Full Speed Ahead

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12.05.07

H oly bejeezus, Matilda! Strap on those boogie shoes and get outta the house, ’cause it’s a helluva weekend, this one. How to choose? Flip a candy cane . . .

Over in Point Reyes there’s Peppermint Twisted , a holiday cabaret party and burlesque show with gal-pals Miss Coconuts, Bombshell Betty and Pinky Pfeiff-a-dero (above) delivering “mild irreverence and unapologetic sentimentality” through music, va-va-voom clown balloons and good ol’ tease-o-rama. Juxtaposed against the rough, splintered yokes and rusted stirrups spiked against the walls, a lil’ bit of skin should be lookin’ especially soft. (Friday, Dec. 7, at the Old Western Saloon, 11201 Hwy. 1, Point Reyes Station. 9pm. $6.) . . .

The Fab Four get a thorough croaking-over courtesy of your own angelic throat at the Beatles Sing-Along with Mr. Music and friends, who ask attendees to dress “as your favorite Beatles character”—Lovely Rita G&C Meter Beater, perchance? (Friday, Dec. 7, at Subud Hall, 234 Hutchins Ave., Sebastopol. 8pm. $10.) . . .

Crabalocker fishwives! Pornographic priestesses! Might as well syncopate it trio-style with Beatlejazz , who distill from the deep well of largely post- Revolver jams eloquent Keith Jarrett&–esque meditations. You’ve seen Across the Universe ? It’s like that, without the gaudy cheeriness. (Friday, Dec. 7, at the Ledson Lounge, 480 E. First St., Sonoma. 7pm. $25.) . . .

Time is tight when soul legend Booker T. Jones splays his frenzied fingers across the booming B-3 in Nicasio, and there’re about 5,000 worse ways to spend a Thursday night, ain’t there? (Dec. 6 at Rancho Nicasio, 1 Old Rancheria Road, Nicasio; dinner reservations required. $35.) . . .

The get-down rock ‘n’ roll of the Supersuckers steamrolls everything in its path on the way to Hollywood’s Viper Room, including just one shitkickin’ show in the Bay Area. (Dec. 11 at 19 Broadway Niteclub, 19 Broadway, Fairfax. 9:30pm. $18&–$20.) . . .

The Mystik Journeymen , no longer slangin’ tapes on street corners, drop some living-legend rhymes over early-MPC beats with Jesus-friendly rapper Pigeon John in P-town. (Saturday, Dec. 8, at the Phoenix Theater, 201 E. Washington St., Petaluma. 8pm. $17.) . . .

Balkans, unite! Greece and Albania, stand up and be honked at! Bellies, ukuleles and harps all get raucous when the Eastern-European flavors of the Brass Menazeri rollick into town. Didja miss ’em at the Glendi food fair? Didja miss ’em at San Francisco City Hall? Miss ’em no more, my friend, ’cause they’ll put those boogie shoes to fine use while things get chest-nutty around here these next couple weeks. (Saturday, Dec. 8, at the Sebastiani Theatre, 476 First St. E., Sonoma. 2pm. $10&–$17.)


High Tea

12.05.07

W estern Sonoma County residents may have noticed a new mural going up in the town of Sebastopol. Arched around the doorways of a warehouse off Highway 12—one of those slated for eventual tear-down and massive reconstruction, according to the controversial northeast plan for re-developing downtown Sebastopol—the newly added rainforest scene arches gracefully around the entrance to Guayakí Yerba Mate, which will soon boast the North Bay’s first exclusively maté bar. Yerba maté, a hot drink made from dried leaves and twigs of a holly plant native to subtropical South America, has a slight caffeine kick and is the preferred social beverage of that part of the world, kind of a natural Starbucks of the jungle.

Guayakí Yerba Mate, a company created by Alex Pryor and David Karr as their senior project at Cal Poly back in 1996, boasts organic, fair-trade, shade-grown yerba maté. CEO Chris Mann meets with me at the processing plant, which is located in the warehouse behind the planned maté bar, and gives me a tour that proves to be a lesson in history and horticulture as much as it is on the benefits of cultivating a taste for what many consider to be one of the healthiest teas on the market.

I’ve been a casual maté drinker for about 13 years, ever since a beloved roommate came back from a surf trip to Argentina with a maté habit so intense he never went anywhere without his gourd (the traditional drinking receptacle, often shared among friends), bombilla (a metal straw also traditional to the drink), a bag of maté and a thermos of hot water. His influence has never worn off, though I usually just brew mine like the American isolationist I am—alone and in a cup.

As Mann and I stroll though the Guayakí compound, past the tasting room and down into the storage facility that houses, literally, tons of organic maté, he enlightens me regarding the history of maté and why, by buying Guayakí products, I am not just keeping myself off coffee for one more day but am inadvertently participating in the successful reforestation of Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay.

Yerba maté is harvested from a relatively small tree by rainforest standards. The maté tree reaches only 70 to 80 feet and grows under the canopy of the rainforest. This is what it means to be “shade-grown.” Mann tells me that in South America, where maté is considered a staple of daily life, there are over 400 different brands of it, and almost all is sun-grown. When the Jesuits came to Paraguay, they took it upon themselves to oversee all maté production and use it for commerce on their own behalf. Rainforests were clear-cut, and maté was grown in the sun. The land could now be fenced, production increased and the workers properly oppressed.

