Florence and the Machine

Reason #101110000 why New York is great: If you like a band, chances are they will be playing a show in the city within a few months of your interest.

And sure enough, Florence and the Machine (Like Jem and the Holograms and Barbie and the Rockers, right?) played at Terminal 5 on Friday to crowd of giddy Brooklynites who knew all the words. I started listening to her about a month ago when Al and Laura talked me into buying a $25 ticket to see this unknown band with arguments such as 'you'll like her, she has red hair!' and 'had she been around ten years ago, she would have played at Lilith!' Okay!

Well, sure enough, I quickly empathized with that red hair and those strong female vocals and one month later was standing at Terminal 5 with my girls (and their boys) waiting for MY NEW FAVORITE BAND to walk onstage at Terminal 5.

My pals and I weren't all that enthusiastic for the venue, as some of us have seen bands flop at there. The acoustics are bad, the location is TERRIBLE, and you can only buy one drink at a time, so drinking becomes a relay race through swarms of pushy outoftowners. But Florence, dressed in seaweed and feathers (fancy!), not only charmed us into forgetting about all of our First World Problems but also got us to dance-- To jump in unison and to dance like teenagers.

She's mix of Tori Amos and Fiona Apple, but dresses like Lady Gaga, and curiously sites her influences as Fairuza Balk (from The Craft!) and Ariel from The Little Mermaid. Girl, you had me at mermaid.

Next up? Stars and New Pornographers-- get ready, summer.

A Serious Man

"Let's have a good talk."

This film made me laugh. In fact, just thinking about it now makes me laugh, and looking at the photo above makes me laugh. A Serious Man succeeds in that very subtle and pointed humor that attacks the art of observation and absolutely delights this audience of one.

It's also the type of film that benefits from rewinding, and rewinding I did. I have been sitting in front of my tiny television for the past two nights and three mornings gawking at the brilliance in the details-- the written telephone messages ('Let's have a good talk'), the exasperation (he doesn't look busy!), the deliberate retro phrasing (Whoopsie doopsie, The Jolly Roger, Columbian Record Club, 'wash my hair')-- the Coen Brothers nailed it, my friends.

I read a review somewhere that likened Michael Stuhlbarg to Eugene Levy. I disagree wholeheartedly. While Levy's characters tend towards 'aloof', Stuhlbarg's Larry Gopnick was sincere, grounded, and the only character in the entire film rooted in reality. He is Michael Bluth in a room full of--- Bluths. (ha.) He is Odysseus charting a path through a sea of fools in search of a generous and unseen understanding.

It's this grasping for answers without a single voice of reason that carries the momentum of this seemingly endless race. Larry continues to seek help, but receives only useless--albeit comical-- answers. Yet the brilliance of the Coen Brother's lens is that the nonsensical advice is delivered with such direct articulation that we are satisfied instead of squirming. The lack of direction works.

I am still completely mystified by the I Think We Should Start Talking About A Divorce conversation and its swift delivery. Both supporting characters-- Judith Gopnick and Sy Abelman-- work to overwhelm Larry with authority and reason. They ease Larry out of his own home using nothing but soothing platitudes and sharp execution. It's brilliant.

These sirens, monsters, and shepherds (hot neighbor; Sy Abelman; lady with crutches in the park) work together in guiding Larry back to a place of simple being. And we, as an audience, eventually land there too. For if we stop seeking answers, we eventually won't need them (But helping others... couldn't hurt.)

That said, I was confused by the ending. The film stops short upon two major additions to the story-- the first is what we assume to be cancer, and the second is a massive black tornado headed directly into a school yard. It wasn't until hearing Fred Melamed's take that the ending it not only made sense but also carried a profound resonance. Melamed said in a fantastic interview that the ending sends you back into the movie. That by leaving the film in this fashion, we take the characters with us. It stays in some part of our brains as we reenter our own serious lives.

I initially had no real intention of seeing A Serious Man, despite my extreme excitement for its filming location (Um Ya Ya!). But upon hearing the phrases 'the best film of 2009', 'my favorite film of 2009' and 'second favorite Coen film of all time' repeated as often as that damn Jefferson Airplane song (Don't you want somebody to loooove) I gave it a go. And NOW I have to rethink my entire years worth of movie watching, as A Serious Man just might have to kick Up in the Air from the top of my favorite list. Can I do that to dear Clooney and his slick roller suitcase!? Gahhh, I might have to. Nailing it down: so important.

(***Note: AMANDA, you have to see this film, if only to recount our days of 8am Human Bio with Alan Ernst in the old Science Center lecture hall. 'Sarah, how do you think I'm doing as a professor? Do you think I'm good at this?' Swoon.)

Galapagos Art Space and Tami Stronach Dance Troupe

"Sarah, I thought we were going to see Modern dance. What the hell is this."

Last night marked another epic Sarah and Alison night-o-fun. We originally planned on attending a book reading by dear friend Molly at Chelsea Market, but being as we have done that before, we instead took up Laura on her offer of two tickets to the Galapagos Art Space in DUMBO to see the Tami Stronach Dance troupe.

The Galapagos Art Space is something to see. If you haven't been, go, and if you have been, we should talk. I was a bit distracted by the whole thing, as I've heard rumors of its massive planning errors. The space was clearly planned by artists for artists, which doesn't always work out that well, despite its obvious coolness factor. It's a large space with extremely limited seating, and instead of standing room, moats. Like, water moats, I kid you not.

