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Je thé… Me, Taste Paris, with Jacky Larsonneur

We were early, the first customers of the evening at Je thé… me, a romantic restaurant known for its good food. We crossed the thick curtain covering the door and into a comfortably furnished, tight, dining room. The host, Jacky Larsonneur, tall and erect, is standing at the center of the room, his mischievous blue eyes sparkling.  He pounces on us with the grace of a well fed tiger!  We were to be his willing prey for the evening.  We loved being the center of his sage and savvy attention.  IMG_3618


He ushered us to our padded seats and fully welcomed us to his place, with a touch of formality which would be soon brushed away, he instantly signaled that the ancient rules of hospitality were in effect.  We had arrived into the care of Je thé… me, a space where we could put our guard down and swallow the delicious fact that we had entered a restaurant unlike any other.  Larsonneur has deftly owned and operated the enchanting restaurant for almost three decades. The space is a home away from home, a well polished jewel of romantic corner kitchens, an absolutely perfect, quintessentially French spot. I’ve quietly dreamt of such places my whole life. In New York, we attempt recreate the energy of such spaces… perhaps Balthazar’s succeeds. The shelves are filled with books, tea pots, and other “comforts of home.” The warmly furnished room is acutely inviting, a place to melt away stress and enjoy a fine meal. The Germans call this feeling, “Gemütlichkeit,” which loosely translates to, “cosy,” or “warm and familiar.” It is a complex word, really… yet it fits perfectly in thinking of the warm embrace of the space, the restaurant, Je thé… me… such a sensual name… such an excellent evening, about to unfold.

Le Vin, the wine, cements a new friendship at Je thé... me in Paris, France.
Le Vin, the wine, cements a new friendship at Je thé… me in Paris, France.

“English?” He asks after a few pleasantries in French. He introduces us to his menu. It was poetry in food, just delightful.  Salivating over the options, we allowed him to guide us, making recommendations, choosing which wine we drank. At ease in the roll of Culinary Guide, he takes us on a marvelous trip into a familiar yet new world of flavor.  We eat and drink with silent reverence. Other guests arrive. First a man with two beautiful Asian women, who sound 100% California. They are seated on the other side of the attractive room. Later, they come to appear flabbergasted, mouths open, eyes bulging, at the wealth of attention we receive from our talented host. Shortly after an older woman and her (likely) granddaughter appear and are seated. Finally, a young blond couple from Denmark take the table next to us, where they proceeded to make-out passionately for two hours. Did they eat food? I don’t know. I was busy scarfing DOWN my entire plate, making every morsel vanish, worshiping drops of reduction sauces, expertly prepared.

Fondréche 2012, Ventoux
Fondréche 2012, Ventoux

I am transported to a purely sensual zone. Ms. Crane, The Muse, sits next to me on the bench, laughing, making funny comments about the cast of characters around us, the universe, and beyond. Hours slip by, we don’t fret.  This is a time reserved for eating, drinking, and conversation.  My adoring Big German Scientist husband, enjoys the view, across from us and documenting our good time without being intrusive. Speaking of welcome intrusion… did I mention that Jacky planted his laptop on our table and sang to us, old French songs? He did. He sang to us!  He serenaded our table! (How’s that for entertainment?) He has a marvelous voice.  He popped his laptop on our table and shared with us a video of him, on youtube singing in a choir as a young boy. He was an angel. He sang solo, brilliantly!  The camera loved his blond boy beauty. Oh, Jacky!  You are a restaurant man beyond compare!  What talent!  Pure charm! Je thé… me.

IL ÉTAIT UNE FOIS, 2012
IL ÉTAIT UNE FOIS, 2012

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The food was divine. Yet, I refuse to divulge the details of what I ate.  Eat bite was a discovery, an explosion of flavor in my mouth.  No, I won’t write a laundry list of ingredients.  No.  Exactly what I ate doesn’t concern others…  Unless, of course, they man-up NOW and venture beyond the barnyard gate, to Je thé me… in Paris!  Once there, I can imagine, a parade of pilgrims, FRANCO-FOODIES by the herd, hereby and henceforth, respectfully paying homage to Larsonneur’s impeccable hospitality, good wine, and super-fresh French food with bus tours (god forbid) and other (less tacky) fanfare.  I will just say: that if one does not live to visit Jacky Larsonneur at Je thé… me, is simply missing out on enjoying living, breathing, singing history in action.

There is no television in the historically preserved room. By and large, French restaurants do not bombard you with advertising while you are eating. French food is to be taken s l o w l y, quietly or boisterously depending on the mood. The music, wine, and incredible quality of the food all collaborate to take you to sacred heights within yourself and in communion with tradition. French food is famous, of course, but when you actually sit and eat food that deserves this degree of reverence it changes you.

I will never again be the same woman. I have changed from the inside out, a part of me, my heart… I think… is now––forever–– French. I do not know IF the Potato Eaters at the other tables felt the same AWE over the delicate, fresh, innovative, yet totally traditional FRENCH cuisine, prepared sensitively, and served with intimate flair.

