05/31/04-06/04/04

From: Michael Barnes e-mail me

In San Francisco — many sights, both natural and staged

SAN FRANCISCO — California, here we are.

And who could complain? Sure, gas reaches $3 a gallon and a suburban tract home goes for half a million. But the weather is perfect: Highs in the 70s and zero humidity. Between mountains and sea, there are endless distractions.

We are here for a critics conference, but first, over the holiday weekend, we camped at Yosemite National Park, my first visit to this unparalleled natural treasure. The park was packed, especially with South Asians — a Silicon Valley connection? — but five paces off the main trails, one encountered solitary bliss. (93 percent of the park qualifies as wilderness.)

Four must-do sites for first-time tourists:

1. Glacier Point lookout: Offers a full view — terrifying to one with acrophobia — of the soaring granite mountains sheered off by ancient glaciers.

2. The base of each major waterfall: Each tumbles from cliffs as if poured from heaven.

3. Ahwahnee Lodge: Classic mountain inn with cavernous dining room and green valley views. (We ate brunch there.)

4. Mariposa Grove: 3,000-year old, 300-foot-high giant sequoias that defy the imagination.

We also visited a friend in Dublin, an upscale bedroom community located on the east side of the Oakland Hills. Strange thing: This town of 7,000 has embraced the big-box stores that all their neighbors have rejected. They enforced strict landscaping and pedestrian-friendly designs, then jacked up the sales tax, so that visitors from nearby San Ramon, Pleasanton, etc. pay for the right to shop at Northern Califorinized big boxes. Dublin has spent the extra revenues on a stylish city hall, parks, library and citywide landscaping. Kinda smart, huh?

In the San Francisco, we are located just above Union Square in the Canterbury Hotel, not a top-shelf establishment, but gracious, affordable and loaded with character. It's also ideally located for theater, shopping and restaurants.

Much of our days are spent learning about San Francisco theater, about its singularly collaborative and creative culture, its attention to new works and its long tradition of issue-oriented dramatic literature. Theatre Bay Area — the SF equivalent of Austin Circle of Theatres — has arranged many of our speakers and panels.

The performances themselves have been, predictably, uneven. (This is the case at almost every critics' conference no matter the discipline or the city.) American Conservatory Theater, perhaps the city's most celebrated company, presented a Constance Congdon adaptation of a Maxim Gorky comedy, "A Mother," which could have been the model for Lillian Hellman's "The Little Foxes." Olympia Dukakis played a peasant-turned-capitalist matriarch who sacrifices her children in order to keep the family business in tact. The tone of this high-pitched semi-farce never quite settled, although Dukakis played the title character as if it were the second coming of "Mother Courage."

The Magic Theatre, which launched such playwrights as Sam Shepard, produced the annoyingly talky drama "Drifting Elegant," in which a lefty journalist is predictably exposed as ethically compromised. The Magic's finely tuned actors, playing in a confined space at the Fort Mason Center, seemed ultimately wasted on this material.

At Berkeley Rep, we saw the latest incarnation of Terrence McNally's "Master Class," which most of the 100 or so journalists at this American Theatre Critics Association conference had already witnessed multiple times. Yet Rita Moreno's soulfully nuanced performance as operatic diva Maria Callas and Moises Kaufman's imaginative direction rejuvenated McNally's sometimes clanking stagecraft.

Most of us also had seen at least one edition of "Beach Blanket Babylon," San Fran's version of "Esther's Follies," but this musical sketch comedy has not lost any of its entertainment edge. We were lucky enough to witness a dress rehearsal devoted not only to the company's 30th anniversary, but also a tribute to San Francisco Opera, which included a "Gypsy" star turn from opera great Frederica von Stade. Making a cameo appearance as Superman in this show, which follows Snow White's global search for a prince, was former secretary of state George Schultz, looking tickled if somewhat befuddled.

Later today, we travel south to sample San Jose Rep and the musical-makers at TheatreWorks. Already, I am convinced that I had underestimated the Bay Area theater scene in previous visits. It doesn't come with the theatrical saturation of a Chicago or the seriousness of a Seattle or the ambitiousness of D.C., Philadelphia or Minneapolis/St. Paul, but it deserves to be considered in that rarified company of non-New York theater magnets.

One footnote: A panel of local leaders talking about the number of new works that premiere here each year (100 to 200 as compared with Austin's 50 to 100) complained that their new shows were rarely followed by productions in other cities. They really meant New York, but, when you think about it, how many Austin plays have been produced in SF recently? Shouldn't the flow of material go all ways?

The most heartening thing I heard from SF leaders was a clear intention to reach out to other similarly creative cities to insure that New York is not the only final destination for all this original material.

More on the rest of the visit — and on the National Performing Arts Convention in Pittsburgh — next week's blog.

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From: Sarah Lindner e-mail me

Liz Phair ShameWatch '04

I finally decided that I am officially mad at Liz Phair. I tried to be all understanding after the self-titled CD came out. I tried to think, "Well, good for Liz, getting paid." I started listening to some of the songs at the gym. But then she starts showing up on the soundtrack of all those frothy chick flicks. And as if "Raising Helen" wasn't hard enough to forgive, then there's this. Yep. A singer who used to be complex and sexy, smart and mean, vulnerable and obscene, is now reduced to just "attitude." Like Shoebox Greeting cards. Oh, Liz.