The time of the Jesuits may have passed, but because more and more farmers are turning out of desperation to clear-cutting their land to run cattle or grow soy, Guayakí has stepped in to provide a vital economic driver for native farmers and indigenous peoples to use in returning to shade-grown maté for commerce. Cofounder Alex Pryor, a native of Argentina, has returned to South America, where he is able to monitor their projects directly and ensure that rather than just “giving and leaving” as Mann puts it, Guayakí is able to make a lasting difference in both the quality of the lives of the indigenous peoples and the preservation of the continent’s most precious world resource, the rainforests.

I’ve been aware of yerba maté’s medicinal and energizing properties for a long time, but until now I never stopped to consider the difference that I, as a consumer, could make by such a seemingly simple decision as what tea to drink. According to Guayakí statistics, if I drink two cups of its maté per day, I will be protecting an acre of rainforest for a year. This is a good feeling, very much in contrast with my usual seemingly inevitable participation in the earth’s decay.

I leave the Guayakí warehouse pleased that I have managed, by chance and circumstance, to stumble on to such a sustainable habit so many years ago, when I would share a gourd of maté with my roommate with no thought of rainforests or carbon footprints, simply enjoying the camaraderie of the moment.

For more information or to order some Guayakí Yerba Mate, go to www.Guayakí.com.


Wedding Crasher

12.05.07

F unny. Critics endorse the tough, realistic qualities of the physical violence in No Country for Old Men, but they turn pale-faced at the emotional violence of Margot at the Wedding . “Why should we spend time in the company of such horrible people?” asked writers who had happily watched Chigurh the killer knock in all those skulls.

The titular antiheroine of Margot at the Wedding is the kind of drastically bad mother we have all encountered somewhere along the line. During an overcast spring weekend somewhere near Long Island, Margot (Nicole Kidman) and her sister, Pauline (Jennifer Jason Leigh), wash, fold and iron several years’ worth of dirty laundry.

It’s wedding bells for Pauline, who is getting hitched in her backyard, partially for money reasons. The groom, Malcolm (Jack Black), has neither a job nor ambition. A former minor-league rock musician, Malcolm is now more interested in writing beautifully crafted letters to the editors of magazines. The early spring weather isn’t too good. Neither is the neighborhood. The neighbors are truculent, trash-throwing rednecks with violent tempers.

Margot and her young son, Claude (Zane Pais), arrive from Manhattan for the weekend. Margot is a published short-story writer. Her slightly exalted status in the world masks a violent inability to cope.

Over the course of the weekend, Margot’s soon-to-be ex-husband (John Turturro) drops in for a visit, and she gives a public reading at a bookstore and has a fine public meltdown. And eventually, Margot renders her judgment on Malcolm: he’s completely unsuited for her sister.

Coincidentally, the plot resembles that of Knocked Up, complete with vindictive sister-in-law, pregnant bride and slacker husband-to-be. But where Knocked Up went for easy, TV-level laughs, Margot‘s director and writer Noah Baumbach worms his way into the motives of all the wedding guests.

Baumbach’s method is a Nouvelle Vague—style of carving scenes down to a series of abrupt sharp moments. This constant whittling causes confusion. The too-dim, natural-light photography leaves some of the faces shadowed, and the minor characters never really pop out.

Dark as the screen is, Baumbach does a good job of illuminating the kind of self-pity that leads to impotence. And he’s made a prime comedy about violently clueless sophisticates. Why should we pay attention to them? Well, they’re funny, for one thing, even if their behavior is so bad.

David Denby in The New Yorker magazine castigates Baumbach for not letting us know whether Margot has merit as a writer or not. (Of course she has merit, David, she’s been published in The New Yorker.) In Margot’s view, her status excuses her trespasses, and she has as much respect for boundaries as a coyote. I admire Baumbach for taking it off the table; it’s immaterial whether Margot is a genius or just another modish, small-fry literati.

There is a clue, though; if Margot really knew herself, she wouldn’t be so easily unmasked. All it takes to melt her down is a little simple literary analysis by a fellow writer. (The more openly arrogant novelist is played by Ciaran Hinds.) As in The Squid and the Whale, Baumbach excels at depicting the hostilities of the literary world, the rivalries, snobberies and scrabbling for small handholds of status.

Baumbach takes two actresses who pride themselves on ominousness, rigor and tension, and he gives them loose, fresh roles. Kidman and Leigh enjoy themselves for a change. It’s been a while since we’ve seen Leigh’s witchy grin, widening as her Pauline figures out a good way to pay her sister back for her snobbery.

It’s been longer since we’ve seen Kidman tempering her uncanniness with a dry tomboy humor. I think this is Kidman’s most thoroughly watchable performance, even if the role of Margot won’t be a popular part. Audiences rarely forgive a mother who gives her child a hard time. And the son she alternately kisses and rakes is a very touching and vulnerable kid.

Margot at the Wedding is a harsh movie, more urgent and more wicked than Baumbach’s last. The final 15 minutes seem out of control, even badly cut, as the group leaves the island and gets caught up on the mainland. However, the shrewd finale has it both ways without being spineless. Margot’s clingy maternal side is just as bad as her startlingly narcissistic side.

And there’s a real victory of love and forgiveness in this picture—a small sweet triumph salted by Black’s almost Lucille Ball—worthy scene of comic weeping. It’s a humane movie after all. Baumbach favors emotional breakthroughs over the brutal honesty and clarity Margot thinks that she alone possesses.

‘Margot at the Wedding’ opens at select North Bay theaters on Friday, Dec. 7.


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Grown-Up Alert!