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At our table, Ms. Crane, Hartmuth and I were swaying in a whirl of FOODIE JOY beyond general comprehension. It was a secular, intensely sensual, culinary-come-religious-experience. In this mood, of beyond bliss, the hours passed and we continued eating. Finally, we begged Jacky to pick our desserts. He brought one for each and each was pure perfection with the entree, eaten. WE had NEVER had such a meal, such service! The wine… ah… it was sublime. I shall never recover from this re-introduction to what food can be. Food is a potential space-ship with direct shuttles to heavenly JOY! Now, from the shelf, tumbled one of the encyclopedias on France. (OK, I admit, that I could not resist pulling one of the books off the shelf and perusing it, while the ice wine was being retrieved.) The book popped open, before us and there was Jacky, turning the pages to his Chateau… really? Yes, he pointed to a picture in the book and said that this was his family’s country property. Oh… now my American mind wrapped itself around very foreign concept. His Chateau… WOW!

That our host  enjoyed our company was demonstrated in that he invited us to stay with him for a few more bottles of wine.  We were out till the earliest hours of the next morning, sitting, conversing, laughing like lunatics well past midnight, playing, and dancing with Jacky.  The Muse, Hartmuth, and I Frau Kolb… this evening could be the stuff of legend and myth. We were early, the first customers of the evening for Je thé… me. We crossed the curtain and into the room and found ourselves in a new relationship with the world, with life. We were welcome, ever so welcome, so we stayed and renovated our selves, with intensive healing doses of hilarity, studied frivolity, and unfiltered joy expressed in hearty appetites.

The Muse, Jacky Larsonneur, Hartmuth, and Frau Kolb at Je thé... me in Paris, France. Summer, 2014!
The Muse, Jacky Larsonneur, Hartmuth, and Frau Kolb at Je thé… me in Paris, France. Summer, 2014!

From the ether of fantasy and wishful thinking, surrounding Paris and The Muse, that which prompted this life-altering trip to a new return destination, a NEW cultural base for Frau Kolb & The Talkinggrid from which to learn and grow, the health and happiness of yours truly and those that truly crave a slice of a very good way of life, the French Way.  I will return again and again to now beloved Paris, France and specifically to see Jacky Larsonneur and  the most romantic of restaurants, where we feel in love, not just with the food, the wine, the host, but also with Paris, Je thé… me.

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OH! Othello! Bewitched by The Bard’s Blackest Hero! Blair Underwood ROCKS!

So… What do you do when you see a great actor, Blair Underwood, in San Diego for a limited engagement, for example, perform one of the world’s great plays? Well, IF you are Frau Kolb then you GO BACK and see it again. Of course!

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The second time I saw Othello, last week, at San Diego’s Old Globe Theatre, I had my children and a Mystery Muse in gentle tow. We floated into our seats, rather high and dead centre upon the stage action. When, I saw the production, two days earlier, we had third-tier seats closer to the musicians, which I loved because the musician closest to me was a pleasure to behold. He banged the big drum, tapped the silver cymbal and scratched the violin strings to create an appropriately throbbing and eerie sound, thereby supporting the cast in their Friday night rendition of the play. His golden red mop, flopping in time with the well chosen musical accompaniment.

With no further ado, two actors jump on stage and again, the cycle of intrigue and deception was springs again. Roderigo, storms in, brimming with frustration, accusing Iago:

“Tush! never tell me; I take it much unkindly

That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse

As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.”

I took it in as much as I could, without drowning, as the words washed over me. I was even further afloat. I was buoyant, buoyed by The Bard’s Words and I was lost. Castaway. The sea of meaning enveloped me and I lost my bearings. I forgot about my children. Fortunately, they were next to me, tucked into their costly seats for their very first experience of TRAGEDY, Comedy, Drama! Ah! We soared together touching the clouds, visible above our heads, outside… an occasional horn honk.

I wish I could tell you that I arrived at t better understanding of the play having seen the same production with the same actors, TWICE in ONE WEEK. Yet, I can not say that. In fact, I’m more confused about the story and about Shakespeare’s intention. The lines that stung the first time, clung to me now like algae clings to those that intend to swim. Othello went by so fast the second time. Perhaps, I fainted! Perhaps I wasn’t there.

It was strange, but I remember more clearly, that…

We met a little early, as though by chance, in the

Garden before the Globe, and we strolled around

And into our seats we fell and were transported.

Oh Othello! What a pleasure to witness, Mr. Blair Underwood, chest exposed in crucial scenes, thrilling the audience with his mighty acting muscle. This was a play I had to have my children see. They had to witness Underwood, in his prime, strutting the glorious metal of a seasoned solider of the stage. He plays the military hero with August POMP, all blistering with hot pride and JOY at having captured Desdemona’s heart, he crumbles at the, powerful implanted by Iago, suggestion that she deceives him. Death ensues.

At THE END: “Not everybody died!” Said my daughter (Ever the optimistic).

My son, older, wiser, said, “Yes, but Iago, will have to live with his crime, alone, forever.”

How deep is that?

If you haven’t made time for Shakespeare, lately, get to it. It might remind you, how that the vital waters of eternal undoing rage without stopping to check with Time’s compass. Let the winds of curiosity whisk you from Caliban’s secret Isle to Othello’s marital demise.

Thank goodness for Underwood’s powerful performance which anchored my interest. The iron core of his skill maybe more than an onyx six-pack of charm, which motivated me, to take the children, A Mystery Muse, and myself to San Diego’s Globe Theatre, to see Underwood in Othello, Twice in ONE WEEK!

Incredible!