Thus, this super-cool-space-without-very-much-seating business plan turns into inflated ticket prices which turns away super-cool-Brooklynites-who-would-attend-random-Modern-dance-performances-on-a-Tuesday, which in turn jacks up drink prices to make up for the lacking attendance. Which makes the attendance lack even more. BLAH, it frustrates me. (What did not frustrate me was the $6 Syrah and $12 antipasti plate that Al and I shared at Superfine beforehand. Now, that's a bargain! Going back for live Bluegrass at brunch soon.) ANYWAY...

The dance troupe was also something to see. And by something to see, I mean, just your everyday leopard thong wearing, rose petal blendering, diaper toting dance event. This was not Martha Graham, my dears. In fact, lets just cut out that word Modern all together and swap in Contemporary and enjoy the show. I was somewhat prepared for the oddities, and I kind of delight the craziness of these little performance pieces, but that didn't stop me from joining in Alison's giggles and uncomfortable squeals as a topless woman began pulling dental floss out of her hoo-ha and using it as a jump rope. Good times.

The performance consisted of several short dance numbers, linked in theme and concept. As stated in the program, they separately 'considered the private body, the public body, the disgusting body and the sensuous body.' More than anything, though, the dancers seemed to be having an absolute riot up there, and I am pleased to say that the same can be said for two of its giggling audience members.

Yes, despite the uncomfortable squeals and $12 vanilla infused vodka concoctions, Al and I had a fantastic Tuesday night. It was graced by a perfect April evening, the stunning Manhattan skyline via DUMBO, and absolute howls of laughter. Not bad at all.


***Note: When googling a picture of this dance troupe, the majority of photos that came up in my search were of the Childlike Empress from The Neverending Story. Turns out-- TAMI STRONACH WAS THE CHILDLIKE EMPRESS IN THE NEVERENDING STORY! Man, that movie freaked me out as a kid. Tami was the one saving grace that distracted me from Falcor, that horrifying flying dog thing. Shivers.

Io Sono L'Amore

SWINTON is back! Clearly I will be seeing this film. John already has-- he saw it in Cannes or Sundance or whatever other amazing place he goes to see films that isn't the IFC like everyone else. This was before he MET Swinton and changed both of our lives forever.


Anyway... from NY Mag's Vulture:

There's a new trailer for I Am Love, in which Tilda Swinton plays a woman living in Milan who — well, the trailer for the thriller foregoes the usual exposition and just shows us frame after frame of stuff happening to Swinton in Italy (sex, betrayal, secrets, food, possibly international politics) along with critic quotes like, "See it by any means possible," which, by the time it appeared on the screen, was a completely unnecessary command. We have no idea what's going on here — and we can't remember the last time we could say that in this age of trailers that explain the entire movie. With all the food and scenery, this looks like the smart man's (or woman's) Eat, Pray, Love. We're there.

Lo Hoffman actually sent me this clip this morning with this tag: "One of your favorite things (Swinton!) and one of my favorite things (people being snarky about Eat Pray Love!)."

Thanks, Lo! And so true! Should we see this during our 36 hours of greatness in June?! Sometime between chocolate croissants and silent reading time? You think about that.

Meditations in an Emergency

How gorgeous was this weekend, New York? It's ideal weather for stoop sitting, which is exactly how I ended my Sunday-- on a stoop with Sarah and Christine. That's us up there, on my stoop, which I will call home for only a few more weeks. But then I'll have a fire escape facing a weeping willow, and that's not bad either.

I love this time of year (I love every time of year, don't I? I think I said the same thing about February AND about October, but I mean it, each and every time!) when the weather draws us city folk out-of-doors for things as humble as a stoop. Frank O'Hara said it best in his Meditations in an Emergency:

"I have never clogged myself with the praises of pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of perverted acts in pastures. No. One need never leave the confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes—I can’t even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there’s a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally regret life. It is more important to affirm the least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and even they continue to pass. Do they know what they’re missing?"

Happy Easter, my lovelies. And thanks, Mitchell, for the photo.

Alex DaCorte

I'm Like So Happy To See You, 2008

Just Give Me a Fucking Chance, 2007

After Party, Installation at Fleisher Ollman Gallery, Philadelphia, 2007

Loved Despite Great Faults, 2007

...And if you like Ugo Rondinone, try younger, hipper text-as-installation artist Alex DaCorte. Good, right?

***Note: I want that wall color in the second photo. Don't even try to talk me out of it.

Ugo Rondinone

Speaking of Florence again... I just learned that Florence of Florence and the Machine based the song 'The Dog Days are Over' on Ugo Rondinone's installation on London's South Bank. LOVE THAT.

She apparently used to bike by this piece during art school and decided to write a song about 'that feeling of being free'. Also, the drumming sound in that song was made by her banging her hands against the wall, as recorded in her studio apartment. HOW COOL IS SHE!? (You know Ugo from his installation at the New Museum just-a-hop-skip from my offices here in Soho. Hell, yes!)

And, if you are curious, I also just learned that the phrase 'dog days of summer' refers to Sirius, the Dog Star that hits in late summer. The 'dog days' are the hottest days of summer, a time when all creatures become languid. Good stuff.