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12.05.07

North Bay movie-lovers, long-time fans of the great Frank Langella (above) and everyone following the career of the actress who played Claire Fisher in Six Feet Under (the marvelous Lauren Ambrose), will get a chance to see what happens when two great actors share screen time in an intelligent art-house drama about love, loss and literature. Writer-director Andrew Wagner will be in Wine Country—downtown Healdsburg, to be exact—on Wednesday, Dec. 12, for a very special Hollywood-style cocktail party, movie screening and after-show dinner, served up by the same folks who bring us the annual Sonoma Valley Film Festival. The film, Starting Out in the Evening, has been praised by Rolling Stone as sure-fire Oscar bait for Langella and Ambrose. The story follows a fading novelist whose grief after the death of his wife is complicated, and somewhat assuaged, by the appearance of a luminous young grad student, eager for an interview with a literary giant. Hey, it could happen. The pre-screening reception (starting at 5pm) and the after-show dinner will both be held at the beautiful Hotel Healdsburg, with the screening of the movie scheduled to begin at 6:30pm at the Raven Film Center. The dinner begins at 9pm. Cost for the reception and screening is $25, with the dinner (featuring gourmet food and great wines) is priced at $150, which includes the reception and movie. For details, call 707.933.2601.


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Unbound Sound

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12.05.07


T he rumbling shakes the floor and the sneakers of 30 or so people taking in the vibrations. The flyers said this band was from Portland, but the bizarre, rambling singer, at the end of a freeform spoken-word poem, announces that they’re from Colorado. They sound like they’re from outer space.

This is what it’s come to: shows in old sheds like this one. Shows in barns, in living rooms, in garages, in abandoned buildings and on empty docks. This is the thriving underground in an age when legitimate clubs seem to get shut down left and right, when the sanctity of Wine Country supercedes the communal nourishment of its offspring. The cops are sure to come and break this night up—we’re only on band number three of a six-band bill here—but no one seems concerned. What do you say to the cops, anyway?

The band’s plunged into a groove of organ-pedal bass, growling fuzz and Thelonious Monk&–like piano soloing. Finally, heads are nodding. You get the feeling that they’re making it up on the spot, whatever “it” is. You’re certainly not gonna hear it on the latest iPod commercial, and you may never hear anything like it again, unless you move to Portland or Colorado or outer space.

This morning, we all read the front-page news about another nightclub faced with closure by the city of Santa Rosa. Too many problems, the city says. The club promises to water down its drinks and quit playing hyphy, and as pathetic as that kind of pleading sounds, it probably won’t help anyway.

But for years, the story’s been the same: the most creative music bubbles in young circles, and young circles will always build a new boat for themselves when the helm is taken away. It’s an inspiration to see resourceful action like tonight, and with so much processed, auto-tuned garbage passed off as popular music these days, this immediate, spontaneous music is a breath of fresh air.

I almost lived in this house 10 years ago, looking for a place with a girlfriend, but it was a couple hundred bucks out of our range. We wound up living in the country instead, which was heaven, and then the suburbs, which was hell enough to kill us off for good. But I always remembered this address as the house that could have been. I’d like to think that she’d be excited about tonight. About jazz-funk bands playing in what should have been our garage back when rent was still cheap.

The band’s done and there’s an electric milling about. People talk in excited tones about Charles Mingus, Sonny Sharrock and Gunther Schuller. Somehow, I get cornered into a lunatic conversation about underground L.A. hip-hop that starts with the Freestyle Fellowship and spirals into some other galaxy. Turns out the band was from Portland after all—they’re called Watery Graves. I buy a couple records from their stand, a table with LPs and cassettes. No CDs—a sign of the times.

Later: Nik Proctor and Guy Henry are playing, passing a red Rickenbacker back and forth, swapping songs for the late-night faithful. Ever know someone for years and never know just how unique and talented they are? These songs, they’re unlike anything I’ve ever heard—fingerpicked in upside-down patterns, strangely phrased and beautifully eerie. Nik sings a surreal song about corn dogs, hospital genocide, supermarket aisles and getting laid, and Guy slyly counters with a pensive number about bacon, Sasquatch, drugs and clogged veins—touché.

Back and forth, each song more magnetizing than the last, people screaming their heads off after each quiet little tune like they’re at a Van Halen concert. Guy’s mom is even here from Minnesota, probably totally confused and maybe, hopefully, a little bit proud. It wouldn’t be until the next day I’d find out why she was in town.

Guy Henry, spending his wedding night in a cold, dark shed, playing music to the wife he married just that same morning—now that’s awesome.

The show’s over too soon, and my fingers freeze as I ride my bike home, but my heart is warmed. Nights like these keep ever-looming bitterness at bay, reminding me that even in Santa Rosa, there’s always some fresh, captivating music bubbling somewhere beneath the surface. You just gotta catch it while you can. Like the girl who lives there told me tonight: the backyard shed is slated to become a five-story luxury condo building sometime next year.

The Watery Graves are at www.marriagerecs.com. Nik Proctor can be found at www.myspace.com/eucalypocalypse. Guy Henry can be found at www.myspace.com/lowfiveguyhenry.


Letters to the Editor

11.28.07

Tape heads, unite!

Gabe Meline’s article (“Dolby Days,” Nov. 21) brought me back to those wonderful days when big hair looked great on the ladies (and some of the guys, too) and spandex and leather ruled!

I was in one of those bands that Gabe had mentioned (thanks for the props), and sometimes yearn for those days when there seemed to be a club to play on every corner.

Yes, Gabe, you hit it dead on!