Frau Kolb

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“Who’s NEXT?” A Barber Shop with Class in La Jolla, California.

img_2950_medYou can judge the quality of a community by its Barber Shop(s).  Take for example, actor Seymour Cassel’s, memorable rendition of the ideal Barber/Father to the young genius, Max Fisher, astutely played by Jason Schwartzman, in Wes Anderson’s brilliant film, Rushmore.  In the film, Rushmore  the Barbershop is portrayed as what is should always be, a place of comfort and paradoxically of stark revelation, transformation.  It is where the beloved actor, Bill Murray, playing a whiskey drinking, divorce-bound Sad Dad, is transformed, redeemed, rescued by the honest embrace of a thickly padded Barber’s Chair, a pile steaming hot towels, and the razor’s ready edge.

In fact and fiction, good traditional Barber’s Shops are a refuge for men.  Seeking this ideal experience we have, at times spent BIG MONEY.  For example, there was a periods of years during, which we paid for Honey to have his haircut at The Shave in Beverly Hills.  After a while, we stopped it because we realised we were being fleeced.  A haircut for a half-bald Honey should not cost $$$$!  No way!   Yesterday, at “Who’s Next?” which is a welcoming little nest for shaggy fellas, we confirmed our experience. Hartmuth got a quick haircut.  By a beyond efficient, masterful Barber.  Haircuts with clippers, buzz cuts with stubbly edges, all the fuzzy feelings of joy that do with good grooming!  We can all agree:  men LOOK so Good, after a fresh haircut!

Have you ever had the pleasure of hanging out in a classic Barbershop?

Have you ever met a refined, sensitive, highly educated Barber?  Well, meet Mr. D.  He is the most img_2951_medfriendly, competent, immediate confidant, trustworthy man with a sharp tools, I’ve ever met!

An excellent Barber listens, laughs, and, he treats each guest with the respect he clearly has for himself, if a perfectly groomed Barber is to be taken as proof of good training and self mastery.  His easy, earnest conversation is a soothing example of how humans are supposed to connect and confide, confer and create bonds which sustain others and the self.   After visiting, “Who’s Next?” one is left with a sense of excellence.  In meeting a man that clearly values his connections to family and friends, his fiancé, his son who also clips the hair of men of others, part-time, as he prepares for college.  In this way, father passes on to son, an honest trade which is always and forever in demand, thereby reveals the core of masculine strength, nobility, passed from one generation to the next, which inspires.  Ah!

Return to the comfort of “Who’s Next?,” a quality barbershop in San Diego’s upscale paradise, La Jolla.  It is a real place.

Small.  Cosy.  Friendly.  Prompt.  Service!  I love good service.

img_2967_medFormer Navy Man,* Florida native, happy San Diego transplant success, Mr. . runs a tight ship.  The shop is immaculate.  Two giant scissors decorate  the wall, evoking crossed swords in a symbol of chivalry.  In an informal interview Mr. D revealed that “Who’s Next?” is a family business.  He inherited the skills and the passion for creating a quiet, manly retreat, from his uncle.  He says, “My Uncle always knew that I would continue working with hair, that I liked it.

Mr. D’s smile, speaks volumes about his standards of conduct.  The great haircut my husband received proves that Mr. D. is a no-nonsense small business owner, the kind of man whose conduct and true character shine brighter than the best and most sparkly, stiff, pomade.

*(Correction: in an earlier published draft I wrote that Mr. D was a Marine, not the case, I made that up.  Sorry.)

Ah!  To be transported to the living age-of-chivalry, yesterday in a cute little barbershop, via good-old-img_2999_medfashioned slow and thoughtful conversation we arrived at that place outside time, where everything slows down, allowing for a few ernest moments of sparkling laughter.  Served fresh, humour is the best medicine and laughter is the most potent health tonic.

Take time, My Friends, to connect, to arrive at the small pleasures.  So… I advise you go get a haircut.  Go to a neighbourhood spot, where you are recognised and treated like a close and cherished friend upon arrival.  If you happen to be in San Diego, I highly recommend that you visit Mr. D. at “Who’s Next?”

Big hug,

Frau Kolb

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For the LOVE of Underwood! Actor Rocks role of Othello in San Diego’s Old Globe Theatre

For the LOVE of Underwood! Actor Rocks role of Othello in San Diego’s Old Globe Theatre, July 8th, 2014

Thank you, regular readers of Talkinggrid,

I can’t get over how happy I am, how much gratitude I feel for all those that continue supporting this wacky, homespun, and about to massively improve, alternative art news and cultural commentary web-site.  In gratitude I will tell you of LAST NIGHT’S DELIGHTFUL theatrical experience.  Yes! I will share with a fast glimpse, a peek into the pure pleasure witnessing actor, Blair Underwood rock the role of Othello in San Diego’s one-and-only Globe Theatre.

img_2938-2_medThe hunky-super-handsome actor was beyond dreamy, in a driven and moving enactment of Shakespeare’s blackest of black comedies in three acts.  Underwood embodied the most tragic of British Literature’s, arch tragic heroes, the-one-and-only, Othello .  Underwood, a powerhouse actor was supported by a tight, vivid, and on-point performance by Richard Thomas as Iago, whose lucid demonstration of evil, calculating revenge, and pure malice evoked chills of recognition, fear, and excitement from the audience.  The two lead actors pushed the story forward with their muscular acting talent.  They delivered The Bard’s oft quoted lines with the light lips of a lover’s undying sincerity.

