Yesterday the Emmy nominations were announced and I was very pleased to see that there was a brand-new category titled Outstanding Short-format Live-action Entertainment Program. Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog was listed amongst the nominees in this category. I was completely over the moon when I saw that this web series was getting the professional recognition it deserves.
Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog was created and directed by Joss Whedon. The web-short trilogy was born out of the recent TV strike as a testament to the potential success of powerful creative desire and good writing without the glitz, glam, and big money that goes hand in hand with Hollywood TV and film production. Whedon’s previous credits include Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, and Firefly. Obviously, Whedon was able to use his vast Rolodex to get this done in good quality for as little money as possible. He managed a low budget that would still be considered very high by the standards of most web series producers, but I think Dr. Horrible’s nomination for a mainstream industry award marks an important step forward for all new media productions.
The web series stars Neil Patrick Harris, Nathan Fillion (star of ABC’s Castle and Whedon’s cult hit Firefly), and Felicia Day. Harris leads the cast with ease of a Broadway veteran (2004 Revival of Assassins) and the vulnerable comedy of a really good improviser. He understands video blog culture and brings a very believable “every man” quality to a larger-than-life character. Despite Fillion’s mediocre singing voice, his ability to fill the screen with his roguish presence makes him one of my favorite actors to watch. Day is adorable as Penny and plays into the comedy and absurdity of this piece well. All three installments of the series have a depth and attention to detail that make for seriously entertaining repeated viewings. Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog can be viewed for free at: http://drhorrible.com and purchased digitally on iTunes and on DVD at Amazon.com.
I first stumbled across Felicia Day while watching her hit web series The Guild. As a fan of online MMO’s and World of Warcraft, I was struck by Day’s spot-on observation of online gaming culture and the comedic timing and believability of her opening monologues for each episode. The story of funding the guild seems miraculous to me. The first few episodes of the series were self-funded, but the rest of Season One was shot completely on paypal viewer donations, which is saying a lot because The Guild is available for free online. Fan support built the series as much as the creative team and Day publicly thanks them for that regularly. Season one also earned Day Best Original Digital Series at the South by Southwest and On Network Greenlight Series Awards. She is one of my personal creative heros because she is truly a jack of all trades. Her website can be viewed here: http://feliciaday.com/and The Guild website and viewing portal can be found here: http://www.watchtheguild.com/.
I could go on, but instead I’m going to turn you all over to the capable hands of Miss Day, herself. In the following video interview for PBS, she describes the business of marketing and creating a web-series. She also discusses the advantages of retaining your creative power.
Last night I learned that the series I’m currently reading, Percy Jackson and the Olympians, is being made into a movie. I learned this by stumbling across the following preview.
The worst part about seeing a preview for a movie you’ve been dying for someone to make is that when you happen upon it, you usually have to wait months or even a year until it comes out. Now I’m sitting here and I’m practically squirming on my couch. This movie isn’t due out until President’s Day 2010. I’m in agony. I can’t even do research on the movie without running into people posting comments that contain spoilers about the end of the series. Even though I want to look up more movie production news, I have to restrain myself.
When the Harry Potter books were made into movies, I knew there was such a massive, dedicated following that the production and creative team would really try to make the movies for the readers. Based on my opinions of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, that seems like it turned out to be an accurate prediction. However, a few of my discoveries have led me to believe that this may not be the case for the Percy Jackson series.
Don’t mistake me. I am completely ecstatic that Rick Riordan’s books are being made into feature films, but I’m fearful that they won’t be respected- and they deserve to be! I’m almost finished with the third book in Rick Riordan’s series, The Titan’s Curse, and as far as I’ve read, I can certainly vouch for the quality and creativity of his writing. I’m a big sucker for classical mythology so I’ve been very impressed with the way Riordan makes us view ancient myths from a modern perspective.
Alexandra Deddario plays Annabeth in "The Lightning Thief"
When I saw the trailer initially, I jumped out of my skin. Then I hopped around my living room like a little girl which probably drove my room mate crazy. After I had calmed my giddiness, I searched for the movie on imdb.com. As I scanned the impressive cast list, I was a bit confused to see characters listed that don’t appear at all in the first book, which shares the title of the upcoming movie, The Lightning Thief. The cast list includes Pierce Brosnan as Chiron, Uma Therman as Medusa (which I am extremely excited about!), Catherine Keener as Sally Jackson (perfect casting, in my opinion), and my absolute acting hero Kevin McKidd as Poseidon. I fell in love with him during his work on the HBO series Rome. I’m a little worried that Annabeth is being played by Alexandra Deddario because she seems, simply based on appearance and her actual age, to be way too old. Deddario is twenty three years old and Annabeth is twelve in the first book of the series. This is nothing Miss Deddario can control, so let me emphasize that I’m not saying she is a poor choice for the role based on her acting merit. I’m just surprised they cast someone who looks so old in a role described repeatedly as very young during the course of the written series.
I’m not exactly confident in the choice of director for the film either. Chris Columbus, who I’ve seen do some very visually stunning shots but haven’t seen get the best performances from his actors, is adding The Lightning Thief to a resume that includes Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, and Rent. The two Harry Potter movies he directed are my least favorite of the lot and I’m worried he’ll play a part in “dumbing down” the Percy Jackson series in the same way. I did not think he got good performances out of his child actors in the first two Harry Potter films and I know he’ll face the same challenges here. I will say, however, that his direction of Mrs. Doubtfire is highly commendable and that movie is one of my favorites.
I can’t exactly explain my forboding feelings regarding this movie. I want The Lightning Thief to be good. It’s not like a play where if you get it wrong the first time, there could be a revival in years to come if the script is good enough. You can hardly tell from this teaser trailer what to expect. It only shows bits from one scene that occurs near the end of the book. This also worries me because I feel like they may have shuffled around events from the book. On the other hand, I could be way too worked up about this. I just want the film to stand up to Riordan’s masterfull series, which I’m positive I will be reviewing at some point in the near future.
Tonight, I had the distinct pleasure of viewing Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince at the Clearview Cinemas Zeigfeld theater. I’m including the theater in which I saw the movie because it had a lot to do with my experience of the film. So far, critics have given the movie rather lackluster reviews, but I considered my thirteen dollars and fifty cents money well spent.
Firstly, the Zeigfeld theater is a sight to behold. It is a movie theater with a vintage feel. As soon as you walk in the building, you’re surrounded by a sea of crimson, gold, and velvet curtains with over-sized shimmering tassels. The staff is also very friendly and began shouting to the crowd about how the stars of the movie had been there the previous week for the NYC premiere as we filed into the packed theater. When you enter the theater itself, the space is vast. It clearly was an actual theater with a stage at one point and is only a few blocks away from The Great White Way.