Against my better judgment, I let the CD survive the purge of my collection I did one night when I couldn't sleep. Not so fortunate:

No Doubt, "Rock Steady" — When they totally killed while opening for U2 at the Erwin Center in 2001, I renounced my past Gwen hate. The detente between us lasted until this spring, ending officially with the Vogue cover. And the Lucky cover. And the EW cover. Gwen seems to demand that I constantly genuflect to her cuteness, tinging the fun of the album with resentment. Also, it makes me think of the ugly stuff she designs.

Moby, "Play" — "Buena Vista Social Club." "Come Away With Me." "Play." There is always That Album and I, like one of the kids brainwashed by Parker Posey's evil record exec in "Josie and the Pussycats," always buy it. Someday maybe these records will sound fresh again. and we'll all end up buying each other's used copies.

"Amelie" soundtrack — This was playing at a really excellent party I attended. As I recall, the salad had pomegranates and poetry was read aloud. Magical. Back in my own apartment, eating Lean Pockets and reading EW, it sounded kind of tinny.

Kathleen Edwards, "Six O'Clock News" single — I so want to like Kathleen Edwards. I see the joy she brings my friends. And yet when she sings, all I think is "can it really be that bad, Kathleen?" I zone out and start thinking about organizing my closet.

Kasey Chambers, "Barricades and Brickwalls" — One day I channel-surfed onto the video for "Not Pretty Enough" and decided that the lyrics encapsulated my life. And then I got self-esteem.

Avril Lavigne, "Let Go" — Someone had just broken up with me and I thought I would use my newfound freedom to listen to all of the silly, girly pop I wanted. Yeah, I showed him.

Other activities while holed up in the AC: Enjoying Spin's roundtable discussion about South by Southwest. The best anecdote, though, isn't from Austin, but from the Dallas airport, and involves Pharrell and some "super Texas-loving golfer Republican dudes." Awesome. . . . Wondering if Rance is a hoax or really the blog of a big-shot actor (I'm thinking Owen Wilson) . . . Starting and never finishing a caricature of myself on the freakishly accurate Portrait Illustration Maker . . . . Thinking that if Almay Bright Eyes Mascara would make me as delicate and doe-eyed as Conor Oberst I would buy ALL of it and not share. . . . Trying to talk a friend from Minnesota (high today: 74) into moving here. Wondering if it's ethical not to mention the heat.

Outside in said heat: Drinking on restaurant patios. Honestly thinking for a second that I should tell my Minnesota friend that the heat is fine as long as all you do is drink on patios. Realizing how that sounds. Rethinking that plan. . . . Paying homage to Jonathan Richman at the Continental Club. Highlights included a suitably epic "Dancing at the Lesbian Bar," a series of vignettes in several languages during "Let Her Go Into the Darkness" regarding the sorry state of things between men and women and a song from the new album that trashes (but nicely, of course) wine critics. I'm sure Eminem was just about to do that. It was worth braving the baking heat of the club that night, even though I felt a little woozy by the end. Unless you're reading this in Minnesota — in which case it wasn't hot at all and I was light-headed from, uh, happiness. Yeah . . .

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From: Omar Gallaga e-mail me

Laugh now, because these careers could fade fast

Those who do not remember the past are condemned to laugh at it, in syndicated re-runs, long after the 10 p.m. news.

For the rest of us, those who have followed the wildly divergent careers of our favorite comedians, a look to the past is informative in charting the country's taste in what it finds funny.

This holiday, I had the sweaty task of clearing out a garage that has accumulated boxes and boxes of old magazines, newspaper clippings dating back to junior high and many old paperbacks.

While sorting through the old stacks, I came across my old issues of "Entertainment Weekly." I've subscribed to "The Bible" since my first year of college, and the Hollywood-for-the-rest-of-us publication continues to take up a chunk of my weekly reading time, despite its continued employment of Jessica Shaw.

(Hey, they kept the fantastic Dalton Ross on and fired Joel Stein. You've gotta take the good with the bad, and Shaw is Karmic balance for these two good moves.)

While digging through these heavy stacks, I threw away (er, recycled) almost every issue except one: The April 18, 1997, "Who's The Funniest Person Alive?" issue. The cover features Jim Carrey (American's funniest man alive?) doing some sort of Cornholio-headed hip thrust in black and white. Remember, that sort of thing was hilarious in the more innocent time of April 1997.

If you read EW like I do, you'll remember that they recently put together another such list, the "25 Funniest People in America."

If you read too closely into this, you might surmise that we have half as many funny people today than we did in 1997 (damn you, 9/11!), or that EW got smarter by including in its latest list only those funny people who are working today.

The 1997 list is littered with has-beens (or soon-to-be has-beens) such as Paul Reiser (No. 47), Dana Carvey (No. 46), Rosie O' Donnell (No. 8!?) and the now-career-imploded Roseanne (No. 3, if you can believe it).