We recorded our demo tapes at Banquet Studios in Santa Rosa, had Geoff Thorp (of Vicious Rumors) produce us, flyered the hell out of every town we played thanks to the copy machine at the place I used to work and were on our way to the big time.

Fifteen years after we disbanded, I will still, on occasion, listen to our demo tapes, remember the good old days, think of all the fun we had and wonder most of all: How the hell did we disregard that damn hissing noise that cassette tapes make?

Mark Oleson (ICE)Rohnert Park

Still persecuted

p>I am appalled by the actions of the district attorney in this matter (“Torturous Geometry,” Nov. 21). “David” is a friend and brother to all the nations, he represents the ongoing attitude still evident after all these years of persecution of the American natives of this land. I feel that making him testify would cause undo harm both to his mental and spiritual life. We have seen the way that people seem to forget how much the natives of this land have had to endure; the system is always against us and we strive to better our lives, yet we are met with hostility and prejudice. We as a people have not been evident in the media. Other minorities seem to have a bigger voice—the term “the squeaky wheel gets the grease” comes to mind—and so we still suffer at the hands of the ignorant and those who place their race above all others, not to mention the local and state governments. We must all try to have our voices heard. He should be exempt from having to testify.

Leesa Miranda Gomez, Proud Apache WomanSanta Rosa

DiFi sell-out

Coming into this century, after Bush was appointed . . . er, I mean, elected president, I can remember thinking that at least we here in Northern California had still chosen our representatives carefully.

Even Dianne Feinstein (Briefs, “Message for Feinstein,” Nov. 21) stood up for the principles that made this country run so well since our forefathers drafted their plan for how a country should be operated. You know, of the people, for the people, and by the people.

I am still quite pleased with the representatives we have here in Northern California. Except it would seem as though Dianne Feinstein likes “the Plan for a New American Century” better than the old one that had worked so well for over 200 years. Can you say “sold-out”? I knew that you could.

Marc GroahHealdsburg

Love the food you eat

Most of us have limited knowledge of how animals are raised for our food. Factory-farmed pigs and laying hens are destined to live out their lives in unnatural, unhealthy, intensively confined crates.

Picture a pregnant pig, as intelligent as a dog, confined for months at a time, in its confined world. That world is a 2-by-6-foot crate, not large enough even to turn around, lie down comfortably or simply to allow the animal to scratch herself. Picture egg-laying hens living their lives in a space smaller than an 8-by-11-inch sheet of paper, never able to spread their wings.

I wholeheartedly believe that the vast majority of people who eat meat would prefer that these animals live a decent existence before they head for their plate. I believe that if a person knew that they could end some of this suffering, they would, especially if it were easy for them to do so. That chance is now before us to make changes to significantly reduce the suffering of these animals. For more information on how to help, please visit www.humanecalifornia.org .

Lois Shelton, Compassionate-Carnivores.orgSanta Rosa


Boozy Joy

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11.28.07

 

I spied it the other day, proof positive that fruitcake is coming back in fashion. Oh, it wasn”t called fruitcake. It was called Torta della Frutta, and it was made by a company called Gianna’s. But I wasn’t fooled. Especially after I picked it up and felt its solemn, solid weight. Oh yes, this was fruitcake, all right.

It’s about time. It’s been a long spell of jokes about how there’s only one fruitcake in the world that just keeps getting passed around. For decades, we in the know have been smiling politely at the alleged witticisms about how fruitcake makes a good doorstop or how dangerous it is to drop one on your foot.

But savvy saveurs know better. We shun green cherries as the unnatural abominations they are, we understand that “macerate” has nothing to do with chewing or self-abuse, we candy our own lemon and orange peel and we know better than to squander the fruits and nuts of our labor on Philistine palates that can’t appreciate the subtler flavors. Fruitcakes are elegant, costly, labor-intensive creations that, properly made, evoke the very soul of luxurious abundance, well-spiced richness and boozy joy. Making one is an exercise in craftsmanship and, like making your own pie crust, is a satisfying foray into the overlapping territory between cooking and self-righteousness. What’s not to love about that?

If you’re up to the challenge, here are some things to know:

— Start now. This is an important part of fruitcake construction: you must plan ahead, like the frontier women. You want to give your cakes ample time to age in liquor, to let their flavors mellow. As those saintly Rombauer women tell us in The Joy of Cooking, “When [these cakes] are well-saturated with alcoholic liquors, which raise the spirits and keep down mold . . . they have been enjoyed as long as 25 years after baking.” That must require foresight.

— Pick a recipe that calls for a lot of eggs. The richer the batter, the better the cake.

— Real fruitcake has nothing to do with those $2.99 plastic tubs of radioactive fruit that appear on display tables in the produce section each October. Those are only good for reminding you that it’s time to head to the health food store and spend some serious cash on organic dried fruits and delicious nuts.

— The fruit and nut mixture is very important. My personal favorites: prunes, apricots, figs, candied ginger (in polite quantities), pineapple, pecans, hazelnuts and Missouri black walnuts. Avoid raisins and currants; in my opinion, they make the cake taste scorched. If you have a recipe that calls for citron or candied cherries, just substitute real dried fruit pound for pound—fearlessly.

— It is worth it to candy your own lemon and orange or tangerine peel. This is done by blanching the peel repeatedly, starting with cold water each time, until it looses its bitterness, then adding two parts water and one part sugar to the peel and cooking it down to a syrup.

