of the Coen oeuvre (some films several times); their skill, intelligence and dark humor have carved out a unique niche in the pantheon of American filmmakers.  Yet, I must have unconsciously hoped that their dystopian take on humanity and its foibles would be softened in their treatment of the unique scene that was the Village in 1961. 

    Like everyone else, I admired the gritty realism of the cinematography and set design.  That hallway in the fifth floor walk-up, barely the width of Llewyn’s shoulders!  The cigarette smoke, the sweaters! The garbage cans! 

    However, for me, the emotional zone of the film as occupied by Llewyn was essentially a numb center, occasionally enlivened by a blast of profanity from Jean.  She’s the supposedly meek and lyrical half of a folksinging duo who has cuckolded her partner by sleeping (and being impregnated) by our anti-hero, the sort of Dave Van Ronkish folksinger Llewyn Davis (get it? Wink, wink- a Welsh name, like that Dylan guy). Her one-note stridency depressed me and didn’t ring true for the period.  Is having 90% of Jean’s dialogue be four-letter words (actually, mainly one four-letter word) the only way to delineate her character’s despair and anger? 

   Now, it really doesn’t matter that I grew up in the ‘50s in the Village, and witnessed the emergence of the folk scene- the washtub & mop handle basses being plunked in the dry basin of the fountain in Washington Square Park, the feverish collecting of albums by Pete Seeger and the Weavers, and learning songs like  “If I Had A Hammer,” in our 5th grade music class. I wasn’t a true insider. But.   Seriously, Coen brothers?  This is your best shot?

    When I read the recent interview with the ex-wife of Dave van Ronk in The Village Voice, I felt that I was not so off the mark in my reactions.  She laments that this film completely misrepresented the spirit of that time, the joyous collective spirit of people making music (and not money!) for the love of it.  When a NY Times obit for beloved sandal maker and musician Alan Block (he died at 90 on Oct. 23, 2013) describes his shop in 1961, overflowing with musicians from all over the country, jamming ecstatically at all hours of the day and night- one really has to ask why would artists as talented as the Coen brothers make a film about this music scene that is so mean-spirited and flat, so shaggy-cat.  This was a lazy and  wasted opportunity.  Do we really care that much about the freakin’ authentic period ambiance and the smoky cafĂ© lighting and the vintage street signage? Are we that easily seduced?

    There is so much to say about the pain of not making it as an artist in America, and about the legions of those pilgrims to the Village who were left by the wayside, or committed suicide, or died in poverty.  Why did you choose to tell this story with an unsympathetic “hero” who sucks the life out of everything he touches, who never connects with us, or anyone else?

    With a little more effort you could have made a film that would have ripped the heart out of your audience.  We lined up, we bought our tickets, we were bursting with anticipation.  Why did you stay on the surface of your subject, tease us, insult us, bore us, disappoint us? 

      Because you are Ethan and Joel Cohen, and you can.  But shame on you, boys.


Jan. 27, 2014

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Healthy, Fun and Firm

So, I'm taking out the package of frozen blueberries from the freezer, and I suddenly actually read the words on the package:


      Healthy, Fun and Firm!

Seriously?  My blueberries are writing their eHarmony profile all of sudden?

Fun & firm?  Those are not qualities I want from my blueberries. 

How about

                          Blueberries- we're up to our ass in antioxidants!

                                 just sayin'

Don Draper, where are you when we need you?

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

My Mother Moved to Florida and All I Got Was This Blogpost

(for Laramie)

So, here is my first letter from Paradise.

As I am preparing to  leave Manhattan, I give my new mailing address to the  Citibank teller:

"Moving  to Florida!"
I say happily.

"By choice?"  he says.


Day 1    In my mailbox: Free prepaid cremations, courtesy of The Neptune Society.

Day 2    During my Sunday walk through the scruffy little urban park:  A signboard proclaiming "Free TAMPA RAYS vouchers  to all Blood Donors- today only."

Day 3    Passing a  racy low-slung silver Scion with West Virginia plates,  am startled to see a decal saying "As I Lay Dying" on the rear window.   A fellow  Faulkner fan?  Then I spy the "KISS" decal......just a metalcore fanatic.  Sigh.

Somehow all these  reminders of looming disaster, of death & dying, are weirdly invigorating.

Day 4   It's freakin' hot and humid. Again, I find myself taking the shortcut through the  little park.  Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.  I pick up my pace.

My spring-green canvas Adidas move quickly past the unshaven smokers slouching towards their tropical Bethlehems. 
The men poke hopefully into trash cans, postponing that status-lowering  trip to the Blood Bank.

"You take it easy now," an older black man says to me when I meet his eyes. "I will," I say.

Screw the Citibank teller and the horse he rode in on.

Ha ha Death, haven't caught me yet.  Down here it feels so good, it actually feels naughty, just being alive.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011


I am happy to announce that I have started a new blog, which will be a place to post all the poems I have written over the years (some previously published, some not).

It is called
Why Not This Paradise

and it can be accessed at

I welcome your comments.