Last night, I shared a blanket with my best friend, near the orchestra pit.  I watched the skilful musicians beat out the rhythm of Shakespeare.  I let the music of the words sink into my soul and the stars above added the needed sense of connection to a larger world, placing this FEMALE FORWARD reading of Othello in the world of today.  Every act, played upon the other, and led brilliantly to the inevitable demise of the protagonist and his intimates.  Yet, actresses really brought the play home with a smashing, intensely womanly understanding of what it is to submit to, and what it is to resist, male domination.  Kristen Connolly plays a striking Desdemona, no cowering flower, she faces scandal, paternal wrath, and death with chiseled dignity.  Yet, it was Angela Reed as Emilia that most intensely captured the voice of the abused and betrayed woman.  She dies for and with her mistress in a visceral representation of loyalty, delivering her final speech with the fearless passion of total understanding.

Barry Edelstein’s Othello is refreshing and inviting into a renewed intimacy with the simple mechanical and emotional perfection that is Shakespeare’s later work.  Edelstein, author of two books on Shakespeare,  has succeeded in creating a memorable departure from prior stagings and to arrive at a noteworthy addition to the  world’s perpetual fascination with the violence, the passion, and the innocence that Othello ensures.
In short, Bravo!

>Special thanks, to the wonderful staff at the Globe Theatre and even more special WARM & FUZZY Thank you to E. and her Crew of Lovely Ladies.

AND, a GIGANTIC THANK YOU to ACTOR, Blair Underwood, for allowing us to take his picture, img_2935-2_medsigning a birthday autograph, and assisting celebrating my best friend’s keynote birthday!  His warmth and open-hearted, easily approachable demeanour, made it a snap to create a little memorabilia of the marvelous evening.  Visiting the theatre was never more meaningful, than last night surrounded by my friend and her friends, which are now, thanks to the bonding experience of seeing and meeting such a marvelous specimen of human perform, are my friends, too.   But more than anything, thank you, to all that have gone to hell and back, to bring to life the glorious Othello.

Thank you for continuing to visit this lowly wayward self-spun masterpiece of self discovery: Talkinggrid.  Years ago, Frau Kolb changed her personal art web-site into this wordy mess you keep returning to, a feast for some word hungry souls, requiring contact with another ravenous appetite.  I understand, because I’m addicted to blogging. It is true that I have neglected to sleep, at times in my bunny’s desire to hop to it and write-right-now!

The intense need to express one’s self, as an artist (painter/music player/noise maker/performer) renders communication the unwavering focus.  We read.  Often we write.  Many of my best friends have their own blogs which I support.   Yet, my entire life, I’ve preferred the small-homespun look of transition and unfinished experimentation.  I shun much of what is POPULAR Culture today.  The slick hard look of music makers, their tattoos all in order and SHINY… Yuck. Sorry, but commercial television, mainstream Hollywood films, junk foods, and other less than wholesome advertising rich sources of spiritual pollution leave me looking for the bookstores, the good museums,  off beat and curious art galleries, the analogue, the antique, the unchanging enduring SILENCE which is the core of enjoying life in the long term. Ah!

Yesterday, one of my on-line buddies made a comment that hit home.  He said that gardening is a “positive addiction.”  Well… I like that.  I have a number of “positive addictions,” which make my life sweet.  I dig walking, talking, reading, writing, laughing, loving, learning, music, and DANCE.

I love the movement of the sea.  I am “positively addicted,” to life near the ocean, the beach, the sand.  Of course

Loving LIFE is my hobby and I’m becoming an Expert on being at ease in the turbulent crunch of TODAY.

Merci,

Frau K.

Re-Thinking Talkinggrid

Dearest Readers, Contributors, and Supporters,

I’d like to thank you for your attention and donations.  You have given me reason to write and get out looking for art adventures on which to report.

You have shared the links and sent in money.  You comment and you help me edit this blog.  I appreciate your help very much and really you have encouraged me.  I’ve become a person that writes, regularly, fluidly, thanks to the knowing that you might read what I wrote today.  I find that prospect alone very exciting.  Moreover, when you click the DONATE button on the side bar you send Frau Kolb soaring, literally!  I’m always planning my next trip, the NEXT big art adventure!

I confess:  I am an ambitious woman.  Yet, my goals are private, personal.  I don’t want to be a politician or an attorney.  I don’t want to be a judge.  I’m happy doing what I do best which is caring, loving, and living in awe of all that is.  I’m lucky that I can see the sunlight and feel its warmth on my skin.  I’m blessed that I can read and write and share with you some of my quirky ideas and perspective.  You inspire me.

Thank you for reading and please be aware that I’ve a long term vision for Talkinggrid and that your donations, contributions, comments, LIKES, and shares all give Talkinggrid reason and the means to continue.

Best regards,

Frau Kolb

“Positive Addictions,” Time for a NEW Attitude Toward Being

Darlings, Lovely Humans,

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On Authenticity in Django Unchained

“Antebellum blaxploitation spaghetti western… what’s not to like?”
Lawrence Swan: New York City, Visual Artist

LOS ANGELES: Sunday, February 17, 2013

In my book, race is mostly a distraction.  So, I was planning on avoiding Django Unchained, the current controversial film by Quentin Tarantino.  The film Starring Jamie Foxx, Leonardo DiCaprio pushes the hot button of RACE.  Yet, Tarantino delivers a brand of movie that I actually enjoy.  He tells stories of revenge.  Stories, old and mythic in their narrative power. His climatic scenes are tomato ketchup bang ups with as much splatter and drip as in a Jackson Pollack action painting.