— Spare the hooch, spoil the cake. The best recipes call for macerating (that’s Latin for “soaking”) the chopped fruit and nuts in alcohol for a good 24 hours before baking the cake. In my experience, brandy, cognac and rum go with everything; bourbon is really distinctive. Some people use wine or port. Whatever you pick, you’ll also brush the cake with it once a week, which means you’ll probably drink it at least that often, so make sure it’s something you like.

— After you’ve liquored up the fruit and nuts, make a decadent batter using real butter and some interesting bouquet of spices and flavorings (possibilities include espresso, cardamom, cloves, almond extract and even rosewater). Mix it all together, pour it into wax paper-lined tube, bundt, loaf or mini-loaf pans, and bake the suckers at a low temperature with a shallow pan of water in the bottom of the oven to keep them from drying out over the long baking time.

— Take the cakes out, let them cool, brush them with booze, wrap them up, brush them with booze again once a week until Christmas—et voilà.

Happy friends, happy cook. And no more stupid fruitcake jokes.

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Nouveau Marketing

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New World Attitude: Savvy French vintners, looking at U.S. sales, make fun of themselves.

By Alastair Bland

In America, we’re all aware that the mighty French know everything and more when it comes to the subject of making, selling and drinking wine. However, in the south of France, many winemakers, eager for new business prospects, are at last lightening up as they look humbly west.

Historically a producer of less than glamorous wines on a surplus scale, the Languedoc province has begun in the past five years to shift its focus toward boosting the quality of its wine and spreading the word to Americans, especially as national consumption of wine across France declines. The change of tack has been most pronounced among those who make wines classified as Vin de Pays d’Oc, or “country wine from the Languedoc.”

These vintners have largely abandoned the stodgy French traditions of winemaking and pursued marketing angles far less intimidating and more attractive for American consumers. Their tactics include instituting greater quality control, altering their winemaking techniques, like opting for simpler blends, and trying out fun labeling ideas. Some producers, for example, have adopted brand names like “French Rabbit,” “Fat Bastard,” “Red Bicyclette,” “Arrogant Frog” and other symbols evocative of a very stereotyped France. Americans are tickled. We’re taking the bait, and it tastes good.

Vin de Pays represents a denomination of French wines two steps down from the regal Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée (AOC) status and one step up from Vin de la Table, or “table wine,” which is often produced in backyards and enjoyed from household to household. Vin de Pays, like other grades of wine, is produced throughout France. No one chooses to make Vin de Pays. The government simply declares a plot of land as excellent, good, not quite as good and even less good. Vin de Pays is, theoretically, the not-quite-as-good wine, but at $9 to $15 a bottle, most casual consumers in the United States consider this a fine value.

Many of Languedoc’s Vin de Pays vintners have taken aim at American wine drinkers as a promising consumer base in the worldwide market, and most of the bottles are entirely free of the complicated flurries of extra vowels and silent consonants that clutter so many French wine bottles and leave English speakers scratching their heads in the supermarket aisle, wondering what the devil all that stuff is supposed to mean.

The front label of Thierry and Guy’s Fat Bastard Chardonnay, for example, bears just one French word—”Chardonnay”—for if there’s one thing that an American wine drinker wants, it’s a good old-fashioned varietal.

“[The varietal] is part of Americans’ reference and what they look for when they look at a wine label,” said Brigitte Barreiro, marketing representative for Domaines Paul Mas, which produces Arrogant Frog wines. “The varietal is a very important element of the label. Look at Sideways—it is all about Pinot Noir and the Merlot.'”

Even within France, marketing styles are evolving as wine consumers collectively grow less knowledgeable of wine regions and the finer attributes of quality. Whereas wine labels and supermarket aisles have traditionally been organized by the terroir, the area, the history and the estate, new and simpler tactics are coming into play.

“Our wine board for Vins de Pays d’Oc is beginning to advertise the wines according to their aromatics,” says Barreiro. “This is quite new in France.”

Arrogant Frog’s label also represents another brand-new yet increasingly popular approach among French producers in connecting with their consumers, says Barreiro, who pronounces the phrase flatly: “Auto-derision.” The bottle features an illustration of a dapper frog in a purple beret and sport coat, clutching a wine glass, leaning on a cane and sneering at the shopper. He’s a slimy-looking dude, and he’s irresistible. It’s a joke that Americans and Britons are likely to enjoy—important to consider when the French wine market seems to be waning.

“There is big concern about the decrease in consumption in France, and our [government] is making stricter and stricter laws, which encourage the lower consumption,” says Barreiro. “Wine is more and more presented as a drug, an addiction, a threat and not as enjoyment, sharing, culture and health.

“As we do not market our wines in France, we are not as worried as many producers can be,” she continues. “But many others are trying to market their wines abroad, and in many cases this requires a product adaptation to compensate for this loss.”

Meanwhile, the Languedoc became France’s newest AOC on May 3, 2007, and the region’s AOC vintners have gone straight to the consumer to help them find their legs and rise quickly into the serious economy of world-class wines. But first, the Languedoc vintners held an experimental tasting among themselves, sampling 150 bestselling red wines from around the world with the objective of classifying them and breaking the wines down into categories.

In the end, they discerned four distinct prototypes: One, a blend of 40 percent Carignan, 30 percent Syrah and 30 percent Grenache, is fruity, fresh and supple. The next, 70 percent Syrah and 30 percent Grenache, is fruity and lively. The third prototype is half Syrah and equal parts Grenache and Carignan, and carries a concentrated, well-structured black fruit profile. And the last is 60 percent Syrah and 40 percent Grenache: ripe, fruity, toasty and fat.

