West Side Adore-y

We all know the story. Boy in gang. Boy meets girl whose brother is in opposing gang. Boy and girl fall in love. Boy shoots girl's brother in gang rumble. Boy and girl celebrate fake wedding in dress shop. Girl feels pretty. Boy and girl consummate love. Boy hears that girl is dead: girl hears boy is dead: boy seeks girl and vice versa; boy is shot. Boy dies. Gang wars solve nothing. The end.

Such is the classic tale of "West Side Story," the love ballad of two impossible star-crossed souls destined to be together but damned to be apart. We've heard it all before with Tristan and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet, Brad and Jen. But the 2009 Broadway Revival brought a new take from the 1961 classic. Political correctness, it seems, was taken into consideration, and some of the dialogue and lyrics were translated into Spanish by "In the Heights" writer Lin Manuel Miranda. It had a mixed effect. For those who have spent five years studying Spanish, it makes little difference that the much-parodied "I Feel Pretty" is performed "Yo Soy Linda," but to those who don't, it detracts, rather than enriches the performance.

The performance overall is a dazzling spectacle of sights and sounds; though Irving Berlin's gripping score combined with Stephen Sondheim's tongue-in-cheek lyrics are the star performers. Dare I say it, but the quintessential rumble between the Sharks and the Jets came off rather...lackluster. Don't get me wrong. The choreography was flawless, executed with a surgical precision. But Tony and Maria, and even the rough-and-tumble street rogues came off intimidating at best, flamboyant at worst.

Little is done to add depth to Tony or Maria. Tony ("Grey Gardens" veteran Matt Cavenaugh) sings "Maria" with the ferver of a disengaged adolescent trying out for the school musical. His voice, though pure and gentle, lacks the reedy presence that a Tony should incorporate. It draws to mind "American Idol" auditions, where the well-to-do yet insipid boy wants to make it big, but hasn't quite figured out falsetto, belting, and stage presence.

Newcomer Josefina Scaglion of Argentina brings warmth to the quixotic and naive role of Maria. She encapsulates the single-minded daydreamer that every teenage girl in love has been. Her movements, her body language, all hint to the sort of hopeless devotion sung about by another naive teen in a greaser musical. Her voice is flawless, bright and welcoming. Much like sipping on a hot cocoa in a bubble bath.

Of course the scene stealer is the stars and stripes swooning Anita (the unflappable Karen Olivo.) In the heeled footsteps of Chita Rivera and Rita Moreno, Olivo uses her hips and hair like weapons and exudes the sort of sensual confidence that Protestant WASP's are never taught and rarely learn.

The ending is one of condemned tragedy that makes you twist your hands into a clammy knot. For me, having been sucked into the spectacle of the show, that one fatal shot came as a shock that forced me a foot out of my plush red velvet seat. It was, of course, to be expected, but I found that each element - the music, the dancing, the iconic symbolism of it all - had combined to form a truly great show. One that will last for a long time in America. (That's okay by me in America.) The story leaves a charming imprint - frothy, fabulous, and everything that exemplifies the old glamorous Broadway.

Lord of the "Kings"

I hope all of you paid attention in Sunday school. No, there won't be a quiz later, no, it's not the end of the world (at least, for another three years, give or take), and no -- I'm not going to give you a Pioneers Club badge if you recite John 3:16 properly. But, for watching NBC's new epic drama, "Kings," your Old Testament prowess would do nothing but help. Can I get an amen?

From writer/producer stalwart Michael Green comes NBC's newest drama about the fictitious kingdom of Gillboa and the city of Shiloh. Like other epicsodes (epic episodes of series like "Lost," "Heroes," and "Eli Stone"), "Kings" would do well to find a fervent, niche audience to decode the many biblical references. Gillboa is a country - proud and passionate - raised from the ashes by King Silas Benjamin, a man who, as he says at any political rally or gala, anointed by butterflies, chosen by God to be king.