On this particular evening, the place was packed because it was the first day of release. My friend and I arrived at the theater early, eager to settle into good seats for our epic journey into J.K. Rowling’s universe. My friend is an avid Potter fan and her intense excitement was undoubtedly infectious. I doubt I would have had the same experience if she hadn’t been with me. She has read the books more carefully and more times than anyone I know and I credit her with infallible Harry Potter expertise. We actually went to this same theater to Coraline and we instinctively knew that it was the right place to see Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. In Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s book, Decolonizing the Mind, he says that “Space is never neutral.” That is certainly the case for the Zeigfeld. There is a curtain that they close between the previews and the film. When they open it as the movie starts, it’s as if you’re looking at a live stage with infinite possibilities. Due to the nature of the space, the audience took on the characteristics of a live theater crowd, cheering, applauding, gasping, and laughing along with the performances. The place was buzzing with energy.
Daniel Radcliffe and Emma Watson
The best thing this film did, which was only further amplified by the movie theater itself, was to honor the brilliant performances that the cast turned in. It’s hard to believe that Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson, and Rupert Grint are the same children who performed in The Sorcerer’s Stone. Their skills have matured and deepened, each with their own specialty. Watson is stunningly vulnerable while retaining the values and strength of Rowling’s original character, crestfallen when it comes to Ron’s inattentiveness and brutal when it comes to Harry’s occasional overconfidence. Grint’s skill for improvised physical comedy is at an all time high. Especially amusing were his scenes while under the affects of a love potion and his oblivious separation of Ginny and Harry when they are about to have an intimate moment, followed by offering them scones. I simply couldn’t get enough of him in this film. He kept the audience in stitches the entire time.
I must credit Daniel Radcliffe with remarkable improvement in his acting prowess. I have to admit that when I saw the first Harry Potter film, I actively disliked him. I have seen a bit of improvement over the years, but what truly changed my mind about him was his performance in Equus, by Peter Shaffer. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that this play is impeccable on its own as a written piece, but when I saw Radcliffe perform his extremely challenging role on Broadway, I saw a spark I hadn’t seen before. He was playful, unafraid, and interesting. I’m not sure when it was, but during the run of that show, Radcliffe discovered something about being in the moment and following impulses, no matter how strange or inappropriate they might be. That was reflected in his performance in The Half-Blood Prince, impersonating spider pincers, and impersonating the characterization of his co-star, Jim Broadbent, while under the effects of a “luck potion.”
Daniel Radcliffe, I hereby retract all ill wishes I harbored in your earlier years and officially give you my full support and a well deserved round of applause.
As the younger members of the cast rise to the occasion, the elder members become even more brilliant. As Snape, Alan Rickman is impeccable, both hilarious and terrifying. His comedic timing and command of his vocal instrument is a killer combination. I was on the edge of my seat, falling for the bait each time he paused, only to drop in the last word of his sentence at exactly the right moment- Simply an astounding and relentless performance.
Jim Broadbent, as Professor Horace Slughorn, gives a very intelligent performance. I have been a fan since his role in Moulin Rouge. His drunken monologue in Hagrid’s cottage was a stunning combination of brilliant writing and expert performance. Broadbent does a wonderful job of addressing the multi-faceted nature of this character.
Helena Bonham Carter is a delicious villain. Her body and her voice are incredible, enhanced by her costume and makeup. I was so thankful that we got to see more of Bellatrix Lestrange in this film.
The only performance I wasn’t ecstatic about was that of Tom Felton as Draco Malfoy. While his performance was honest and heartfelt, the way he portrayed his character’s public actions at Hogwarts was extremely over the top. Anyone who saw him would have known he was up to no good. Draco Malfoy won the “emo kid” award for the evening.
I can understand why some of the reviews for The Half-Blood Prince are negative. There was so much wonderful acting that the movie could not contain all of it while simultaneously dealing with all the complexities of Rowling’s story. There were points at which I would have been extremely lost if I hadn’t read the books and points at which I was still lost simply because I haven’t reread the books in a few years. My biggest problem was that they focused a lot on the developing relationships between Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Harry, yet left the actual mystery surrounding the Half-Blood Prince and his Potions book mostly untouched. I missed the the mystery solving capers of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. I think the director, David Yates, was more interested in giving detailed cinematic highlights of Rowling’s written world rather than a well-told story presented on film. I will say, however, that the composition of his shots is extremely dynamic. I felt in this film, more than in the other parts of the series, that there was a level of detail and depth that was fully integrated with the performances of the cast. The film wasn’t structured with stunted acting scenes followed by action sequences. The whole thing was a cohesive piece.
For anyone who enjoys the Harry Potter series, this movie is a must see. For those who haven’t read the books, I don’t think you’ll be able to understand and appreciate the brilliant parts of the movie in a way that will compensate for the otherwise unfinished story telling.
I wish I knew when I started to need someone in my life, romantically speaking. I can’t remember when the seed was planted, but I do know the period over which it bloomed, seeping into the hidden places in my heart and winding a web of silver spider silk around my mind, binding it up forever.
I didn’t see it coming, this immense, mind-boggling loss. I never expected to still be feeling pain when an unexpected song comes on the radio or as I lie in bed during the calm before sleep comes to call. Sometimes I really think I must be a sucker for pain. I almost enjoy the chills down my spine when I utter his name in secret.
I never thought of myself as a dependent person. I’ve always been someone who was unafraid to forge into the unknown, accepting all challenges with no regrets. I left home for boarding school when I was fourteen and now I’m doing my best to make my way in New York City. People would tell you I’m a rather self sufficient gal.
These days, I’m not so sure they would be right.
“I don’t know why you’re even giving him a second more of your time. Don’t waste anything else on him,” my Mom said to me over the phone.
A lump rose in my throat.
“I. Yeah, its not that easy. I can’t just erase someone from my life.”
There’s something about the process of leaving your first love that changes you forever. When you are left reeling from your last words as a couple, you don’t have the tools to mend yourself. The blunt, round pegs of friendly advice don’t fit in your newly formed square abyss. You are ill equipped to handle the personal tragedy.
After I broke up with my first love, I almost wanted to wallow in the loss. My relationship ended due to stress from being “long distance” and it killed me that I wouldn’t be able to get closure or make any new memories of us together. I wasn’t going to run into him at the grocery store and remember warm feelings. There was a good chance I might never see him again in person. The only way I could continue to have a relationship with him was to have a relationship with my loss. I became addicted to the pain. Every time I felt myself going numb, I would summon up some vision or sense of his presence lying beside me, arm draped over my waist. I would mash my eyes closed until I could remember every detail.