A consumer survey followed. One hundred wine drinkers in Chicago, 100 in London and 100 more in Paris sampled the four Languedoc prototypes. Overall results suggest they enjoyed the wines, while their more detailed comments and opinions will guide the Languedoc’s AOC vintners in developing blends and labels that appeal to these consumers. The survey marks a sharp turn in upscale and often pretentious French wine marketing methods; it was the first time ever that an AOC inquired with its targeted consumer base before styling its wines.

Two tiers below, among Vin de Pays d’Oc vintners, many wineries are making the shift toward the humorous, light-hearted approach to connecting with consumers in America. “Take a wine on the wild side,” jests the company motto of Wild Pig winery. Red Bicyclette’s says, “The French wine that speaks your language.” And Arrogant Frog’s declares, “Old World wines with New World attitude.”

“The ‘New World attitude,'” explains Arrogant Frog winemaker Jean-Claude Mas, “is an attitude which consists of listening to our customers and understanding their needs, and adapting our wines. This is not very common, even nowadays, in France, but things are changing, especially in the Languedoc.

“‘Arrogant Frog’ is a way to say to the consumers that, contrary to most of the French producer-focused wine, we have made a wine by listening to the consumers and moved away from the traditional French producer-focused approach, which basically says, ‘Taste that wine; if you don’t like it, it’s because you don’t know anything about wines.'”

Certainly, the times are changing as many south of Languedoc vintners in all denominations of quality alter their tactics of business. And in spite of the pompous amphibian, it appears that the French days of arrogance, so infamous, may be coming at last to an end.



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Death Wishes

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11.28.07

WITH ALL this mincing holiday talk of malevolent toys and war in Iran and U.C. fee hikes, some of us just want a little luxury around the holidays. (Some of us also deserve to be well and roundly slapped.) But for those who don’t want to pronounce “quinoa” when at table or for whom that extra lap around the track just ain’t worth it or for whom cotton has ugly, frugal connotations, we herewith offer our shortlist of once-a-year stuff to die for.

Deadly Sin Artisanal foie gras from Sonoma Saveur

KILLER APP The velvety, fleeting taste and texture of this rich delicacy can, depending on mood, make it seem reasonable to eat large stout slices of it, discarding any thought of arteries (see: clogging), heart (see: stopping) or tummy (see: growing).

WHY IT’S WORTH DYING FOR This rich delicacy is so controversial that owners Guillermo and Junny Gonzalez finally had to close their Northern California storefront due to threats on their very lives from animal rights activists. Their free-range ducks are raised in the traditional French manner and are treated with the highest standard of humane treatment. While, yes, the animals are force-fed, it’s important to remember that ducks ha0ve no gag reflex and that their throats are naturally flexible, making them able to swallow large fish in order to survive in the wild.

But forget all the PETA crap. What we’re after here is consuming enough melting calories of pure duck foie gras—seared and napped with a lovely cherry chutney, spread fresh over toast points or even tucked naughtily into a fresh-ground kobe burger—that just simply keeling over onto a bite-free plate is worth it.

Artisan Foie Gras retails online for $50 a pound, a “lobe” (try not to think of liver’s physical geometry) typically weighing 1.3 to 2 pounds. Each tablespoon of the stuff has about 60 calories, only nine of which do not emanate from the goodness of adipose. Artisan Foie Gras also sells rendered duck fat by the pound for a mere $6.50, and if you haven’t yet had your fries Frenched in hot duck fat, you are not indeed ready to keel onto a bite-free plate. www.artisanfoiegras.com.

Deadly Sin Homemade absinthe

KILLER APP There’s never a better time to die like a 19th-century poet—mad and frothing and bitter and young and beautiful and stained a slight greenish hue—than during a Bush administration. Taken in thoughtful amounts, chances are even you won’t. Best of all, it’s illegal.

WHY IT’S WORTH DYING FOR Homemade absinthe is quite the rage among those who live slightly off the grid in tree-heavy areas, or who just like to boil shit up while muttering, “Wormwood, wormwood,” à la Hamlet. The flavor of homemade absinthe, particularly when distilled by someone who understands herbology, is only slightly medicinal and deeply layered, beginning with the light green hyssop of new grass and descending on the palate through the entire green catalog until one comes face-to-face with the storied fairy. The effect of a small glass of it cut with sparkling mineral water and enlivened with pure white sugar is like having a tiny hit from a pot pipe. Lawd knows you can still cook dinner or do the laundry, but sitting in a chair gazing up at all of those off-the-grid trees is the preferred ingestion position.Homemade absinthe requires a small home still (the Internet is lousy with directions on building your own or purchasing from those mad cats in Kentucky), high-proof alcohol like Everclear or Bacardi and such herbs as fennel, anise seed, lemon balm, hyssop and wormwood. Instructables.com offers detailed directions replete with images of what your homemade Romantic Poet Swill should look like as you go; it also displays the skull and crossbones symbol when it gets to the point where this stuff mixes with fire. The very online Ms. Jekyll (find her at absinthe.msjekyll.com) gives recipes and lore as well as a curious recurring image of a beautiful woman in too much green eye makeup with a butterfly on her lips. Homemade limoncello is so last year. This year, give ’em a blast of Byron. Best of all, it’s illegal.

Deadly Sin Cashmere bathrobe

KILLER APP When one’s clean naked body is entirely swathed in loomed goat’s throat hair (yes, the highest quality comes from the goat’s throat, a terrific brand name), it’s extremely difficult to subsequently put on Lycra items or those warm-up clothes fashioned from recycled liter bottles and go exercise. Indeed, once the cashmere is on, it’s rare that it comes off—particularly as it’s so expensive to clean. You risk atrophying entirely while wearing it.