Po'dunk little farmboy David Shepherd (Christopher Egan) plays a Rolfe-like idealist private in the Army who mistakenly becomes a hero after facing off with enemy tanks (called GOLIATH'S). He finds himself at the center of celebration, a Captain, who becomes so after saving the king's son. He asks for none of it, and yet, finds himself unwittingly drawn into this new military life.


It was a beautifully cinematographic two hours of my life. The location scout deserves an Emmy immediately for finding all of the real-life New York locations (some of which was filmed at Columbia University's Union Theological Seminary...well worth investigating for those in the New York area). However, there was something that didn't ignite. Maybe it was my years of conservative Midwestern Christian upbringing, but some things were too obvious, too expositional. Such as: David Shepherd. We get it. Jack Shepherd of "Lost," Derek Shepherd of "Grey's Anatomy." They all lead their people through greatness, blah blah blah. The headline "DAVID SLAYS GOLIATH" on the Gillboa Daily was a bit much, too.

But overall, the use of classical elements, mythology, and Old Testament lore (bonus props for the nod to Rachmonninoff), make "Kings" an enthralling and strange journey. It will be interesting to see how the characters develop - Silas is certainly hiding a dark past and harbors an intense pride that borders on tempestulent to protect his kingdom. And David, the It Boy of Gillboa, has a lot o' learnin' to do.

Can I get an amen?

Bethertainment Weekly Grade: B+
A royal introduction of a pilot...

If It Were an iPod, It Would Be a Shuffle! ("The Office" Review)

There were two bowls at play yesterday - the epic battle between the Steelers and the Cardinals, and the epic bowl Olympian Michael Phelps was seen smoking. But I'm not here to write of either. No, I have my head set straight, and know that the most important thing about Super Bowl Sunday is not the actual game, the advertisements, or even the halftime show. No, dear readers, it was the hour-long "Office" that followed.

I've had my doubts about this season of Scranton misadventures. Many of the plot lines have been unlikely (Andy forgiving Angela and being alright with Dwight) or trite (the budget surplus that resulted in a copy machine/chair debacle). Dwight's plights became annoyingly predictable, and I was almost hoping for a "Lost"-like intervention where he might get sucked into the space-time continuum, get time-travel sickness, and die a violent death at the hands of an astrophysicist; kind of what is happening for Charlotte Lewis). But fear not! Mr. Schrute is back with a bang, starting the show off right with a "practice" fire drill, in which he locks the doors, warms door handles, and sets a trash can on fire. At the first sign of smoke, the Dunder-Mifflinites break into a raw panic. Angela pulls out a cat from a filing cabinet (sidenote: awesome!) and eventually throws it up in the ceiling tiles. Michael Scott tries to throw an overhead projector to break the window. Kevin breaks the glass of the vending machines. Stanley has a heart attack. And among the mêlée, I rekindle hope for the workers of Dunder Mifflin Scranton.

Let's start from the beginning. A very un-contrite Dwight is dragged into corporate to get a stern lecture from David Wallace. He is told he must collect signatures from everyone in the office before he's let off the hook. Stanley returns to the office, a little shaky, but not enough for the wheelchair Andy offers him ("Just use it until you can walk," Andy says).

Thus begins official safety training, beginning with First Aide and CPR. The woman tries to coach Michael how to use the dummy. "It's 10o pumps a minute," she says, "kind of like that Bee Gee's song." And ridiculously Michael begins singing...as does the rest of the staff. Each gets a little more into it, Andy most so with his "Here Comes Treble" harmonies. Michael at one point is having so much fun with the impromptu karaoke that he forgets to pump. Never one to pass up an opportunity, Dwight breaks out a hunting knife and rips into the dummy's chest. "We must harvest his organs," he exclaims as he plummets a hunting knife into the dummy. Really, Dwight?