I was asking for the pain, worshiping it as the only resource I could salvage from the ship I lost at sea. I was holding onto every memory and every word, wrapping myself up in them to keep myself warm because I feared I would never find anything that compared to the depth of my over-dramatic, self-inflicted woe.
The first time I realized I had an paralyzing addiction to this relationship was when my ex and I decided we had to stop saying “I love you” and “I miss you.” I remember the conversation coming to a natural end, followed by a painful burdened silence.
“Yup.” He said.
“Yeah. Well. Uh. Ok.” I said.
“So… I’ll talk to you later then.” Click. The call ended.
I cried and cried, squirming in my bed. I cried till my eye lids hurt. I cried till my pillow looked like a Rorschach test.
Then there’s the question of whether or not you still talk after that point. Is there any reason to risk the pain crushing you repeatedly? Maybe it’s the masochist in me, but when I saw his number flashing on my phone and playing that familiar siren’s song, I had an Pavlovian response.
“Heya.” I would take a deep breath and try to sound busy and important on my end of the line. “What’s up?”
“Nothin’. Nothin’.”
That always drove me crazy. Why do we call each other to say essentially “nothing” is going on unless it’s to fill a need, that emptiness. I wanted him to say he needed me, admit his pain and his struggle. I wanted to know for sure that he was no better off than I was.
We spent the rest of those stilted phone calls working arduously to make conversation, lifting the brick of each topic until we had an unsteady step pyramid. Every time we spoke, I wished we hadn’t, but I couldn’t pull myself away. Every time I thought I could move on, he would call and I would answer. I hated myself immediately afterward. Worse, in low moments I would pick up the phone and call him, hating myself afterwords for voluntarily opening those old comfortable wounds.
I’ve talked to a lot of friends about losing their first serious relationship. There is a sort of camaraderie that comes with the territory. When you’re going through this endless pool of loss, it’s very easy to think of yourself as the only person in the world who could feel or understand such intense pain, but really, when you start talking to other people, you find out you’re just like everyone else.
This phenomena makes me feel two ways. One: It’s comforting to know other people feel the same way you do. Two: It’s disheartening to reduce the lingering magic and longing of your break-up to a right of passage when it’s all you think you have left. It’s never fun to not feel special.
I want to believe that what I had was extraordinary, that this sumptuous affliction actually means something, but I have to wonder if it really does. What if it’s just a bridge everyone crosses at some point?
Everyone says, “You’ll heal eventually.”
I don’t think that’s true. I think everyone just somehow learns to operate under new given circumstances, like an amputee victim learning to walk without a limb. I don’t think the loss of virginity is when you lose your innocence. The loss of innocence occurs when you realize you have to deal with life under unexpected and seemingly unendurable terms.
I’m tired of wading through my antiquated romance. I don’t know how, but like most things, the first step is to accept this new recess in your life, this tiny, bottomless well lodged between your ribs. It’s a fact. It’s not going any place, but that shouldn’t stop you from going anywhere you please. Perhaps you won’t get over it, but you can get on with it, wresting and contending with your life as you take baby steps out your front door and into the real world, learning to live with your phantom limb.
[The following video is from So You Think You Can Dance. It is an especially moving performance by Kupono and Kayla, choreographed by Mia Michaels. This piece is what pushed me to write this article.]
Being a huge Johnny Depp fan, I did not question spending thirteen dollars on a ticket to his recently released film, Public Enemies. When I was in Chicago during the summer of 2009, the extras were being put through hair, makeup, and costumes at the theater where I was interning so I felt a sort of loyalty to the film because I was excited about seeing how all the production work I had witnessed every day had turned out.
I always feel swept away by Depp’s performances because it’s undeniably clear to me how much he enjoys what he’s doing, how playful his choices are, and how alive he is when he’s in front of the camera. He drips with passion for his art.
This is the first time I’ve been a bit let down by him in a movie. I enjoyed a few of his “simply frank” moments, such as when he convinces Billie to “be his girl” by roughing up a man who’s giving her trouble at the coat check where she works and then holding her coat out wordlessly as if to say, You know you’re going to come with me. Also of note was the scene where he dangerously risks being discovered at the police station in Chicago where his case is being monitored. He studies his own pictures, the mug shots of his fallen comrades, and asks for the score of the game the cops are watching without them realizing who he is. It is Depp at his classic best; playful, mysterious, and confident. He did have a few great moments of characterization in this film, but I thought perhaps he was bored with this project. It seemed like he lacked inspiration.
Oddly enough, I enjoyed Christian Bale’s performance and I’m usually rather ambivalent about him. I think he’s done some cool action and mystery movies, but I wouldn’t necessarily call him a “fine actor.” There was something a bit deeper about his portrayal of Melvin Purvis. His physicality was fox-like as he ran down his pray, even with a heavy weapon like a rifle. He’s always been good with physical roles, like Batman and John Preston in the cult classic Equillibrium, but he managed to combine his physical prowess with a manifested determination. Perhaps he’s simply more compelling without his bat-mask on.
I hadn’t seen Marion Cotillard’s Academy Award winning turn as Edith Piaf in La Vie en Rose, but I had heard so many good things about it that I was very excited to see her work in this movie. With the exception of the scene in the interrogation room where she is explicitly brutalized by one of the investigators on the Dillinger case, she gave a simply honest performance, but nothing particularly special.
The aforementioned scene was actually the best in the movie. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a movie where the camera stays focused on a woman as she is beaten. It was hard to watch, but the pay off was so satisfying when Cotillard’s character told off the man who had been hitting her. It was a great movie moment, framed well by specific cinematography. However, the circumstances Cotillard’s character were often more engaging that her uneven performance.
The action sequences were too general to keep track of the story. They began. Lots of machine guns were fired. Then they ended leaving the characters either dead or in different circumstances. Sadly, it was a missed opportunity for story telling. It was easy to lose track of who was shooting and who had been shot. During the climactic action sequence at a woodland farmhouse, the heavy sound of the machine guns and the mass destruction they wrought lost their initial power after a few minutes of the long-winded shoot-out.
Stephen Graham was truly terrifying as Baby Face Nelson. He brought a sorely needed unpredictable element to the movie. When he went down, shooting wildly into the air and pelting the grass with bullets as he took a lethal volley of machine gun fire, I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or to cheer. He was such a dangerous force in the movie that I was happy for Dillinger to be rid of him, but I immediately missed his exciting presence.