The explosive violence of Tarantino, felt appropriate suddenly as Christopher J. Dorner, 33, former LAPD officer was being hunted by increasingly gun-happy force.  The accidental shooting of two female delivery truck drivers and a young male surfer were among the news stories circulating during the frightening man-hunt.  Dorner’s smiling image, in association with his rambling Facebook manifesto, in which he expressed the intention to commit acts of violence coupled his navy reserve past, and stories of youthful altruism in the name of “integrity,” had everyone nervous, watching, waiting to find out what would be the outcome of the impending show-down.  Propelled, perhaps in part by the intensity of this news story, we took refuge in the RAVE cinema, movie theater, stopping at the bar, to confer with our favorite bartender.

“OH!” She said when we told her we were there to see Django Unchained.  She told us the story of her Christmas Day at the RAVE Cinema, where Tarantino spent the evening grilling movie-goers on their experience of the film.  “He talked to my mom (a mature African American woman),” she said.  “He wanted to know what she thought of certain parts of the movie.  He wanted to know IF she found it, you know… racist.”  Apparently, not since the lady replied she was sorry to admit she’d fallen asleep during the scenes in question, “It being Christmas Day and all…”

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We were touched to hear of Tarantino’s commitment to his film and interest in the film’s impact upon viewers.  This intense caring about the quality of one’s product is a measure of “integrity.”  The film was true to Tarantino’s storytelling style.  It featured, as a number of his films do, the extensive and fluid use of the dreaded, “N-WORD!”  This is a word, I have been cautioned NOT to use by people whose intelligence I admire.  Thus…

The controversy can be contained in a nutshell with famed director’s  Spike Lee’s published comment, He told Vibe magazine, “I can’t speak on it ’cause I’m not gonna see it. The only thing I can say is it’s disrespectful to my ancestors, to see that film.”

The notion that seeing Django Unchained, is “disrespectful,” to anyone’s ancestors is well… silly.  The film revolves around the mutual respect and affection between black and white people as much as it turns with the images of horror and savagery among the owners and exploiters of plantation property. Set is in the antebellum south, and telling the story of Django, a high-IQ BLACK man that earns the respect and friendship of a German bounty hunter, movingly played by Christoph Waltz.

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The movie begins with slaves fettered in a chain gang and being transported by two cruel slave traders from one location to another, “somewhere in Texas,” the film takes OFF with a BANG and before you know it, the German bounty hunter character, a dentist by training, but a professional killer by trade are business partners and treating each other with brotherly affection.  The bounty hunter treats the former slave like family, teaching the later to read and training him in a lucrative IF morally suspect profession.

The sale of flesh… Prostitution, Bounty Hunting, and  Slavery…  The HORROR The Horror of American History is one which I have steadfastly avoided, lest it besmirch my cultivated LOVE of our country. I see the world as full of opportunity and America as a place where the dream becomes reality.  Our president’s story is unique to this nation long divided and yet united in the potential for change.  America is the nation most flexible and progressive in the construction of new opportunities for alternate histories to flourish and provide images that elevate the HORROR of history into the song of victory.

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Jamie Foxx is majestic in his representation of the anti-hero avenger.  Waltz, the Austrian-German actor, nominated for an Oscar award for his performance as dentist turned bounty hunter and true friend to Django, is the ideal of the German town dweller unfettered by nationalist propaganda and committed to ideas of autonomy and self-determination.  Samuel Jackson is spot-on as the evil head of the Candy-Land domestics.  His paternal intimacy with Calvin Candy, Leonardo D’Caprio’s character, calling the later into the library for, “a talk,” over cognac.

Kerry Washington, effectively plays Broomhilda Von Shaft, (Conceived as the great-great-great grandmother of the 1970‘s blaxpoiltation films).   German speaking love-object propelling Django forward into the Heart of Darkness, the epicenter of evil, Candy-Land plantation.  Washington’s Afro-Angelic beauty shines as the movie hero’s trophy, his holy grail, in the film.  She, alone, among the films protagonists remains unblemished by the blight of committing violence.   We know from previous Tarantino films that he has no issue with portraying females as violent.  (See: Invisibility in Django Unchained: Broomhilda in Chains by Eisa Nefertari Ule at EisaUlen.com for another perspective on this issue.)  Yet, Broomhilda is rescued rather than dispensing retribution.  She applauds, her man’s prowess, and rides off into the night at his side, at the film’s end.

This female prize is NEW to film in that African American women are just now arriving at being the LOVE OBJECT!  Film history is NOT replete with women of color represented as trophy wives, worth the FIGHT.  The diminutive Washington is a powerhouse actress.  Watching her hold her own among the BIGGER than LIFE macho men that made this film, in the video of the press conference for this film.  “She took a beating!” Says Tarantino of the actress’s dedication to film veracity.  She withstood DiCaprio’s pummeling grip for two days of shooting in order to accurately transmit the horror the horror of the American  slave experience.

The complaint that Django fails to provide a “Authentic,” African American personal is the theme of “Still too Good, Too Bad or Invisible,” by Nelson George, filmmaker and author of “Blackface: Reflections on African Americans and the Movies.”  My feeling is that Hollywood is in the business of taking us where we WISH reality might GO!  The films are about ESCAPE and like a runaway slave, I am branded by the LOVE of a good yarn, well spun, and told by master storyteller like Homer and perhaps,  Tarantino’s Django Unchained is the new Odyssey for a NEW WILD WEST, mythology unfolding and ALIVE.

Dorner, the former officer gone mental,  a raging murderer, was identified as toast in a cabin north of Los Angeles, near Big Bear.  He didn’t, I presume, get to make contact with Charlie Sheen in time to prevent being fried for pointing the finger at the LAPD.   I’m not sure I believe Dorner was fighting for a true cause.  His mission, ultimately, would have been better served by civic activism, rather than violence.