Michael begins his own stress-relief seminar, complete with ambient music he downloads from the interweb. He tries to help Stanley relax, but every time he gets closer to Stanley, a little heart monitor goes off, alerting Stanley of a dangerously high heart rate. Oscar tries it and the same thing happens. "You're the one stressing people out," he says. So Michael institutes a Roast, a la Comedy Central; a way for all of the busy bees at Dunder Mifflin to take out their anger and aggression. "It could be my race," Michael says, as if anyone needed ideas on how to Roast Michael Scott. "It could be the fact that I'm so fit, or a womanizer, anything. I don't want to write your stuff for you, but I want it to be good."

Turns out, it is. The whole of Dunder Mifflin meets in the warehouse for the Roast. Highlights include Kelly's list of people she'd rather make out with than Michael (a turtle, a wood chipper, anyone from warehouse, Lord Voldemort). Pam roasts Michael's "thing." "How small was it?" someone from warehouse calls out. "If it were an iPod, it would be a Shuffle."

Bam, Pam! Someone's got quite the searing wit. All of the roasts seemed a little much for Michael, and he fails to show up to work the next day. He wears a turtleneck. He tries to feed pigeons, but they've migrated south for the winter.

Meanwhile, on the Pim/Jam front (I haven't decided which adorable couple name to use), they're fighting...again. Pam's parents are on the rocky road to divorce, and Pam encourages Jim to talk to her father. He does, and next thing we know, Mr. Beasley, Senior is on his way to finding a new apartment. "What did you say to him?" she demands.

Turns out, Jim just said the sorts of things to make the 17-49 year-old demographic melt. "I told him I loved you since the moment we met, and that I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you."

Pam's dad never felt that, even at his best, and that's why he's moving out. And that's why we don't get married at 21, kids.

And Michael finally shows up (still in a sort of Paul Simon-esque turtleneck), this time, ready to roast the roasters. "Oscar, you're GAY!" he says. "Meredith is an alcoholic! Kevin, I don't know whether to make fun of you because you're stupid or because your fat!" Rather than the scandalized faces usually seen, Stanley starts...chuckling. And the rest of the office joins in. Could Michael Scott, the blundering, clueless captain of the sinking Dunder-Mifflin ship, actually have done something right? It would certainly appear so.

In my hot-wings induced state, I arrived at two very important conclusions. One, it was a decent episode. Decent, not great. Much like the 3D Sobe commercial that aired mid-Superbowl, this week's episode seemed high on the gimmicks and low on the substance. One of the great joys of this show is the unpredictable moments, the awkward pauses, the ignorance and bigotry that is somehow turned comedic; but points can only be made so many times, and at a certain volume. Dwight's character seems too much of a stereotype now to be anything more than the catalyst to a quick laugh. Pam and Jim have had far too many bumps in the road for me to care. Second, get on with it, already. The show has gone from speaking to me pleasantly to a loud monotone of stale jokes and a lack of insight.

Maybe they should be more like Pam and take the rest of art school, even if they fail and have to return to Scranton.

But it's just a thought. I'm not the inspiration in the black turtleneck.

Bethertainment Weekly Grade: B-

The Bird at the Carneie

I'll admit it. I'm the self-proclaimed music elitist, the one who laughs at your so-called "indie bands," or mercilessly mocks those who jam to Miley and Britney on their pink iPod Nano's. I shy away from anything that could potentially be used in an episode of "Grey's Anatomy" or "Private Practice," I have nightmares about Shonda Rhimes discovering my favorite bands. (David Carbonara, you just keep using The Decemberists for the betterment of "Mad Men." My battle is not with you.) So, stereotypicaly thinking Andrew Bird was much the same, I wore the cynical cap to his concert yesterday at Carnegie Hall.
Forgive me, Andrew Bird, for ever doubting that your first performance kicking off your "Noble Beast" tour would be anything short of breath-taking.

The concert opened punctually at 8 o'clock with musical Renaissance man, Stephen Dost (of the band Dost), who builds songs from the ground up. Why not start with percussion on the top of a keyboard? Then, a synth vamp. Then, layer on a glockenspiel, some guitar, a saxophone solo. And you've got the very definition of "geek rock" - the kind of music where the flesh and bone is created, exposed, covered by layers and layers of musical pseudo-stratified epithelium.