I was also shocked at how many cameos there were by established actresses in the film. Leelee Sobieski played Polly Hamilton who appeared near the end of the film and had about five lines in total. I haven’t remembered seeing her in front of the camera since I was in my freshman year of high school. Emilie de Ravin, who plays Claire in the hit television series, Lost, played a random bank teller who is used as a human shield to keep the police from shooting at the men driving and defending a post-bank-robbery getaway car. As long and slightly didactic as this movie was, seeing these actresses made me wonder how much film was lying on the cutting room floor considering the fact that these ladies probably wouldn’t have signed on for the project without a supporting role as opposed to a part with a few spoken lines.
For me, the bank robbing scenes were the highlights of Public Enemies. They were a window into a different age when crime was waged with different tactics than in today’s world, not to mention that Depp’s rock star quality had a chance to shine.
Public Enemies is by no means a horrible film, but I don’t think it makes my “Must See” recommendation list. With with movie ticket prices in New York City at an all time high, this is one where I would wait for the release to DVD.
Sometimes I wonder if everything we do in our modern world makes us intrinsically less human, distilling passion and instincts into gray suits and briefcases. Are most of the populous really living to the full potential of our race? Where is the action, the desperation of true love, and the intricate sword play in our every day lives?
In ancient Rome, people walked around armed with swords. There was always a potential threat. A word could get you killed if it landed on the wrong ears. Sex was for anyone who had but a need or a whim for release and everyone was doing it openly with everybody else. If the husband didn’t like being cuckolded, he could simply go out and kill the man his wife was sleeping with. No one would begrudge him this satisfaction.
Today, we have the right to bear arms in this country, but the majority of people that I associate with on a daily basis don’t. Some even openly reject that right, supporting many gun control laws that would keep guns out of the hands of most American citizens.
One observation I’ve made is that the interpretation of the right to bear arms has been distorted. It was originally intended to describe the right to form a militia in order to defend our rights. Now people see the right to bear arms as the right to protect themselves with hand-weapons as opposed to the right to defend the belief system upon which our country was founded. People want to be able to carry concealed weapons or keep guns locked in their cars while they’re at work, or even keep rifles in their homes as if they lived in the Old West.
I am aware that my view on gun control is based mostly on my urban upbringing. If New Yorkers were allowed legally to carry concealed weapons, I think all hell would break loose. Even without a law allowing us to carry lethal weapons, there is sometimes a persistent sense of compression in the city, like at any moment something might pop. Objects could be set in motion that could change our circumstances or our lives at any moment. I feel it often when it’s late at night and I’m taking the subway home with only one or two other occupants in my car. I’ve also felt it as a scuffle between a few men catches my eye from across a crowded street. That sense of compression stays in tact because people do whatever they can, for the most part, to keep themselves cool and contained, with a few exceptions.
Most of the time, when we get angry, it festers with no outlet, eating us alive from the inside out. Rather than attack others, we attack ourselves and blame ourselves for not being able to keep things together. Sure, sometimes we’ll talk things out behind closed doors, but very rarely is there the possible threat of one of us killing another.
Be assured that I am talking from the perspective of a young, private school educated, urban woman. I know that crimes of passion happen every day, but they certainly aren’t happening in my every day life or within the circle of people I normally associate with. I’m also not suggesting that we should all be barbarians and begin killing each other every five seconds and gnawing on turkey legs in our spare time.
The word “barbarian” perplexes me. What does it really mean? The vision of Ancient Rome I described earlier certainly had some barbaric elements, but there was a general movement towards an organized government, which, by definition, is not barbarism.
Then again, I think what I admire most about interpretations and historical accounts of ancient Rome are the more impulsive, passionate qualities of the culture. That is what I mean when I say I wonder if we are “distilling” humanity in our modern culture. I think a lot of people have lost touch with what it means to live in a high stakes environment, to feel the life coursing through their veins or to act on their needs with conviction on a daily basis.
I began thinking about all of this a few weeks ago when a friend of mine from Florida mentioned that people there are allowed to shoot trespassers who come onto their property on sight.
“Holy shit!” I exclaimed incredulously, always the articulate blogger. “But you can’t kill them, can you?”
He just laughed at me and shrugged. “Sometimes when you shoot ‘em, you kill ‘em.”
So even though I often wonder where the passion has gone while I’m making my commute to and from work amidst the milling herd, wondering when we all got slipped our daily dose of “soma,” I am also horrified at the opposite end of the spectrum. It just shocks me that in some parts of the country, entering someone’s property is enough to warrant violence without warning and murder without much punishment. There’s just something about that idea that doesn’t sit comfortably in the pit of my stomach.
It gives me this image of an orange farmer screaming, “This. is. FLORIDAAAAA!” while brandishing an AK-47.
When I was a kid, I used to play with flashlight lightsabers and go to the movies with my friends. From what I hear of rural childhoods, “blowin’ shit up” is a regular after-school activity. YouTube is overflowing with videos of kids from throughout the center of this country blowing up whatever they can find in front of a camera. I even stumbled across one video where a few teenagers were wading into the Mississippi River to find tube worm mound colonies, a staple of that particular ecosystem, and setting them on the ground, followed by shooting them to kingdom come with rifles. The had no clue that they were probably destroying the ecology of that part of the riverbed and were more interested in seeing the strange gooey blobs get blown to smithereens. I also got the impression that they wouldn’t have cared much if they did know about their possible eco-footprint.
This sort of dispassionate violence is what frightens me. A majority of our youth is disconnected from the fact that guns are not toys. They are absolutely lethal. The NRA famously insists that “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.” However, I’m going to have to jump on the band wagon with British comedian and actor Eddie Izzard here and say, “Yes, but the guns certainly help.”
I remember holding a water gun and pointing at my Dad when I was a little girl.
“Bang, bang, Daddy!” I shouted, holding the gun at his face, point blank.
He moved the gun away from his face with the palm of his and looked at me very seriously. “Never point a gun at someone unless you mean to kill them.”
Sure, it was just a water gun, but my father made certain that I knew what that toy represented. He said his father had imparted the same wisdom to him.
Dispassionate people own lethal weapons in states like Texas and Florida and they can use them without much cause or repercussion. I’m perplexed and torn. On the one hand, I think it is our right to protect ourselves and our families and that people, given the proper licencing, should be able to own guns, though I realize it’s still hard to control how many guns get into unqualified hands. Plus, the dramatic part of me wants my life to be an epic and adventurous tale worthy of the Odyssey. On the other hand, I don’t think we should be teaching our children that guns are a worthwhile “pass-time.” Hunting for food when food needs to be hunted is one thing. Blowing up bear bottles and Indiana Jones action figures for no reason is another. Plus, in terms of our humanity, I don’t think we need the danger of weapons or our lives constantly hanging in the balance to spur us into living a fulfilling life.
Violence isn’t the answer, but I think dispassion is an epidemic.
How do you cure dispassion? How do you light the proverbial fire under humanity’s ass?