WHY IT’S WORTH DYING FOR We’re pricing these babies out in the mid-$400s full-price and “on sale” online in the mid-$200s, but what’s money? It never bothered Napoleon, who reportedly gave his second wife, the Empress Eugenie, some 17 cashmere pieces during their marriage. Not only did the woman live to be 94 (obviously he never gave her a robe), but her great elegance and wool-clad beauty so moved the groundskeeper at England’s Bournemouth gardens that he lit her way to the healing waters each night with a trail of small candles, a tradition that still occurs each summer for women wearing far less goat’s throat loom.

If we were buying these in real life and forever forswearing exercise and “career casual,” we’d toy with purchasing from the pashmina emporia otherwise known as www.boutiquejewels.com.

Deadly Sin Bonsai

KILLER APP This is a plant that you control by shaping with wire and cutters, denying its full horticultural potential at every turn and yet, if you do everything perfectly—tending and shaping and cutting and denying—it’ll outlive you by a good century. The irony, the karma, the full-circle joke alone is priceless.

WHY IT’S WORTH DYING FOR We hope that we’re not the first to break the news, but you are going to die anyway. Spending meditative time forcing nature itself to your own petty will has proven to extend life spans enormously. Plus, with bonsai, there’s so much to argue about! The categories, the technique, the masters … the list is endless. Discretionary income can just sluice from your hands as you tend to and acquire new bonsai, all of which—we labor to repeat—will flourish directly on your grave.

So why not get all your friends a-clipping? Bonsaiboy.com out of New York starts its unusual 48-year-old neri elm at $800, with a mere $95 needed to ship the thing cross-country. But a starter kit, replete with its own 3-year-old juniper just aching for soil, is a mere $24.95.

Bonsai folks go nuts about bonsai but tend to do it in that way that mild cult members go nuts: with clear, steady eyes, glowing skin and genuine smiles revealing well-cleaned teeth. That’s a positive. The inevitable compulsion to exhibit at the county fair is an easily tolerated negative.

Because it won’t, after all, kill you.


Family Feud

11.28.07

HIS winter carries the usual heavy cargo of oversize emotions, love that lasts through many lifetimes, noble wars, dead wives, dead husbands, dead children: the dark end of the year’s rich, fatty cinema. And yet the biggest surprise of the holiday movie season, which keeps on giving well into the new year, may turn out to be something relatively lean: a French cartoon. (Remember, opening dates are always subject to the whims of distributors.)

Persepolis (Jan. 11) represents a huge improvement on Marjane Satrapi’s popular graphic novel about growing up in Iran. The animation revives the power of UPA Studio’s work from the 1950s and demonstrates the graphic power of extreme blacks and whites, simple forms and two dimensions.

Satrapi’s work was a bestseller for many reasons. The bluntest one is that she makes the complex subject of Iran in the 20th century completely understandable to self-obssessed American young people. The princessy, very Westernized narrator learns that self-willed blindness isn’t enough to protect you, and ultimately, Satrapi’s book memorializes her grandmother.

But the holiday’s other high points offer a fiesta of toxic families. The best of them, Atonement (Dec. 7 in S.F., expands Dec. 14), is the exact opposite of Merchant-Ivory. This compelling, unusually flexible and intimate epic is drawn from a slightly intractable Ian McEwan novel. The spur of action is a little girl’s willful malice. Because of her storytelling, she forever blights the happiness of her elder sister, played by Keira Knightley at her most glamorous and attenuated best as an art-deco English lady. The film links two vastly different plots: a scandal at an English manor house in the 1930s, and the unpleasantness at Dunkirk, May 1940. Director Joe Wright’s show-stopping scenes of the Big War are extraordinary. They look like a combination of Alfonso Cuarón’s tracking shot in Children of Men, the art of Belgian symbolist James Ensor and a good dose of Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights.

Speaking of dangerous sisters, Margot at the Wedding (Dec. 7 locally) boasts two of them. In the new film by Noah (The Squid and the Whale) Baumbach, ulterior motives are in play as two very estranged sisters (Nicole Kidman and Jennifer Jason Leigh) reunite at Leigh’s nuptials to a bristly and porky oaf (Jack Black, as hilariously good as he was in High Fidelity). Talented newcomer Zane Pais plays the adolescent son Kidman smothers halfway to Oedipusland. This film will appeal to those who can stand unadulterated rancor.

The lean Australian Kidman also stars in the franchise-starter The Golden Compass (Dec. 7), based on Philip Pullman’s trilogy of novels about an alternative England shadowed by a vast and ruthless conspiracy: a church in the books, a “Magisterium” in the no doubt more God-fearing movie.

The Philip Seymour Hoffman/Laura Linney vehicle The Savages (Dec. 25) is sweeter than Margot, though good and mean and bleak. It chronicles the Sideways-style bitterness of the brother and sister, twin failures yoked into dealing with their ornery, senescent father (Philip Bosco). They stash him in a nursing home called Valley View, probably because there is no view and no valley. The soundtrack (in which Brecht and Weill’s “Solomon Song” figures prominently) is even better than Wes Anderson’s eclectic music programming for The Darjeeling Limited.

There Will Be Blood (Dec. 26 limited, expands Jan. 4) is Paul Thomas Anderson’s much anticipated drama of Cain and Abel&–worthy strife between brothers in the Texas oil fields, with Daniel Day-Lewis as a moral-free tycoon.