And, the glorious moment arrived. Andrew Bird walked out on stage, violin in hand, in a smartly tailored skinny suit. The stage was set with ironic throwbacks. Victorian phonographs were scattered across the stage, as well as drums, microphones, and a rug - to make Carnegie feel a bit more homey. The crowd went wilder than any noble beast could. I couldn't help but be swept in by the grandeose moment. "Wow," Bird said. "This is pretty cool, I guess."

The concert was mostly new tracks from "Noble Beast," which Bird explained as such: "So, as you know, I just came out with a new album." [Racious cheers and applause]. "'Noble Beasts.' I'd like to think everyone says the album with the same inflection as David Attenborough." [Some appreciative laugher, more confused chortles; apparently, indie kids don't watch the BBC]. Every song was surprising, each one performed better than the last. Proving that whistling did not in fact die with "The Andy Griffith Show," Bird's magical chops whistled his way through "Masterswarm," "Oh No," and "Tenuousness."

"It's nice," Bird confided late into the concert, "to be able to rock out like this. On the album, I have to keep the folk up, but this is nice."

It was nice. More than nice. Bird's unique mix of quirky lyrics and brazen musicianship (he broke into several sonata-type solo's that were in themselves worthy of Carnegie Hall). I've been converted to the Church of the Bird, and I don't think I'll go back.

Noble job, Mr. Bird. Noble job.

Plight of the Conchords

It is, indeed, Business Time for New Zealand's second most popular folk novelty band members Jemaine Clement and Bret McKenzie. After a few shadowed months of doubt and wallowing, "Flight of the Conchords" is back and zanier than ever. Though no fan is more loyal than Mel, the group's lone fan, Conchord tolerators might remember where the band was at the end of Season 1: Murray (the brilliant Rhys Darby) introduced a third Conchord, Todd (comedian Todd Barry), the over-zealous bongo player. Bret quits in protest, and forms his own Flight of the Conchords with keytar player Demetri (comedian Demetri Martin). After a bit of quibbling, Demetri and Todd split...to form their dream band of The Crazy Dogggs. With a breakaway hit ("The Doggy Bounce"), America has spoken with dubious taste, and Murray is on his way to being an actual person with an actual managerial position with actual gigs (arf, arf!). Bret and Jermaine play the library.


Season Two picks up exactly there. Murray has hit the big time, lunches regularly with Tori Amos, and drives a BMW, though fancy gilt casings cannot hide his former self ("R. Kelly wants to perform with you...do you want me to find out who that is?") Seeing that their future is bleak with Murray managing both the Crazy Dogggs and the Conchords, Bret fires Murray. Murray sings.

This is not the "Goodbye, Leggy Blonde" of last season. Murray is no longer a failing manager, and neither is he a failing singer. In a grandiose salute to Pavarotti, Murray dawns a tux and a dashing vibrato in a grand cinematic gesture of his grief. I forgot how much emptier my life was without this darling show.

Life Without Murray becomes slightly easier. Bret and Jemaine manage themselves, and manage to land a gig all their own, writing a jingle for Femident, the Woman's Only toothpaste. I must admit, while I did enjoy the Kiwi's donning Toothpaste hats and emerging from giant tubes, it struck me that the dynamic inexplicably, insurmountably, changed. With the cult success of Season 1, HBO gave "Conchords" a bigger, flashier budget, which resulted in a bigger, flashier show. And, as we all know, there is no killer to creativity like a big budget and the desire for more-well-money.

Murray finds out that money is no longer expected. Turns out, "Doggy Bounce" was nothing more than the doppelganger song from a Czech 80's band. Cue lawsuit, indemnity, and Murray's eminent poverty. He begins living out of his Honda Civic. He eats there, sleeps there, shaves there, conducts band meetings there. And he would for a very long time, if Bret and Jermaine had not needed green cards to get paid for their (gasp!) paying gig.