When Prometheus stole fire from the Zeus on Mount Olympus and brought it to the mortals below, he took a risk. He wagered his life to bring warmth and knowledge to his fellow man. His story isn’t famous today because of violence, but because of his daring and his contribution to mankind. There is also the bit about how he was punished by having his liver be eaten out by vultures only to grow back every day for all of eternity, but that’s beside the point.
Maybe, what we all need to spice up our lives is a little calculated risk taking. Set your sights on something and go for it. Don’t let opportunities pass you by. Listen to that little voice in your head when it tells you to do something. Listening to your instincts is what keeps you from being a sheep in the middle of a herd.
Broadway tickets aren’t easy to come by these days, but sometimes there is a show that changes the face of the Great White Way, a show that introduces the greater theater community and the world to knew methods of story telling. This season, Next to Normal fits the bill.
With a risk-taking pop/rock score by Tom Kitt and unflinchingly perceptive libretto and lyrics by Brian Yorkey, Michael Greif’s dynamic direction soars. Greif’s most famous credit is undeniably the groundbreaking cult-inspiring musical, Rent, but he outdoes himself with Next to Normal. The show is both articulate in staging and in design/creation. It accepts the intimacy of a five character show while fearlessly abstracting its themes and emotional character relationships. Mark Lendland’s set is architectural, functioning both as a literal home and also as housing for the levels of consciousness that operate simultaneously in the play.
The play explores the life of a family struggling with the loss of an older son. The father attempts to hold the home together as his wife experiences dangerous bouts of schizophrenia and their daughter is left feeling invisible amidst the aftershocks. The cast is commendable as an ensemble, but especially of note are the performances of Alice Ripley, J. Robert Spencer, and Jennifer Damiano.
Alice Ripley’s 2009 Tony Award for Best Actress in this piece is well earned. Her performance as Diana is vulnerable, audacious, and gut-wrenching. As always, she is a belting powerhouse and her navigation of the lyrics and music is artful, specific, and fearless.
Spencer’s 2009 Tony Nominated performance cuts to the core. He allows himself to explore both the selfless and the selfish sides of the Dan, the father, without apology. His voice is unexpectedly young and fresh, a real find.
The daughter, Natalie, as played by Jennifer Damiano is similarly fearless and for a young actress, she is a force to be reckoned with. Her voice is interesting and her musicianship keeps the audience in the moment with her, leaving your heart racing when she makes an unexpected choice or change in dynamics. We should expect great things from her in the future.
If you see one musical this season, make it Next to Normal and support new visions and methods of story telling that keep the Broadway stage truly alive.
To buy tickets to Next to Normal or for additional information about this production, see http://www.nexttonormal.com
Last night I watched Contact twice. Not once. Twice. In a row.
The movie came out in 1997 when I was 12 years old. I was in 6th grade and absolutely obsessed with outer space. I even had my own armory in my closet which consisted of space blasters, lightsabers, and Jedi armor. As a Girl Scout, I was taught to always be prepared. Let’s just say that if Darth Vader had materialized in my room, I could have easily been ready for an old fashioned Jedi showdown.
I certainly loved everything to do with Star Wars and most other sci-fi/fantasy universes, but I also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I wanted to be an astronaut. I was serious about learning everything I could concerning NASA, its history, and development.
It was only natural for my father to take me one Sunday afternoon to see Contact, the film adaptation of Carl Sagan’s book by the same title. As we sat in the cool, dark movie theater, I didn’t even resent him for not letting me get candy or popcorn. I was going to see a space movie and that was all that mattered.
As the story unfolded, I idolized the heroine, Eleanor Arroway, who was played to perfection by Jodi Foster. She was so brave and strong willed. She fought for what she wanted and at the end of the movie, no one even believed her story. It made me incredibly sad for her. I marveled at how the director had used well-edited clips of Bill Clinton to make it seem like he was speaking about building the alien transport system and responding to questions about the fictional events presented in the movie. There were even interviews with my favorite hosts from “The Today Show.” which I watched every morning before school. It was almost as if the whole thing had really happened right under my nose. The audience was implied as a part of the story because the movie had incorporated figures from our daily life.
I remember leaving the theater and tugging on my Dad’s arm and asking,
“Daddy, what’s a worm hole?”
“Daddy, I can’t believe that they didn’t believe she went to Vega!”
“Daddy! Which star is Vega?”
“Daddy! How long is a lightyear? No wait! What’s a black hole?”
The list went on and on and my dorky, lovable father, who is a professional know-it-all, patiently answered all of my questions. The movie had perked my interest in the mapping of space rather than its deeper themes.
Watching Contact 11 years later is a completely different experience. I’m an actress and not an astronaut. I’m a writer with a critical mind and not a child with a dramatic sense of wonder. After such a large perspective shift, anyone is bound to see things differently than when they were 12 years old. Still, I was especially struck by the difference in my point of view on this particular film.
I no longer saw a film full of whimsical science fiction and alien technology, but a story about how we as humans can reconcile faith in a modern world where science is sometimes made out to be be anti-religious. After all, we’ve gotten to the point where certain religious institutions do not want to teach evolution because they believe that its heretical.
When I was younger, faith wasn’t an integral part of my life. I’m the daughter of a Protestant mother and a Jewish father. We attended church pretty much only when my grandmother was in town and went to the synagogue only when a friend had his or her bar or bat mitzvah. I was allowed to believe in what I wanted to believe, but because of my own interests in science, I tended to side with Jodi Foster’s character in Contact.
I saw no evidence for or against God, but I did see a lot of civil limitations connected to Christianity.
I have always been very supportive of my gay family members and hearing the “religious right” tell the world that marriage is for a man and a woman has always seemed outrageous to me. My uncles have every right to same advantages my parents have. Seeing religious rallies against a woman’s right to choose abortion if she felt she couldn’t properly care for her child seemed like yet another misplaced limitation being forced on women.
As a child, I had seen religion as an obstacle and that’s how I identified it in regards to this film. I wanted Eleanor Arroway to be chosen to represent humankind on their mission to contact alien life and I was outraged that just because she didn’t have a strong connection to a higher power, that she was discriminated against. “What about that separation of church and state thingy?” I had asked my father afterwards.
Religion in the form of cult worship is demonized in the movie and made into the very the source of terrorist acts and the backbone of the suicide bomber who disrupts the alien machine’s first test, killing the initial candidate for the mission and destroying the entire aparatus.
