A Film of One's Own

Who knew that submitting a film to a New York festival could be as tricky as auditioning for a Broadway musical? My latest feature, a guide to what (and what not) to do to make the cut at area film festivals, appears in this week's edition of Show Business Weekly, available on newsstands this week. (If you missed it, contact me and I'll send you a copy.)

I had a great time interviewing some of the people behind New York's most esteemed film events, from the eclectic and edgy Tribeca Film Festival to Lincoln Center's selective and streamlined New York Film Festival.

As a person steeped in theater, I love learning more about the fascinating world of film, and there are so many basic elements that translate across the genres. It's a given that you should focus on the truth of your story in any successful artistic endeavor, but I was surprised to note the many parallels between low-budget/big-budget movies and Off Off Broadway/Broadway productions. One administrator essentially told me that "image certainly isn't everything" when he reviews films, and he often wishes that filmmakers would spend less time trying to make their film look "professional" and polished and more time on the nuts and bolts of what makes a good story: a captivating script, gripping plot, and honest, compelling acting.

That would be good advice to many theatermakers as well. In tiny Off Off Broadway venues, the play very often becomes the (only) thing. Stripped of pyrotechnics and devoid of dollars, these shows can focus on the very heart of their stories. Too often, valiant efforts are made to mimic the luxurious gadgetry of commercial productions to an often depressing and disastrous effect. Show me what you know and what truth you can create with what you have, I want to exhort them. Otherwise, it's like stuffing a helicopter through a storefront window--explosive, violent, and just plain wrong. Your room may be tiny, but the impact can be huge.

Water World

Rumor has it that Coney Island will soon be Disney-fied (read: made into a more glossy, homogenized, and expensive destination), so on Saturday we rode to the end of the N train to visit the historic beach and boardwalk. It's incredible to step off the subway and stand in such close proximity to warm sand and glittering water--both looked to be rather on the dirty side, but no matter. Don lives at the very opposite end of the line, so we actually took the subway from one end to the other.

It's all very seedy, silly, and sweaty, and I'm so glad I got to see it in its present form. We first walked along the water, delicately stepping between bronzed bodies coated in sand and sunscreen. It's such a raucous scene: tattoos, piercings, and flesh in abundance. We walked to the end of the pier and looked back at the coastline dotted with hundreds of bodies. Then we headed over to the amusement park area, where Don and our friend Debbie (in visiting from Nebraska) braved the famous Cyclone rollercoaster; Nora and I cheered them on from below.

Wooden rollercoasters kick up big appetites, so we grabbed fried food from one of the many vendors lining the boardwalk. I am newly smitten with corndogs; I don't think I've tasted one since I was 10! There's something so perfectly nuanced about the combination of sweet corn-like taste with salty-meaty hot dog ... I went back for seconds after everyone else had finished. In fact, my mouth is watering again now.

After wiping the grease from our fingers, we headed back into the city to try to win the Wicked lottery for Debbie (by the end of the weekend, we were 0/4 attempts, but miraculously she scored a cancellation seat for the Sunday matinee!). It was so bizarre to step off the subway back into Times Square after the cool water breezes of Coney Island. The longer I live here, the more I'm taken with the diversity of the NYC landscape. I have yet to find a swamp, but I'm sure there's probably one lurking somewhere in the shadows of Central Park ...

And speaking of water, my review of the splashy new play eurydice is in this week's issue of Show Business Weekly. As I mentioned in a previous entry, Sarah Ruhl's delicate work is a refreshing, lustrous summer event (and in this sticky heat, it also offers free air conditioning!).

Exploding Cynicism

Fireworks have always made me cringe. As a five-year-old growing up in Nebraska, I had three fears: bees, junebugs, and firecrackers. Bees, for obvious reasons; junebugs, for the way they would smother our neighbor’s screen door like something out of a horror movie; and fireworks, for their startling, deafening, belly-shaking explosions, which would send my younger siblings screaming back into the house.

Neatly ticking them off on my fingers, I felt safe in their precise containment in my small hand. By carefully categorizing my fears, I reasoned, I could keep them at bay.

Years later, fireworks no longer trigger alarm, but they’re troubling in new ways. Slickly commercialized to promote extravagant sales of flags and red-white-and-blue everything, the Fourth of July is yet another holiday packaged for purchase from the shelves of drugstores. To honor my yearly obligation to stand beneath symbolic “bombs bursting in air,” last Friday I reluctantly joined the crowds in Astoria Park to watch the annual fireworks display over the East River.