The songs in the premier were not as wholly rewarding as they were in episodes past. Ending the episode with a song about horny angels? Though I'm a supporter of non sequiturs and surrealist sequences, this one left me scratching my head. What purpose did this serve? How did it further the plot? Why do I now wonder what angels have going on under their robes? No thank you, FotC. No thank you.

In the end, Murray keeps his "other" job at the New Zealand Consulate, as Steve never realized he left. Bret and Jemaine are back to their old plight of scoring gigs and shaking off Mel. And all was right in the surreal New York that these crazy Kiwi's inhabit.

Bethertainment Weekly Grade: B

Little (Economic) Drop of Horrors

Apologies for the serious lapse in updating, dear reader(s). However, with the constant call of a 9-6, the demands of living in New York City, and general negligence on my part, I have failed to update Bethertainment Weekly by its' promised calendric measures of time.

America is melting. It is a giant mushroom cloud of stale credit, foreclosures, and vaporized 401K's. Wall Street has transformed into a leviathan bowl of Jell-O in which financial brokers flail, wearing those little orange floaties and go down with the proverbial ship as the orchestra plays "Nearer to Thee." Leonardo diCaprio can be found whispering endearing words to the Kate Winslet's of the world; Frodo can be found wandering the streets looking for Mount Doom.

So, what's a body to do when there is little to celebrate, little funding to attend keystone cultural films such as Nights in Rodanthe and Twilight, where teeny-bopper vamps run around in the forest making doe-eyes at each other? Why, very little, of course. But American film has done much of the same. Taken hard times, made them a little less hard. Or just added cushiony fluff to pad the fall. Such economic destitution call for one of two things: one, a lot of comfort in the form of alcoholic beverages. Two: films to make the general populous forget that they might be begging for spare change on Delancy St. next week. So, here are five films that either embrace or deny the need for the god of green, the root of all evil, and, the unobtainable.

1. Golddiggers of 1933 (1933)
What better way to celebrate monetary prosperity and the end of Herbert Hoover's asinine presidential rule? By celebrating capitalism, of course! With show tunes! And Pig Latin! In Mervyn LeRoy's musical romp, veteran showgirl Trixie Lorraine (Aline MacMahon) and her roommates are simply drowning in debt. The bright lights of Broadway have lost some of their gleam, and no production can seem to last past rehearsal. There's just no money. Until, of course, the dapper Warren William (J. Lawrence Bradford) saves the angry producer (Ned Sparks) from an embolism by writing a winning show, and magically funding it. The story is pure fluff-sugar and spice and everything with a price-there's socioeconomic wars between William's family when his older brother finds out Warren is courting a Broadway showgirl. Or that he's using his trust fund to support the frivolous "Gold diggers."

In the end, you have a feel-good lavish production that uses appoggiatura and bobbed hair to coat the economic horrors of the Great Depression. Which could be why the studio adds a politically charged number to the end of the film, "My Forgotten Man," a mournful ballad about the faceless thousands still stuck in breadlines, still scarred from war. A true show stopper.

2. Marie Antoinette (2006)
Ten minutes watching Sophia Coppola's brazen rock'n roll rendition of the lavishly opulent French monarch will make you want to eat cake in Versailles, too. Although it was greeted with less than stellar acclaim, Coppola's artistic ambition is worth its weight in gold. You know the story.

Self-involved teenage queen forced to marry young, produce an heir, discovers the pleasures of carnal affection. Though chocabloc full of anachronisms (see: a pair of blue Converse All-Star's in Marie's dressing room), it's a fantastic mix of wealth and waste. Not to mention, several dozen pairs of custom-made Manolo Blahniks.

3. Little Shop of Horrors (1986)
Ever want to get rich quick? Try stumbling across a curious plant in Chinatown after a total eclipse of the sun, bring it back to your failing floral business, and see where that takes you. The only snag is, the plant doesn't have a taste for Miracle Grow: the only fodder it fancies is the kind with platelettes and leukocytes - yes, folks - blood. Such is the woeful tale of Seymour Krelborn (Rick Morranis), a down-and-out orphan who was taken in by the surly florist, Mr. Mushnick (Vincent Gardenia).