What I wasn’t mature enough to recognize in 1997 was that “faith” can be separated from religion. To me, faith is an odd mixture of trust and determination. In Contact, there is a communal sense of faith in God that Eleanor Arroway doesn’t identify with. However, she experiences faith in the unknown throughout the whole film, even when no one believes in her project or in the end, her journey. She heads a project that is running out of funding which requires her to sit alone for hours, listening for a signal from beyond that may never come. Despite the odds, she knows she has to be there if it does. When others want to give up on her project, she insists that it’s necessary, convincing them of its importance despite the fact that she can’t provide a foreseeable result of her studies. When the other scientists want to add a chair with straps to the alien design for the pod, Arroway questions them. “Shouldn’t we have a little faith?” When she is offered a cyanide tablet, she refuses it, retorting that she didn’t come this far to bail out on the Vegans who sent their message across the stars. She intends to see it through to the very end and directly as instructed by the message she received. She trusts their plans for her with no guarantee of success or survival.
When the movie ended back in 1997, my 12-year-old self was most interested in the fact that no one believed that Arroway’s pod had traveled to Vega. I revelled as the president’s adviser stuck it to the movie’s “villain,” announcing that there although there was only white noise on the whole video recording of Arroway’s journey, it lasted for exactly the amount of time Arroway had claimed to be in transit form Earth to Vega.
“Ok to go,” Arroway states over and over again as she readies herself for that epic journey. She trembles as the terror takes over. She has no idea how this machine will work. She has only been able to speculate up until this point. Yet Arroway presses on. She has planned for this moment her entire life. The fear keeps her from being able to fall back into the comfort of her precious logic. She must simply be vulnerable to the experience.
As the pod moves through space, she can see through its walls,racing through worm holes and floating amidst gas formations only seen before in the form of Hubble Telescope images. Her eyes are wide. There isn’t even a hint of analysis or calculation in her gaze as she unstraps herself from the chair, looking out into the starry masterpiece. “So beautiful… It’s so beautiful,” is all she can muster.
When she finally arrives on the beaches of Vega, she is greeted not by an alien life form, but by her father, the man who inspired her to begin her work with audio analysis in the first place. She reconnects with the origins of her life’s journey, while at the same time she is meeting with the unknown, making contact with both past and future simultaneously. The Vegans never appear to Eleanor in their true form. She must decide for herself whether to believe she has had and encounter with an alien life form or merely hallucinated a meeting with her dead father.
“This is just the beginning. This is just contact,” Her father says to her, tenderly brushing her cheek with his fingertips.
Listening to that line, I think of all of those times I’ve heard people say, “That’s when I found God.” Arroway is given a precious, life affirming experience, something she cannot deny whether the experience was real or simply a vision.
Even though I’m not sure if I believe in God in the Christian sense, I can I identify with moments when I’ve felt something more, or gained a sense of the unknown. This film suggests that our great human need for discovering and connecting with the unknown is not only present in the ritual of daily prayer, but in our scientific reach for what lies beyond our star system. Science does not have to be anti-religious and at the same time we don’t have to believe in a higher power to sustain faith. We can sustain faith simply by believing in something great than ourselves, whether that lies in Heaven or beyond the reaches of the Milky Way.
The fear will climb you like a maypole and you will think your are thirty pounds fatter than you actually are. You will check the guest list for your high school crushes or old boyfriends and be warmed by those old flames, followed by an endless panic attack concerning seeing them again. You’ll destroy your closet looking for the perfect ensemble and plan hair and makeup for a week ahead of time. Moreover, you’ll plan how to describe your job so that you don’t sound like a glorified receptionist.
You say to yourself + 30 imaginary pounds in the mirror, “Oh college, how have you failed me so completely?”
Then the day arrives. It’s the moment of truth.
Results may vary after this point. I can only speak for myself.
A certain amount of anticipation and dread accompanied my decision to attend my high school reunion, but I never struggled with whether or not to go. I knew from the moment I got that letter inviting me to “The School by the Sea” for my 5th year reunion that I would be there.
Let me explain. My high school education wasn’t what you would call normal. I went to boarding school one thousand miles away from home. When I tell new acquaintances this, they usually react in the following way.
Wide-eyed with wonderment and a mischievous gleam in their eye they ask, “What did you do?”
This reaction makes me laugh because so many people can’t imagine sending their son or daughter of to school across the country at the tender age of fourteen. They figure you must have done something so horrible that you had be sent away to “learn to respect your limits or your elders” or both.
Let’s set the record straight. I wasn’t packed off and sent to boarding school because I’m some sort of juvenile delinquent. I chose to leave home.
See, I always loved summer camp. I went to Camp Seafarer in North Carolina for 8 years and worked there as a counselor for two. I wouldn’t be who I am today without my experiences there. The first year I went, I was ten. I was a shy girl who barely spoke up except to say incredibly awkward things. I was the kind of child who could play on a playground for hours and not bother to learn the names of the other children I was playing with because I was too terrified to ask. Facing a month away from home was frightening and exciting, but when I got there, I slowly came out of my shell. I blossomed, some might say. I went out to activities every day and set goals for myself, striving every day to achieve them. I learned how to sail, how to tie a bowline knot, and how to jump a hurdle on horseback. It was at Camp Seafarer that I was asked to dance by a boy for the first time. There were a lot of firsts at camp, and the best part of it all was that I was in control of my own destiny.
I’m an only child, you see. Every step of the way up until that point, my parents had been there guiding, supporting, micromanaging, and frogmarching me towards some undisclosed success. There are advantages and disadvantages to being the sole object of your mother and father’s love. I was given every possible opportunity; piano lessons, ice skating lessons, vacations, tutors, and educational trips. Anything I asked for, I got and usually more. Every time I soared I was rewarded and every time I fell, I was supported, analyzed, and talked through how to improve upon or avoid this mistake again. I never had that integral sink or swim moment.
However, at Camp Seafarer, I was in control. I scheduled my activities and I auditioned for plays. When I failed, it was up to me to fix it. When I succeeded, I simply basked in the glow of a job well done. It was enough because it was all mine.
Back in Chicago, I went to a middle school that ended in eighth grade and when I reached that point, I had to apply to high schools. I applied to every private school in the city, including my own personal Jesuit nightmare, St. Ignatius College Preperatory School. When I visited, I hated it. The students seemed dispassionate as they marched to classes in their uniforms. They answered questions when they had to and not because they wanted to. They were smart, make no mistake, but I couldn’t see myself fitting in. As the year forged on, I became restless. I wasn’t particularly happy about any of the choices of schools I had applied to thus far.
One day, I saw a friend of mine looking through a boarding school brochure. Inside its laminated story book pages there were kids on bicycles, grassy quads, blue skies, pine trees, and red track fields. It showed kids making clay bowls on spinning wheels and singing in a capella groups. I knew that I could probably find some of those things at the private schools in Chicago, but an idea had formed in my head. Judging by my success at camp, perhaps I could achieve more away from the loving arms of my parents then I could within their reach.