At the end of the day, the film stands  a great American film, a LOVE story of explosive alternative historical potential.  In other words, “BANG! Bang! BANG!” Django Unchained is a HIT in my little black book.

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A BURT LANCASTER Virgin

11 May 2013

Los Angeles California

Oh Lucky ME!  Last week, on Saturday night I went on a date, to see not one but two monumental Burt Lancaster/Robert Siodmak Noir films at the Billy Wilder Theater in the Hammer Museum.  We were invited to do so by the Hammer Museum for their “Centennial Celebration,” and I was with a dear set of friends intimately associated to the Lancaster estate.  (Dear close-friends WE love, very much.)

Before last night, I was A BURT LANCASTER Virgin.  Yes.  It is true.  I had not really fully gotten sucked into the phenomenon of this classic Hollywood film STAR.  Sure, I’d seen him in, “The Crimson Pirate,” and other such films but NEVER before on the BIG SCREEN and BURT is BEAUTIFUL BIG!  OH YEAH!  What a freakin’ HUNK!  I mean the only other man that well… frankly… anyway… let me get a grip.

After a brief drink then a fast jaunt across the road, we slipped into our reserved seats.  The host launched the evening a quick introduction to an engaging film scholar and author, Alan K. Rode.  He introduced, “The Killers” with wit and verve, making the audience chuckle before the film played.  With this particular film gem, Burt Lancaster went from unknown to Hollywood STAR for every good reason.  Adonis had nothing on him.  His taunt trained athletic energy, the acrobat’s concentration, and the obscenely fluid ease of his movement… AH!  WE all wish to be so fit, so right.

The-Killers-Lancaster-01He played a boxer gone off, knuckles broken, lured by easy money into the wrong set, and reeled in by a breathtakingly beautiful Fem-Fatal played by a long, big-eyed, previously undiscovered stunner —Ava Gardner— to take part in an ugly payroll heist.  The film unfolds in dazzling flashbacks, as the insurance claim detective pieces together the puzzle of the anti-hero’s violent death.  In other words: classic film noir. The story is utterly believable, gritty, eternal and elemental tragedy.  (The film is based on a short story by Ernest Hemingway.)  We go along for the ride even though we know it won’t end well from the start.  We, audience, mirror the protagonist’s experience of being lured into a race to hell.  Yet, at the end of the film, we have the satisfaction of resolution. THE LAW firmly upheld and evil woman caught in her own net of deception.  Ah!  How delightful!

The second film, after a brief intermission, and a little more relevant film talk from the passionate and funny film scholar, Rode, “Criss Cross,” a less successful yet watchable film with a lot of the same story elements.  Lancaster’s performance was impeccable.  He held the film together, the other actors revolving around him like planets.  In the film his character, a easily forgettable type IF it were not glorious Burt in the tepid role, glows with innocent infatuation for an evil prize, a woman of little worth, a tramp, a moll, a gangster’s wife that was once his wife.  The yucky plot-line of good boy meets BAD girl and loses life for love is not poignantly told in “Criss Cross,” which was a little slapped together and claustrophobic, even though it does have some beautiful (…and also early arial…) footage of old LA, with the trolley cars and union station figuring prominently.  “The Killers,” however is a hard act to follow because it is, at first viewing, one of the masterpieces its genre, along with Casablanca, and the Maltese Falcon, other noir classics that one can not speed by, one must stop and enjoy these delicious golden noir films.

The pleasure of seeing these fabulous old film(s) at the Billy Wilder Theater is intense.  YOU MUST make plans to see a Burt Lancaster film in this theater before the end of the series.  Last night was so great, that IF I had had to fly in from New York to experience seeing “The Killers,” and “Criss Cross,” large, on the “silver screen,” with great S O U N D, I would not hesitate.   That I have this pleasure at the Billy Wilder Theater without needing to get on a plane is truly awe and some.   By the way, the MUSIC! the score for “The Killers,” which drove home the story and was later, purloined by the composers of the Dragnet, television show for that program’s theme, for which there was,  “legal action,” later.  (All this, and more, I learned from listening to the scholar that introduced the two films.)  Understandable because the music was one of the many factors combined which make, “The Killers,” an unforgettable film.

Much Love,

Frau Kolb

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“Noah,” Biblical Dude

Dearest Talkinggrid Regulars,

1 April 2014 -7 April 2014

Here is a meditation on taste… How do you feel about the guilty pleasure of a “BAD,” Movie? Is a “Bad,” movie akin to junk food, a poor substitute to authentic nutrition?

Frau Kolb is a total snob when it comes to films. “Noah,” was G R E A T as a parody of dysfunctional Malibu living. The film’s total lack of respect for the biblical narrative’s gravitas, and the significance of LAW, authority… punishment… all foreign ideas to the Hollywood mind. The film features: two herbal medicine junky parents, on the brink of a great flood… could be menopause or a midlife crisis… regardless the two, are battling. The are “way too stressed,” by the “evil,” meat eaters. Differences in diet, from gluten-free to vegan being an “AWESOME issue,” in California, where this ancient flood takes place in a studio lot and computer chop-chop room, keeping a KOSHER KITCHEN versus an only ORGANIC GARDEN may be a never ending source of Empty Hollywood “D R A M A!”

