Archives for 2004

I’m totally with OGIC on M.F.K. Fisher (see immediately below). I think she’s the American Colette, another wonderful writer whom some dried-up anhedonic types Just Don’t Get. I’ve introduced a dozen close friends to her work over the years, and not one has failed to warm to her. This isn’t to say that you absolutely have to like Fisher (or Colette) if you want to be my friend, but apparently it doesn’t hurt.

As for critics who poke holes just to hear the pop, that’s awfully undergraduate, don’t you think?

When I was an undergraduate, studying music criticism with the late John Haskins, who was then the music critic of the Kansas City Star, I brought in a paper for his perusal in which I declared that I didn’t like Schumann. He said, mildly, “You know, Terry, that says more about you than it does about Schumann.” As I pulled the arrow out of my forehead, I realized that I’d just learned a priceless lesson: if you’re going to express a personal prejudice in a review, one that causes you to dissent decisively from a long-standing verdict of posterity, do it ruefully, in full awareness that your inability to appreciate an obviously great artist is a failure of taste that separates you from the communion of truth.

(And no, Wagner doesn’t count.)

Do you get the feeling that Laura Shapiro, reviewing the new M. F. K. Fisher biography for the New York Times Book Review, is not so entranced with the book’s subject?

Though her subject was food, it needn’t have been: she could have been writing about clocks or Christmas trees, and they would have sent her prose wafting dizzily into the realms of love, death and desire, just as tangerines and oysters did….

Readers tumbled blissfully into the concoctions of sensuality and fantasy that swirled across her pages, and to many aspiring authors her style was irresistible. A heady narcissism, feverishly laced with romantic innuendo, became the new mode in evocative food writing. [all emphasis added]

I recognize myself in there–the reader who has read Fisher blissfully again and again–but Fisher herself, as far as I’m concerned, doesn’t answer to Shapiro’s snarky descriptions. In the third paragraph of the review, Shapiro as much as admits that she’s the opposite of a fan:

But who was she? Who was that mysterious woman sitting alone in a restaurant, relishing a meal she had chosen so astutely that the other diners, even the waiters, were stunned? Who was that narrator so elusive we can only picture her veiled? Anyone who has ever asked this question, either in pleasure or in mounting irritation, will pounce….

You can guess which way Shapiro asked that question. Irritation is the keynote of this dismissive and bored review. It ultimately ends up “pouncing,” indeed, on some of the less pleasant of biographer Joan Reardon’s revelations about Fisher. Shapiro seems to have been only too glad to hear them. If I sound irritated myself, it’s not because I require other readers to share my near-veneration (yeah, I’ll cop to it) of Fisher’s prose but because Shapiro doesn’t bother to actually make any sort of real case against it. She instead lazily slings around some snide innuendo that conjures up, weirdly, a flighty Fisher whose aesthetic has a lot in common with a perfume commercial. Which is ridiculous, as I’ll explain below. As a bonus, the review manages to condescend mightily to Fisher’s admirers, who “tumble” into the books rather than reading them, and the most dedicated of whom are suspected of being “aspiring authors” (the horror!) or trend-surfing foodies. If you ask me, she seems awfully suspicious–suspiciously suspicious–of pleasure, in eating or reading. And so, perhaps, not the ideal reviewer of Poet of the Appetites.

Far more fair, balanced, and credible in his description of Fisher’s work is Brian Thomas Gallagher, who reviews the same biography for Bookforum this month (kisses hereby blown to Cinetrix for the link-up):

M.F.K. Fisher is, more than anything else, a literary seductress. Her writing, always sensual but never decadent, draws the reader near her. Whether she is at the dinner table, on a transatlantic cruise, on a country walk in Dijon, or somewhere else more private, one wishes to join her in her pleasures.

This focus on the proximity of the experiences Fisher describes in her best essays is just right. Most of the pleasures she evokes are modest, small, tactile. Even if she does make great claims for their metaphysical significance, the pleasures themselves remain lodged in the sensual world with all its contingencies.

Gallagher also gives Fisher’s readers a little credit for being sophisticated enough to know that her writings did not record the gospel truth:

There was already little doubt that M.F.K. Fisher the protagonist differed significantly from M.F.K. Fisher the person. It would be hard for any reader of Fisher to believe that she was at once as naive and as worldly as she comes across in her writing. Moreover, such conceits are part of autobiography, and in fact, the writer herself acknowledged this. In a letter to her psychiatrist in 1950, she wondered, “Do I marry M.F.K. Fisher and retire with him-her-it to an ivory tower and turn out yearly masterpieces of unimportant prose?” So while belaboring the fact that there are two Fishers, what Poet of the Appetites does not do well is explore the meaning of the relationship between them.