It was a typical scene. The lights vaulted across the sky in time to the requisite patriotic soundtrack: Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” and Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA.” Each electric blossom was more elaborate than the last—dazzling pyrotechnic choreography designed to inspire solemn patriotic ruminations.

As a child, I felt unqualified pride in my country; as an educated adult, allegiance is often more difficult to pledge. Botched elections, executive lies, and governmental scandal plague our contemporary political landscape—not to mention a war that many of us would rather not be fighting. The word “American,” if not exactly a pejorative term, has become something of a liability, thanks to our troubled global reputation.

But standing alongside the richly diverse throngs of Americans in Astoria Park, surrounded by intergenerational immigrant families, the calibrated explosives began to blast away a chunk of my cynicism. At once, I felt helplessly proud of this place we call home.

Transplanted from Albania, Mexico, Greece, the Sudan, and elsewhere across the world, many of my neighbors arrived here to seek, if not huge wealth, a safer and more comfortable existence than the life they knew before. A home where, for instance, the sound of explosives is not a commonplace event.

How lucky we are to live in a place where these piercing blasts are an occasion for celebration, not panic. The young Hispanic girl beside me released blood-curdling screams inspired by sheer joy and amazement, not primal terror.

Maybe, for one day at least, it’s better to let go of the complications and focus on the basics. “I’m proud to be an American,” Greenwood vows, “where at least I know I’m free.”

I once worried that the fireworks’ bright embers would strike me; later, I recognized their triumphant streaks as patriotism slyly manipulated for public consumption. Watching this year’s display, I looked away from the spectacle and directly into the illuminated faces surrounding my own. We were united not only by the glowing necklaces we had purchased from an enterprising vendor, but also in a collective hope of what America can be. And for that moment, our country was displaying its powers safely, and beautifully, high above our heads.

From River to Shining River ...

Another shot from the glorious fireworks!

A Home at the End of the World (on Coney Island)

Monday night I saw Ethan Lipton's new play "Goodbye April, Hello May" at the HERE Arts Center in Soho. My review is the offoffonline Pick of the Week.

In this taut, evocative character study of five roommates living in an apartment on Coney Island circa 2107, Lipton imagines cultural shifts that may or may not surprise you--developers putting luxury condos on Ellis Island, 50 as the new 40, a constant normalized threat of violence. Most chilling, however, is how he captures the impending shredding away of relationships and interconnection.

New Yorkers have certainly always been a strange and unique breed, but neurotic narcissism peaks precariously in many of these relationships, and the tragedy evolves from watching the characters attempt to salvage slippery fragments of warmth and love.

All in all, it's pretty bleak, but worth watching for the cast's splendid performances and the graceful direction of Patrick McNulty.

Lipton is particularly adept at capturing the love/hate relationships many New Yorkers maintain with their city. Gibson Frazier is a standout as the sardonic Frank, and when he moves to the country, he has this to say:

"When I got to New York, I'll never forget, I said, I'm going to give it a try. I am New York's to lose. If it wants me, I'll stay. If it doesn't, I'll go. I told New York my position. And New York said: There aren't enough words to describe how little I care about you."

It's nice to know that, at least according to Lipton's crystal ball, some things will never change.

Pictured: Kelly Mares, Bill Coelius, Albert Aeed, and Gibson Frazier [Photo Credit: Heather Phelps-Lipton]

I Can See for Miles and Miles

You might recognize Mare Winningham from her iconic role in "St. Elmo's Fire" or, more recently, her poignant turn as Meredith's stepmother on "Grey's Anatomy," but you haven't seen Mare Winningham at her best until you've seen her current tour-de-force in the new musical "10 Million Miles." As a supporting player (her program credit lists her as, simply, "The Women"), Winningham creates a handful of the most believable, genuine, and authentic women you'll ever see on a stage, often for only a couple minutes at a time. Each woman is a fully-realized study that deserves her own musical (writers, take note!), and let's hope we see their conduit back on stage again soon. Very soon!

In the meantime, head to the Atlantic Theater (home last summer to that little-show-that-could, "Spring Awakening") and catch a glimpse of some undeniably honest theatrical artistry. And check out my review here.

Pictured: Mare Winningham, Irene Molloy, and Matthew Morrison