In Los Angeles, affluent people often shop at Whole foods… which… might fit in an ark… if you drugged the electronic animals… the cast of Noah dressed in anachronistic contemporary classic movie attire, over act their way from one scene to the next flood of bad… evil… greedy trashy leather and hair extensions flaunting, trendy MAD MAX rival sibling… Ruler of the damned, hitching a ride, wounded, inside the cartoon ark, adrift in the middle of a bad plot and stupid invented biblical dribble. The family of surf sipping fashion cast-aways, waiting for “the BIG wave…” The moral of the story: DO NOT MURDER your twin granddaughters! OK, Dude?

Do NOT set up your father to be murdered by your blood lusting uncle. OK??? He will be Shakespearean in his on-stage twitching rage and bristling Anglo-Irish… what is that stupid… oh yeah… another movie packed with longhairs… the one about a lost Ring… cramp. Moral number 15 of the story: keep kosher or dear ol’ god won’t give the snakeskin blessing… wait what? This doesn’t make any sense… well the Old Testament didn’t make a whole lot of sense did it??? Slapped together from yarns, threads, ancient Hebrew, ancient tongues, mysterious… powerful!

Not a JOKE. NOT FUNNY, really.

Noah is supposed to be serious and it really shocked me that I was the only one laughing throughout this farce of a film.

I dig the part about the groovy garden with a tempting tree and handy slithering salesman: SATAN.

noahThe NOAH story told by Hollywood, puts Russell Crow in baggy denim trousers looking the part of a frazzled Los Angeles “off-his-meds,” unstable angry husband/DAD… an overworked father of three, a rushed and post industrial worker transported via lack of historical knowledge to an imagined past… very strange… belching stacks, polluted environment… all very LA NOW. His wife,the dashing Jennifer Connelly, wears the organic hand stitched mantel of plastic trash bags left over from the set of Waterworld, another underwater Hollywood disaster picture, gone way wrong… The hyper unimaginative costume designer got the LOOK of a Prius Driving power-yoga-stressed out- BEACH queen MOM, perpetually aggravated from fighting traffic, on the Pacific Coast Highway, wearing her athletic gear and lambs skin lined bulky flat surf boots, despite claim to be “almost vegan…” yet LOVIN’ Skinny Margaritas… characteristic of the “laid back,” amazingly aggressive and self-centered inhabitants of one of the world’s most exclusive enclaves of wealth… sending out the sun-kissed image of Wind-Whipped Anime hair… too much.

Laughter erupting at the illogical slap-dash raft of a bloated “electronically mastered,” logic challenged, folly… perfect for those that love their entertainment ABSURDLY all Caucasian and without a touch of truth… those that crave twisted, computer animated nonsense… I mean, what is with the talking rocks??? Why do all Hollywood brain busters have to have a giant robot folding over upon itself, a computerized Character, which is sent in to save a floundering script and pointless flick from sinking. Noah, a movie made for those that image prehistory in terms of a simpler time; when wives were, animals, children, and all else were to be subject to a very macho and temperamental LORD; white DUDE.

Happy April FOOL’s Month, to those that, join me in celebrating Hollywood’s power to draw in audiences out of their, presumably, cozy homes to the public view situation of the Movie Palace or Theater… How do they manage to get humans to give up hard earned dollars to see pretty European California pampered brand name faces perform empty renditions of what might be our most sacred religious documents?

Imagine: a BIG WAVE wipes Malibu off the earth and then there is NO MORE TRAFFIC.

Unfortunately, Noah did not have a surfboard strapped to the top of the ark… It would have added extra––spice––to the already hyped-up Hollywood version… after all, they took so many liberties with the established biblical narrative.

An alternate title for the film; “Noah Does Malibu,” and Mel Brooks really must make his own version of this hilarious jazzy Hollywood spun cheap and flashy pimp of biblical electric neon impossibly pretty Douglas Booth… fruity, really… and unbearable acting from the biblical British sounding princess, Emma Watson, with “healing wisdom,” from Wholefoods on Lincoln blvd, this version of Noah is loosely spun upon the biblical patchwork of polyester and acrylic twine costumes.

Humans: we love retelling an old myth… making it resonate with a new audience which doesn’t care that denim did not exist until the late 1800’s and that it is a uniquely American fashion choice. The people of the ancient Greco-Roman world told many versions of the same stories about their mythological heroes.

The fact that denim has become a possible toga for today’s international male, around the world, is testament to the imperialist nature of this nuclear family, we could-all-be-cousins, one family and its adopted sister… and their twin daughters… weird. Yet… perhaps… the film is but a mere joke, a comedy… destined to be erased when the digital libraries fail after the upcoming END of THE World!! ! IF you find yourself laughing at the silly slapstick rendition of the prehistoric manifestation of the miraculous, know that Frau Kolb is not laughing at you, rather with you, in this tenuous case.

Enjoy the “Shadows on the Cave Wall!” and please pass the fake butter flavor on salty GMO pop-corn.