For this sober paragraph I’m grateful, especially after the gotcha tone of Shapiro’s review, and her overreaching for an original response to Fisher’s work–to the point of ceasing to see that work clearly. Her detractions reminded me of a small aside in a (fascinating) essay (that you should read) in the New Republic last week (do read it). Here Rochelle Gurstein writes about the painter Raphael’s present-day detractors, specifically Michael Kimmelman at the New York Times: “When Kimmelman says he doesn’t ‘get’ Raphael, there is hardly a ripple (except for the irritation felt by those who are tired of critics who try to say shocking things).” I wouldn’t mind entertaining such detractions if they were critically persuasive. Shapiro isn’t out to persuade, or even shock (that would require more energy than she brings)–just to puncture.

The best news here is reported in Gallagher’s review:

Fortunately, to coincide with the biography, North Point press has just reissued five of her best works. An Alphabet for Gourmets, Consider the Oyster, How to Cook a Wolf, Serve It Forth, and, Fisher’s loveliest book, The Gastronomical Me, have all recently become available in paperback (though one is still probably better off with the single-volume collection The Art of Eating, which contains them all).

And here is the only particular in Gallagher’s review I must take issue with. Spring for the five individual volumes; they’re lovely objects, especially the photographs of Fisher that grace their covers, which Bookforum has smartly reproduced alongside the review.

As for me, I may well return to those fab five in the near future. But I’ll skip the biography, thanks anyway.

As the days go by,

I keep thinking, “When does it end?

Where’s the day I’ll have started forgetting?”

But I just go on

Thinking and sweating

And cursing and crying

And turning and reaching

And waking and dying

And no,

Not a day goes by,

Not a blessed day

But you’re still somewhere part of my life

And you won’t go away.

Stephen Sondheim, “Not a Day Goes By” (from Merrily We Roll Along)

I was just thinking…what a wonderful year it’s been. In addition to publishing two books, being appointed to the National Council on the Arts, and buying a few more lithographs than I could afford, I’ve experienced every imaginable kind of aesthetic pleasure, from the music of Jonatha Brooke and Erin McKeown to such terrific new plays as Doubt, Intimate Apparel, Charlie Victor Romeo, and Private Jokes, Public Places. I heard Hilary Hahn play the Elgar Violin Concerto. I haunted the nightclubs of New York, where I heard more great jazz than I can possibly list here. I saw Sideways and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I threw myself head first into Lucas Schoormans’ Giorgio Morandi show. I reread the complete works of Evelyn Waugh. I saw Kristin Chenoweth sing Cunegonde. And those are just the things that come immediately to mind! Were I to look back over my blog entries and “Second City” columns for 2004, I’m sure I’d blush to recall some of the good things that are temporarily slipping my middle-aged mind.

I’ve also made some wonderful friends, not a few of them such fellow bloggers as Maud, Sarah, Chicha
(a/k/a Galley Cat), and Maccers,
whose postings first brought them to my attention, but who have since become a part of my corporeal life as well.

How lucky am I? Words can’t even begin to say. Thanks to you all, hither and yon, for taking part in the fun–and thanks above all to Our Girl in Chicago, my adored co-blogger, who has been improving my life for more than a decade.

I reviewed four plays in this morning’s Wall Street Journal, Billy Crystal’s 700 Sundays, the Broadway revival of La Cage aux Folles, August Wilson’s Gem of the Ocean, and Caryl Churchill’s A Number.

Rather to my surprise, 700 Sundays was the best of the lot, despite its predictable weaknesses:

Go figure: Billy Crystal, who got his big break playing the first openly gay character on a network TV series, has ended up as a sort of 21st-century Bob Hope, the safe-as-milk middle-aged establishment comic who hosts the Oscars and is now making his Broadway debut with a one-man “play” at the Broadhurst Theatre about his charmed life as a loyal son, husband and father. Small wonder that “700 Sundays,” with advance sales of $8 million plus, is on the inside track to be Broadway’s uranium-plated smash of the season. And here’s the biggest surprise of all: It’s actually a pretty good show. Who says nice guys finish last?

I put “play” in quotes because “700 Sundays,” like so many one-person shows, occupies an uncertain middle ground between standup routine and full-fledged play. Simply to tell the story of your life in monologue form may or may not be interesting, but it’s rarely dramatic in the ordinary understanding of the word, and Mr. Crystal’s luck has been too good to give his long string of essentially benign anecdotes the ruthless forward movement one demands from a play….