Turns out, this bloodthirsty plant, christened the Audrey II after Morranis' love interest (the wonderful Ellen Greene), is more than he barganed for. Morranis nurses the fledgeling plant as much as he can, literally giving his lifeblood for the sake of the plant that's bringing so much publicity to the small florist. So, Seymour is bloodless and spineless, letting Audrey slip through his awkward finger to the clutches of the maniacal dentist, Dr. Orin Scrivello, DDS (Steve Martin). Audrey II needs blood: Seymour needs Audry I: Dr. Orin Scrivello, DDS is full of blood. You see where I'm headed?

One may argue this little gem of a musical is not specifically about economic crisis. But it's about slumming it, finding a way, and has a nifty paralell to the consequences of unbridled addiction. What's not to love?

So tighten your belt, dig out your library card, and rent away, these movies that make you feel wealthy...at least, in the intellectual sense.

Quote of the Day: Seymour: The Audry II isn't a healthy girl.
Mr. Mushnik: Strictly between us, neither is the Audrey I.

A Heartbreaking Letter to a Staggering Genius

Dear Tina Fey,

Stop it. Stop it now. We all know how intelligent and beautiful and witty you are. You probably use all of your Emmy's and Golden Globes as marshmallow roasters and back-scratchers. At least those that you have room for. But stop making the rest of us feel like wife-beater wearing slobs like Frank, or clogged and strained and utterly beat, like one of Jack Donaghy's coronary ventricles.

If your life is remotely like it is portrayed on "30 Rock," then give me a navy Brook's Brothers blazer, the impossible task of monitoring Tracy Jordan, and call me Kenneth the Page. I promise I won't be as hilariously creepy or have as many hick-like tenancies as Jack McBrayer, but I will bring some good old-fashioned Midwestern flair. Though, if I see Jerry Seinfeld in the elevator, don't wager I won't start humming the theme to "Seinfeld," rather than make polite conversation. ("So, Jerry. I hear you were in a show. That's terrific. I clean up stale pizza and was urinated on yesterday by a bearded man on the Six Train!") I have cute, antiquated sayings. I say words like: fiddlesticks, gosh-darn it, crappers, and mrrrrf. "Mrrrrf" isn't so much a word yet, but I'm thinking it could be my own personal "Blurg."

I'm trying it on for size, if you will.

I think, Tina Fey, we're not that different. We're not that different, you and I. While I may not have those chocoatately brown tresses or the affinity for Solidad de Sabor chips, I must say, we both look really really good when bespectacled. Though I got my degree in Creative Writing and you got yours in drama, I did my fair share of acting, as I'm sure you did in the crafting of great stories. And, we share some genetic background! We're both of Scotch-Irish stock! Isn't that fantastic, Tina Fey/Liz Lemon?

Also, we love to eat our feelings. Once, when I graduated college and couldn't find a job, I lived off of cookie dough and Mr. Pibb for a month. And then I realized that people would probably want to hire me even less, the closer I came to resembling Java the Hut. So, though I haven't purchased a wedding dress because it was "40 percent off" and tried it on at the office, and inadvertantly was seen by all my co-workers and was forced to wear said dress all day to make a point and get ham juice on it, I think that you have tapped into one of the deepest parts of my persona. And that bond lasts longer than "I Love Lucy" sindications.

But enough about our similarities, because that's where they stop. You were a writer on SNL - the first female head writer, in fact - before you came to bless America with "30 Rock." You led Weekend Updatet with unwavering reserve; a sort of younger Peter Jennings with lady bits who sometimes was confused for a lesbian.

Also, there is that whole writing thing.

So, please, Tina. I give you two options. Either stop being so darn good at what you do, or take me with you to the top. I would scale a medium-sized hill for you. I would wake up eight minutes early, if it meant I might see you. If I saw you on the Six Train and I had a seat, and you were standing, I would seriously consider giving you my seat.

That is to say, if the homeless man was nowhere in sight.

Mrrrrrrf.

Yours Sincerely,
Beth