The 2004 list mixes what's popular with a few out-there names many readers probably never heard of (No. 21: Demetri Martin; No. 23: Ego Trip).

From 1997 to 2004, we've gone from proclaiming Jim Carrey (hit-or-miss movie star now at No. 10 who has recaptured audience love, not with comedy, but with the fantastic "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind") to Chris Rock as the Funniest Person in America, a proclamation I can't really argue with.

A few interesting repeats: Ellen Degeneres (No. 29 in '97, No. 6 today, post-"Finding Nemo" and riding the success of her bubbly talk show); Bill Murray (No. 23 in '97, No. 7 this year); Ben Stiller (No. 44 back then, No. 18 this year when combined with permanently affixed co-star Owen Wilson) and David Letterman (No. 18 then, No. 11 now). Conan O' Brien climbs steadily (No. 45 to No. 17). Instead of Jerry Seinfeld (No. 2 then) we've got Larry David (No. 4) on the new list.

With a few curveballs (Goldie Hawn? Beavis and Butt-head?), it's interesting to see who's fallen from comedic grace. The legacies of Bill Cosby, Bob Newhart and Richard Pryor are assured, but what about the up-and-comers who were making us laugh in '97?

Janeane Garofalo (No. 39 in '97) went from promising screen comedienne to harping talk radio fixture. She may still be funny, but it's hard to tell with all the ranting.

Kevin Kline (No. 34, back in the day) went all Shakespeare on us and hasn't been truly funny for about a decade. We miss Funny Kline.

Dana Carvey? Never really as funny as we used to think. Joan Rivers? Now funny only in a Zsa Zsa Gabor spot-the-celebrity-surgery kind of way. Billy Crystal? Now painfully unfunny except for about three minutes a year during that Oscar movie montage he pops into. Whoopi? Isn't she still the Center Square? Woody Allen? Creepy, especially if you just saw him romance a 17-year-old in Manhattan.

Now let's see how Dave Chappelle, Aaron McGruder, Jack Black and Will Ferrell fare in seven years. Place your bets on the future has-been now!

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From: Chris Garcia e-mail me

The book of the dead

For the record, mom and dad: Do not donate my body to science when I die. Let them take an organ or three, pop out my eyeballs, carve off a carpet sampling of skin. Then burn me up good.

My obsession with death, dying and the humiliating personal relics my family will discover when they clean out my stuff has only spiked since I read Mary Roach's weirdly engrossing (and joyously gross) "Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers."

The title almost says it all: Roach's beautifully reported book is a blunt, euphemism-free, aggressively lighthearted examination of exactly what happens to cadavers that (who?) are donated to science and research. Facts, history, grisly details and the author's vivacious gallows humor make the unutterable readable. Roach is smart; she takes time for philosophical reflection about what's before her, giving a finish of deep and dignified meditation to what could have been twisted voyeurism tailored for "Faces of Death" goons.

The breezy read features startling chapter subtitles — "Human Crash Test Dummies and the Ghastly, Necessary Science of Impact Tolerance"; "On Human Decay and What Can Be Done About It"; "Medicinal Cannibalism and the Case of the Human Dumplings" — that are so vivid, they may be all you need to know. Plunge into the pages and you'll get the smells, sights and sounds of expired bodies rotting, ripping, being gutted and even crucified.

The doctors and scientists Roach meets are a reticent assortment. But she presses on intrepidly. Sometimes a source will turn back on her, curious about her sicko motives.

"You want a vivid description of what's going through my brain as I'm cutting through a liver and all these larvae are spilling out all over me and juice pops out of the intestines?" a forensics guy asks.

Roach responds to us, sotto voce: "I kind of did, but I kept quiet."

"Stiff" will rest stiffly next to my spreading shelf of similarly dark books, including "How We Die," "Final Exit," "The Denial of Death" and other festive titles.

Well, there goes my pursuit of a fuller social life. . . .

And now for something completely different.

Monty Python fanatics: boyishly chatty, noisily self-satisfied, irretrievably geeky. I shouldn't have been surprised (despite pre-screening prayers that Python purists would not want to see the movie for the 34th time on this day) how irritating the audience at a recent Dobie showing of "Life of Brian." would be.

The cultists sat together in long rows, provisioned with monster popcorn and cokes, sniggering and foot-stomping at every whisper of comic intention. They repeated lines out loud, held conferences about visual gags, and — speaking of death — actually whistled lightly and swayed heads to the crucifixion musical number "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life."

What drives people to such communal solipsism, besides the lifelong nerd's unwitting dearth of shame in matters of cultural taste? Like Trekkies and "Star Wars" patriots, Pythonists are obsessives who move in ragtag tribes of like-minded goobers. Many of them talk about this stuff all the time, recite lines at strategic moments in mixed company and find comic profundity in the "Lumberjack Song."

Now, every office needs that one guy who quotes classic Python bits, if only to pummel him, and I'm an honest Monty Python fan (though "Life of Brian" was much funnier when I was 11). But guess what, fellas? You're at the movies. There are other people in the room, some of whom are getting physically ill. Stop wonking and, as the hapless waitress in Python's dorky Spam sketch pleads: "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

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