Mr. Crystal seems to be aware of the need to ratchet up the tension in his tale-telling, and when he recalls such potentially radioactive events as the death of his father, you can all but see him struggling to drag “700 Sundays” onto a higher plane of expressivity. Alas, he is barely capable of talking for more than 30 seconds without slipping in a punchline–a compulsion that is especially jolting whenever he tries to be serious….

La Cage aux Folles, on the other hand, was…well, read for yourself:

Once upon a time, “La Cage aux Folles” was a sweet little French film about a couple of graying gents, one of them a flouncy-to-the-max drag queen, who run a nightclub in St. Tropez. Stripped of the louche details, it turned out to be an unexpectedly touching study of the surmountable absurdities of middle-aged love and became the sleeper hit of 1978. Five years later, Harvey Fierstein and Jerry Herman got their hot little hands on this hot little property, pumped in several thousand tons of hot air, and thereby turned it into a monstrously inflated tourist trap of a musical that ran for 1,761 performances. Now “La Cage aux Folles” has returned to Broadway’s Marquis Theatre, there to titillate a new generation of taste-challenged ticketholders.

Or maybe not. Times, after all, have changed greatly since 1983, and what once seemed ooh-so-risqu

“The theatre is an attack on mankind carried out by magic: to victimize
an audience every night, to make them laugh and cry and miss their
trains. Of course actors regard audiences as enemies, to be deceived,
drugged, incarcerated, stupefied. This is partly because the audience is
also a court against which there is no appeal. Art’s relation with its
client is here at its closest and most immediate. In other arts, we can
blame the client: he is stupid, unsophisticated, inattentive, dull. But
the theatre must, if need be, stoop–and stoop–until it attains the
direct, the universal communication which other artists can afford to
seek more deviously and at their ease.”

Iris Murdoch, The Sea, the Sea (courtesy of Mindy Alter)

7:05 A.M.: I wake up an hour and a half ahead of the alarm clock, notice with disgust that sentences are already starting to take shape in my head, sigh deeply, and crawl down from the loft to face the inevitable and start writing my Friday column for The Wall Street Journal, an extra-long four-play special.

9:00 A.M.: Laura Lippman arrives on my doorstep for a tour of the Teachout Museum, after which we stroll over to Good Enough to Eat. (Mmmm, bacon waffles!) Laura and I are old friends who rarely see one another nowadays, since she lives in Baltimore and spends half the year writing mysteries and the other half flying around the country on author tours, so we always try to have breakfast together whenever she’s in Manhattan for more than a day. She brings greetings from Lizzie and Sarah, and I in turn tell her to go see Doubt as soon as she can. We then exchange the latest high-octane media gossip, furtively glancing around the room every few minutes to make sure nobody is eavesdropping.

11 A.M. Back to the office to finish my column, spurred on by an e-mail from my editor asking when the hell I’ll be filing. (Actually, she was perfectly nice about it, but I like feeling put upon.)

12:35 P.M. All done! I ship the column off to the Journal, then check my e-mail. Maccers says I should bring Apple Blossoms II with me to the Phillips for my lecture. At the moment I’m inclined to agree, but I’m fickle when it comes to my favorites….

12:45 P.M.: Tidings of great joy: Our Girl in Chicago calls to say she can come to New York on December 29 to spend a few days as my houseguest. Midway through our chat I fire off a round-robin e-mail to all our blogfriends, advising them to make appointments now to meet the mysterious OGIC in person.

1:15 P.M.: My copy editor at the Journal returns my column with four easy-to-fix queries. I knock them off, then pause briefly to catch my breath and look out the window. Is that sunshine I see out there?

1:20 P.M.: Karen Wilkin reviewed the new Museum of Modern Art for the Leisure & Arts page of yesterday’s Journal. I bookmarked her piece for later perusal, and now I read the last paragraph with approval:

But one glaring omission goes beyond such differences to become a serious distortion of art history. American modernism before Abstract Expressionism is virtually absent at the new MoMA. Only token representation is accorded pivotal figures like Stuart Davis and Arthur Dove; other influential pioneers, such as Marsden Hartley, are ignored. Davis is relegated to a corridor, hardly an appropriate place for an American master accorded a retrospective at MoMA in 1945. Clearly some things haven’t changed for the better at the new museum. Let’s hope it’s a temporary aberration.

This gives me an idea. I call the Mutant on her cell phone and schedule a last-minute rendezvous.

2:00 P.M.: As if I didn’t have enough to do today, I head down to MoMA and meet the Mutant, who teaches voice at the New School on Wednesdays and has three hours off between classes. We spend an hour and half looking at art, then grab a bite in the second-floor caf

“The life of the spirit, like that of the body, is inevitably the source of