Thank you,

Frau Kolb

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FIVE STAR FILM: THE GRAND HOTEL BUDAPEST: ZUBROWKA

 The Grand Budapest Hotel, New Film Release by Wes Anderson

April 2014

009-the-grand-budapest-hotel-theredlistWe slid into our plush pleather reclining seats having ordered cocktails and potstickers, to be brought by one of the locals. Then we relaxed, laid back, and took a little trip back to another time, in another, powerfully familiar, world. We rode the film’s fantastic train of lacy thought deep into its delicate yet surprisingly un-flighty core of solid historically correct material and manners, which render this film watch-worthy, delightful. A loyal and true, honest and steadfast pleasure; each time gaining speed with a whipping swish, a rumbling, passage, a driving… light rhythm… a refined ride deep into the decidedly slow paced, well knit, lovely crafted, and the earnest surprisingly linear delivery of intimate detail in a period piece set in a gentler… or perhaps NOT so gentle, world at the brink of WAR. There is the marvelously creepy Assassin, nailed by Willem Dafoe and the brutal train stopping paper searching police… A strange, lingering film with haunting hints of berry special… it was, , intoxicating to behold and to take in, to watch the film meander its perfectly planned course… in a subtly homoerotic… a stunning romp through a fantasy Europe of a bristling Germanic Pizzaz, where a friendship between a man, “M. Gustave H., the legendary concierge at a famous European hotel between the wars,” and a boy, Zero Moustafa, binds the twirling sparkling jeweled core of this finely woven blend of fact and fiction, authenticity and originality.

Grand is the cast of the the film, we enjoyed. Short appearances by Bill Murray, Adrien Brody, Jude Law, Lea Seydoux, a solid and sweet performance by Edward Norton as the fastidiously correct official and Master Mind Jail Bird: Harvey Kietel …Saoirse Ronan, is the cake baking bicycle peddling innocent that saves the protagonist from confinement via dexterous baking skills and a passion for the LOBBY BOY, Zero Moustafa.

We have to expect brilliant performances, by eternally resplendent jewel, Anglo-Saxon goddess, Tilda Swilton and (Hyper Refined British Dreamboat) Ralph Fiennes, we sank into a the eye candy sweet confection of a film, perhaps not Anderson’s “finest,” work yet… it maybe… indeed a masterfully crafted piece of film legend, an authentic masterpiece, a genuine glittery jewel of cinematography! I expect it to win every award. It should.

The Grand Budapest is a charming film. It speaks the language of the international elite with a show stopping performance by every ART CHAT and Muse News Reader and commentator… Thank you for stopping by and for checking in and for the steady contributions of significant support.

Just a little whiff of L’Air de Panache; Pure Musk… Ah!

The setting, a nonexistent country east of somewhere in Europe, Zubrowka, “inspired,” or based on the writings of the tragically romantic author and poet, Stefan Zweig, who committed suicide in protest of the war…

Acclaimed English painter: Michael Taylor, created the prop painting at the center of the playful film’s jolly little clockwork perfect plot.

Ralph Feines is unwaveringly dreamy… the perfect concierge, inviting… admittedly… seductive. You understand, the adoration, the admiration, and the respect people feel for the caring, brave, and loyal protagonist.

The Lobby Boy, deftly acted by Tony Revolori, the “helpful,” boy, who travels with Gustave, in the capacity of “Personal Valet,” with a stolen painting… containing a will which… I won’t tell you any more, you really want to see this beautiful light bright and intelligent dazzler, while you can catch it at select theaters NOW.

Tilda Swilton is absolutely amazing. She dazzles the eye and plays the role of a vain as a frail (Thomas Pynchon’s Classic novel, “The Crying of Lot 49,” a la Turns & Taxis… all powerful heiress of an unspeakably vast fortune, mother to the most despicable brat.

(Earlier this week I had the twisted pleasure of seeing a terrible film, “Noah,” and utterly twisted telling of the Old Testament tale. Is nothing sacred?)

The film Noah, depicted the Prophet as a contemporary Malibu Hippie… well, not really but kind of… (read more here).

In the film we return in time to a world someplace on the edge of reason, more polite and correct… yet “Mad,” if a little safe, a cozy classic. The bubbly flows… even the assassin has style… leather clad Monster.

Wes Anderson

The Royal Tenenbaums was the first Wes Anderson film we really fell for. The colors and depiction of a wonderfully quirky blended family, living in a rambling book filled brownstone somewhere posh in Brooklyn… with stories braided within the margins of still deeper and more intricate tales… the prominent other voice in film-making enjoying a long career as one of Hollywood’s best alternate directors, his refined sensibility, always on display and dominating the film’s development. Spinning, dazzling, delicious and sweet this film stands out among the many and yet is not… well, substantial enough… perhaps. Yet, here I am inspired to write about this film in the middle of the night just hours after seeing it.

Protagonist: Gustave, a metro male, a character from in another unwritten, imaginary version of Alfred Hitchcock’s… homage or pillage of the Oriente Express: the train, the pace…the old world elegance teetering on icy cold mountains of traditional notions of what is correct and which is simply… comic relief the cliche of blades and miniature hacksaws baked into exquisite pastry deliciously fits this film to a tea… a little Hitchcock inspired ride through an alternate reality, where the gay and liberal aristocratic spirit that joined artistic, the anarchist, and the refuge in… The BIG PICTURE beauty of Art and its need to be rescue, re-homed, adopted by its, ultimately rightful heir… the picture at the center of the film, that art need not save the world but that it might be a reason for someone otherwise or merely apparently insignificant to muster the courage with which to face life.

Historically astute… pushing all kinds of elevator buttons, taking a ride up and down the frosty hillside, just ahead of the horrible gun toting assassin… AND don’t let me get started on Jeff Goldblum!

Owen Wilson, plays only a minor role… yet, we all know how Frau Kolb feels about Owen… right? Frau Kolb LOVES OWEN… I met him and Wes Anderson, briefly one night at Hals… I sat behind him on a plane to Maui, not long after… I dream of directing O. in a few films… Ah!

Overall: I wish more films would have this delicate honesty and whimsical literate approach. This is a film, I will see again. This is one I will add to my tiny collection of treasured films.