Monday, January 24, 2011

Is hope a wood stork?

Waiting for my bus, sitting on a bench in St. Petersburg, Florida.

Across the road, by the side of a pond, stands a grumpy-looking wood stork.
He is hunched into the unseasonable January chill. His large pink feet are hidden (but I know they are there). I feel drawn to him, his scary prehistoric beak, his stoic stillness.

He stands there, not quite waiting. He's got an atttude problem. Is that his weakness or his strength?

He is a teenage boy whose cell phone has just been confiscated by his English teacher.
He is a guy whose girlfriend has just dumped him outside a dive bar
on the Lower East Side at 3 a.m.
He is me, waiting for something Big to happen. (At my age!) Waiting for the bus,
in a new city, going to a new job, trying on a new life.

Sorry, Emily D, but Hope is not a small feathered bird, it is a huge wood stork with skinny pink feet, suddenly spreading its wings and scaring the fish right out of the water.

I board the bus and leave fear behind.

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

All Suffering Soon to End!

RECENTLY I was handed a small pamphlet, folded in triplicate, with a full color front page. I was with two British expat buddies, manning a table of assorted discards from our lives as part of an annual street sale in Greenwich Village.
Our goal was to clean out our closets, make a few bucks and enjoy ourselves under the broiling June sun, if possible. Suffering (on this day, anyway) was far from our minds.

Indeed, as the designer togs (a snappy Ralph Lauren military-style jacket, size 6), little porcelain pill boxes and brass candlestick holders changed hands, we grew more and more elated. This venture might actually be working. A quilted jacket I never wore (too boxy) was going to be a present for someone in the hospital; Gay's collection of lovingly broken-in Chanel heels was just the right size for a nurse from Queens. Maggie's odds and ends were being snapped up by other expat Brits only too happy to stop and chat with a live human being.

Out, out, past life!
Good-bye, crazy ex-husband!

And then: the Pamphlet, slipped into my hands by a shy woman who quickly melted into the crowd. I accepted it politely and only really looked at when I got home that night, bearing the Victorian card table I had purchased from Gay when I saw she wasn't going to get a decent offer. (Never mind that I used up essentially all my day's proceeds on it.) Admiring my find, I brushed off the only slightly damaged green felt surface and set it up to accomodate an overflow of books and papers in my little studio sublet.

Emptying my pockets, I found .....the Pamphlet.

ALL SUFFERING SOON TO END! the cover illustration proclaims in large black typeface, over a rendering of an attractive caramel-colored couple in their early 30's, sitting in the middle of a field of yellowing grass, on which a male and female moose are grazing just a few yards away. A large log cabin in the background is partially obscured by pine trees, and snow-covered mountains march into the far distance. On close inspection, on the right-hand side of the scene, a woman with long blonde hair on a white horse is galloping towards the couple, who are calmly smiling at me, showing off their perfect teeth. (Perhaps the blonde is going to warn them they are sitting dangerously close to the huge male moose? Or, Sara-Palin-esquely tell them to get the hell off her farm? Is that a rifle strapped to her saddle?)

Maple trees framing the scene have burst into flaming scarlet, and there are baskets of pumpkins and apples in the foreground. It seems to be October in a bizarre Vermont, except that the couple are wearing light summer clothes, and look too happy for people soon to be expecting winter frosts. (Not to mention the dearth of Hale Berry and Harry Belafonte look-alikes in Vermont.) I turn the document to the back page, and yes, if I need more information I can write to the Jehovah's Witnesses at the following locations: Australia, Barbados, Britain, Canada, Ghana, Hawaii, India, Ireland, Jamaica, Kenya, Malaysia, Nigeria, Philippines, Rep of, South Africa, Trinidad AND Tobago, Rep. of, and also the USA (in Brooklyn!).

My guess is that the Jehovah's Witnesses in these locations know a smidge about suffering. (They don't seem to have an office in Paris, for example.)

And so I realize that the surrealistic Paradise depicted in such quirky detail is an all-purpose one, designed to elicit longings and emotion from denizens around the globe. A wise use of limited marketing funds.

And it's good news, for sure. I'm in. There seems to me absolutely no downside to the end of suffering. The sooner the better, I say.

Bring It On.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Marry Me Rat

Sometimes you chance upon a random morsel whose concise perfection leaves you almost breathless. So complete in its implications you must bow in respect.

This afternoon, taking in the first warm March sunshine on a brief escape to St. Petersburg, Florida, I left the scenic harbor pathways and was traversing the more gritty environs closer to where I was staying. My foot paused just I was about to step on a large heart scratched into the cement sidewalk, and I read the heartfelt command inscribed therein:

Marry Me Rat.

Which of us has not been there? And why do we instantly know the scrawler is female?

And why do we hope that the union did not take place? That she is now a sophomore somewhere, sitting up late into the night, reading Emily Dickinson or Dave Eggars, or inventing a solar battery that will fly 747's on perfume and air?

Alas, I fear not.

Did you Marry Her, Rat?