With my parent’s permission, I applied to boarding schools all over the east coast. The next fall, I found myself at Tabor Academy in a dorm with twenty other girls, most from the area around school, whereas I was 1,000 miles away from home, and completely out of my element.
I had the unique opportunity to decide who I was. No one knew me. I could make first impressions on an entire community. Even knowing this, I was terribly afraid I would make some awful blunder.
The first few nights there, I sat on one of the granite benches on the water front. Even though I had worked so hard to get away from home, I missed it. I knew my mother and father would have had some useful knowledge to impart. All they way to school, my parents had pelted me with so much advice that I couldn’t see straight when we arrived. I couldn’t wait for them to leave me the hell alone. As we hugged goodbye till Thanksgiving, my mother wagged her finger. “Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” she said with great reverence. Afterward, that piece of Polonius’ advice from Hamlet has served as their final words to me whenever they drop me off at my current place of residence.
The seabreeze tossed my thick bush of brown hair across my face as I looked out over Buzzards Bay. All of their advice was slipping through my fingers. I was here to make my way without them.
Sometimes, I thought, you should be careful what you wish for.
I stayed at Tabor for four years. The first two were hellish and I was unhappy. I wanted to be wonderful at science and sports, but that just wasn’t in the cards. Nothing seemed to come naturally to me, least of all social aptitude. No one enjoyed being friends with a stuck up city girl who loved Star Wars and sang the Moulin Rouge version of “Lady Marmalade” at least fifty times a day in her dorm room while everyone else was trying to study. It wasn’t until I laid anchor in the theater and music community that I found a foothold for myself at Tabor. Teachers and students started looking at me differently. They knew my name and they didn’t call me out on dress code infractions as much. I did the musical every year and toured with my a capella group every spring. It was a damn fine gig if I do say so myself. My last two years at Tabor were some of the happiest in my life. My friends were like family and theater was a dream. I felt so lucky to be there every day.
And so it was that I entered highschool wanting to be an astronaut and left with a passion for the stage, headed to New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts, no less. I graduated with awards for contribution to theater and choral music and I left thinking I knew a lot more about myself than I would have if I had gone to school back at home in Chicago. My parents were still extremely proud, and supportive, but I had done this for myself.
I had no idea what awaited me in New York. I knew I would get through it as I had gotten through life at Tabor, but I was in no way prepared for my first year there, let alone the other three. It was filled with art, non-sexual nakedness, dance, shock, and student rush tickets to Broadway shows. I was back in an urban environment, pulsing with energy, buzzing with life. I was filled with passion for what I was doing every single day. Imagine: No more math classes. It was heavenly. I thank my lucky stars every day that my parents let me go and paid for my education at Tisch.
Now, it’s a year after my graduation from NYU and I’m living the life of a starving artist. Like everyone else in America, I have felt the pain of our declining economy, losing my job and not being able to get a new one for four months at a time. In December, I broke up with the man I can’t stop loving. In January, I saved a suicidal room mate’s life when I found her bleeding out in the bathtub. In February, I lost a dear friend and collaborator to a successful suicide attempt. By March, I was still jobless and was feeling the desperate strain of my independent reality weigh on me heavily every second of every single day. This is my life, I thought. I can’t stand my life right now.
It had been almost a year since I had performed in a full scale production. I could feel my life blood and passion begging for attention like a poorly tended hearth living in the pit of my stomach. My skin was going numb.
That’s when I got the letter inviting me back to Tabor Academy for my high school reunion.
How can I face all of these wonderfully smart and successful people? I thought. I’ll be a laughing stock again… or worse, they won’t recognize me at all.
I’m not fearless, but I like to think I have a bit more backbone than to let a few momentary insecurities stop me from going through such an important right of passage.
The truth is, as the day approached, I realized how much I had missed that community. I had spent so much of my life pushing forward and away from anything or anyone that had nurtured me along the way, but now I dearly missed the cradle of support that I got from my parents, teachers, and friends at Tabor. I had been a ship my whole life, struggling to break free from my mooring, but now I was ready to return to port, more ready than I ever thought I would be.
As I arrived back on campus, my heart pounded in my chest. My body felt weak, almost euphoric. Many of my classmates had remained in the same area and saw each other more often, but true to form I had left the nest and sailed into uncharted waters.
The whole weekend was like a glorious out of body experience. People I knew well and people I hadn’t all asked how I’d been and seemed to care about my response. I realized that I cared about theirs and I was proud of their numerous accomplishments. I remembered more first and last names than I thought I would. Seeing my teachers struck such a resonant chord with me. They had spent four years as my surrogate parents, setting me up for success, talking me through rough patches, and inviting me for Sunday afternoon tea. The whole reunion was like a warm celebratory ritual with dancing, drinking, and storytelling.
Near the end of the evening I was laughing with a friend who had gone with me to the Caribbean aboard the school’s tall ship to do an on-site marine studies class. We were resting our feet as the rest of our classmates danced the night away. He asked me what I was up to and I told him about the play I was writing, my novel, my new apartment, and how much i enjoyed the process of developing new musicals.
“You’re living the dream.” He laughed and smiled at me.
Until he said that, I had completely forgotten that I was.
At the end of the weekend, I felt my ship had been thoroughly resuplied. I had collected information and maps, and made plans for new adventures, confident that I could sail across the fated sea with a warm wind at my back.
I have decided that once Odysseus returned to Ithaca, he must have longed for another voyage.
I don’t believe in fate, but I do believe in this:
Sooner or later, everyone will drop anchor in New York City.
Be it a year, a semester abroad, or a long weekend, people from all around the world will pay a visit to the place my father reverently calls “The Center of the Universe.”
I’ve said a few disparaging or disheartening things about this urban labyrinth, but I wouldn’t be living here if I didn’t love it. However, I’m not so in love with this city that I can’t recognized the misplaced overconfidence in this statement.
There is an undeniable dream-like quality that accompanies the uttering of the words “New York.” I want to be a part of it. My little home is on the 100th floor. The Bronx is up and the Battery’s down. It’s the city that never sleeps. Lets face it, if Amy Adams endorses New York City as the perfect place to unfold a fairy tale in her movie Enchanted, I’m inclined to believe her. She’s just so darn cute!
In my five years living here, I’ve ventured to tourist hot-spots like the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’ve also discovered my own treasures, like the gorgeous story-book fountain by City Hall that is lit with gas lamps, their flames flickering like smoldering ballerina feet in the night. I’ve enjoyed a disparate array of cuisines from street food to five star restaurants. No matter how long I’m here, the infinite well of the city provides me with more scope for the imagination and my taste buds. Where else can you get pad thai delivered to your door at 3 AM?
I love the ability to disappear amongst the metal spires of skyscrapers and at the same time, I stand by the fact that even in this massive city, I still run into friends on the street. They vary from close friends to long lost coworkers. While this may not be everyone’s last stop, it certainly makes everyone’s “must see” list. I’ve crossed paths with almost every important person in my life while treading the metropolitan asphalt.
People always want to visit me here to get a proper tour from a “real New Yorker.” I love having them and it’s incredibly convenient and cost effective for me. Like Hermes, the Greek god of hospitality, I accept all visitors and newcomers with dutiful open arms, suggesting interesting off-the-beaten-path attractions and helping foreigners find the best subway routes- and I’m not the only one! Once, when my mom was on business here for her law firm, it was raining heavily and a man saw her without an umbrella and promptly walked her all the way back to her hotel, not taking no for an answer. When they arrived, he said, “Don’t ever let anyone tell you New Yorkers aren’t nice.” Then he promptly disappeared into the sea of passing umbrellas leaving no name and no trace.
However, I find I’m leaving the city less and less. It makes me ponder how this affects my mental health and most importantly my sense of perspective. New York might be a centrifuge for culture and commerce, but I’m not sure that it really is the center of the universe and without question, it isn’t the only place that matters inside of it.
New York sometimes feels like an inescapable womb in the process of breeding and evolving a new strain of subhuman. I shall call them:
Turtle People.
Just kidding.
But not really. Let’s take a ride, shall we?
When you decide to live in New York City, you run the risk of becoming a Turtle Person. I once stumbled up on this phenomena, and by stumbled upon I mean coined this term myself, while discussing what a battle it is to navigate the NYC subway system, pick up your morning coffee, and arrive at work unscathed and on time. I was commiserating with my friend, Pam, about how alone you can feel even in a packed subway car and how everyone moves through their day with their head inside their shell until they require food or some other service, and then they pop their heads out, blazing with this incredibly unattractive, blinding sense of entitlement. If two Turtle People pop their heads out of their shells at the same time…
The results could be disasterous.
This is the danger of letting New York trap you. which I don’t necessarily mean in a physical sense. It’s very easy to get sucked into a grueling routine. Every weekday, when I plunge down into the subway at rush hour, I begin to feel my turtle shell forming and hardening. I bend my elbows, clench my fists, and forge ahead through the flow of people towards the turn-styles. I used my shoulders defensively, protecting my iPhone like a linebacker driving the ball through a veritable phalanx of opposition. I brace myself as I weed through people rushing at me, trying just as fervently to go in the opposite direction, all of our shells thickening as we advance deeper into the underbelly of the city. I arrive at the doors of my train as they are closing. In my way: A tiny old woman who is unsure of whether or not to enter.
“MOVE!” I bellow at her, head emerging from my shell as I try desperately to make my train. I completely ignore the fact that the woman could be a tourist who doesn’t understand English and I disregard that old platitude about “respecting your elders.”
You get the picture? Turtle People. Tell your friends.
That’s the risk you run when you live here. Of course, there’s a degree of expectation that you will get used to all of the people packed into small spaces. At first its just a matter of putting on your headphones and getting to a state of Zen, but eventually, this develops into a defensiveness and a willingness to be combative. It’s a jungle out there and you have to eat or be eaten from time to time.
At the other end of the spectrum, I have also felt the immense power of communal love in New York City. Last summer, my parents and I were in a car accident on the Upper West Side. We were in a cab on our way home from my graduation from NYU. I was in a gentle slumber, leaning on my mother’s shoulder. I was full of good food and celebratory dreams when I was shaken from my sleep by the perpendicular impact of our taxi with a woman’s car that was speeding across town. I woke, crumpled against the divider. Stupidly none of us were wearing seat belts and I was completely disoriented. My mother was gasping for breath, repeating the words, “My chest is crushed.” The combined weight of me and my father had slammed into her and sharply knocked the wind out of her. As I got my bearings, I realized my father was clutching his head. I could see his head had a huge gash across his forehead. He was talking quickly and saying “I’m ok,” not to mention trying to tell a few jokes as he stumbled out onto the street. I knew he couldn’t be too badly hurt because his jokes were at the same degree of “corny” that they always are, but the blood made it look worse than it was.
I followed him, trying to help him settle on the curb when I noticed how many people were rushing out of their stores onto the street. Apparently the crash had been rather loud. People gathered around us, trying to help my dad and steadying me as I dropped my diploma and my program. They carefully began checking my face and arms for scrapes and blood.
“I have to get my mom,” I said to the woman who was leading me to the sidewalk, but when we turned towards the cab, a gentleman was already helping her, supporting her weight on his arm. As an EMT student who happened to be passing helped my dad into the neck brace he was carrying with him, a shop-owner brought out plastic chairs and bottled water for me and my mother.
The traffic on Broadway had been brought to a halt and as my senses reawakened and the pounding in my head subsided, I realized that for every person that was helping us on our side of the street, just as many were helping the female driver who had hit us on the other side.
When I looked at my dad lying on the sidewalk, bleeding profusely from his forehead, I started to lose it and began to cry. I didn’t see her approaching, but a homeless woman put her hand on my shoulder. Normally I would have glared and pulled away in disgust, but that day I didn’t. She squeezed my shoulder with her warm leathery hand and said. “He’s going to be OK, Mama.” She smiled reassuringly. I stopped crying as we locked eyes and she calmed me down with her steady, concerned gaze.
I kept dropping the papers I was holding. The woman who was looking after my mother picked them up for me. She noted the purple NYU insignia on them and smiled. “I went there. What a great school!”
“I g-graduated today.” I stammered. It was all I could think to say.
She giggled good naturedly and looked between my mom and me, taking both of our hands. “You’ll remember this day for the rest of your lives!” We all laughed.
That day was such a testament to the spirit of New York- the spirit that got this amazing city through immense tragedy and hardship during 9/11/2001, the spirit that made that Wesley Autrey Sr. leap onto the slippery tracks of the New York Subway in order to hold down 19 year old epileptic, Cameron Hellopeter, saving his life by keeping his shaking body still as the train passed over them.
So yes, we run the risk of becoming Turtle People, but being here isn’t always a battle. Sometimes it’s the greatest opportunity of your lifetime and an absolute honor to be a New Yorker.
Yesterday the Emmy nominations were announced and I was very pleased to see that there was a brand-new category titled Outstanding Short-format Live-action Entertainment Program. Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog was listed amongst the nominees in this category. I was completely over the moon when I saw that this web series was getting the professional recognition it deserves.