The Perfect Holiday (Dec. 12) has a little girl petitioning Santa for a husband for her momma. Lance Rivera (The Cookout) directs. The advance word on Juno (Dec. 21) is rapt. Stripper-turned-writer Diablo Cody came up with a pregnant teen trying to find the perfect family for her baby; Ellen Page (Hard Candy) plays the pregnant teen; Jason Reitman of Thank You for Smoking directs.

Something I can vouch for is the first-rate horror film The Orphanage (Dec. 28 limited, expands Jan. 4), an elegant Spanish screw-turner that proposes that her child’s death is only the beginning of a mom’s worries.

The Kite Runner (Dec. 14) has strife between two young Afghan men, one who has joined the Taliban. For further family feuding, admittedly among a family of rodents, we get the resurrection of Alvin and the Chipmunks (Dec. 14) in time for their annual source of royalties, “Christmas, Christmas.”

Awake (Nov. 30) is a horror film about a man paralyzed yet conscious during heart surgery. Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story (Dec. 21) features John C. Reilly and director Jake Kasdan parodying Walk the Line and a whole lot of other musical biopics. The Walker (Dec. 14) is Paul Schrader’s newest. Woody Harrelson plays a gay escort from Washington, D.C., working the wealthy crone trade.

In National Treasure: The Book of Secrets (Dec. 21), Nicolas Cage seeks the missing 18 pages of John Wilkes Booth’s diary in order to clear the name of a relative who was supposedly in on the Lincoln assassination; trailers suggest a larger conspiracy, too huge for Lyndon LaRouche even. Charlie Wilson’s War (Dec. 25) stars Tom Hanks as the ex-Texas politician who helped bankroll the Afghan rebellion against the Soviet invaders. It’s heavy on the opera bouffe politics—the late Mollie Ivins, who knew Wilson, said the source material is like a cross between Tom Clancy and a Flashman adventure. Unfortunately, like the book, the movie looks negligent on the part of how Wilson and his other commie-busters gave the Taliban their start in life.

When you think of communists vs. Taliban, it’s a natural jump to Aliens vs. Predator—Requiem (Dec. 25), a gift for people who would rather avoid anything that smells like Christmas whatsoever. Similar bloody-mindedness occurs in two other films: Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (Dec. 21), Tim Burton’s Victorian fantasia with Johnny Depp as the avenger/baker. Truly, it is the first cannibal-themed musical since, eh, Cannibal! The Musical. On a much gentler level The Water Horse: Legend of the Deep (Dec. 25) is Jay Russell’s CGI cartoon about a boy who befriends a Loch Ness Monster look-alike.

It’s a tragedy to be alone for the holidays, as Will Smith learns the hard way in I Am Legend (Dec. 14). Fortunately, this unhappy last man on earth has some surprise guests to cheer him up: an army of unstoppable vampires.

Rather be drained from the tear ducts instead of the neck? The rom-tradges P.S., I Love You (Dec. 21) and The Bucket List (Dec. 25 limited release) have a common source, one imagines: those self-help books that list the things to do before you perish. In the former, Hilary Swank is led around on a journey to Ireland by her demised Irish squeeze. Must be a Celtic cross between Ghost and Once. This plot was a tear-siphon back in the days of the TV movie Sunshine, where John Denver’s ballads got the audience in the proper mood for it; My Life Without Me did it again. A thick-enough soundtrack of Irish keening might liquefy the audience.

The latter, The Bucket List, is a geriatric bromance helmed by Rob Reiner: as men without much time left, ornery Jack Nicholson and angelic Morgan Freeman take care of that list of things they wanted to do before they kicked the bucket.

Dec. 21 (limited release) brings us The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, Julian Schnabel’s true story of a paralyzed man unable to communicate except with the blinking of one eye. The Great Debaters (Dec. 25) has Denzel Washington as a legendary debating coach who rallied a small Texas school to beat the best of the Ivy League. If you haven’t been softened enough, Grace Is Gone (Dec. 14) deals, in neorealist style, with the tragedy of the patriotic father of two children (John Cusack) whose wife perished fighting in Iraq. Buy a ticket, or the terrorists have already won.


Full Speed Ahead

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12.05.07F unny. Critics endorse the tough, realistic qualities of the physical violence in No Country for Old Men, but they turn pale-faced at the emotional violence of Margot at the Wedding . "Why should we spend time in the company of such horrible people?" asked writers who had happily watched Chigurh the killer knock in all those skulls. The...

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12.05.07North Bay movie-lovers, long-time fans of the great Frank Langella (above) and everyone following the career of the actress who played Claire Fisher in Six Feet Under (the marvelous Lauren Ambrose), will get a chance to see what happens when two great actors share screen time in an intelligent art-house drama about love, loss and literature. Writer-director Andrew Wagner...

Unbound Sound

12.05.07T he rumbling shakes the floor and the sneakers of 30 or so people taking in the vibrations. The flyers said this band was from Portland, but the bizarre, rambling singer, at the end of a freeform spoken-word poem, announces that they're from Colorado. They sound like they're from outer space.This is what it's come to: shows in old...

Letters to the Editor

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11.28.07  I spied it the other day, proof positive that fruitcake is coming back in fashion. Oh, it wasn"t called fruitcake. It was called Torta della Frutta, and it was made by a company called Gianna's. But I wasn't fooled. Especially after I picked it up and felt its solemn, solid weight. Oh yes, this was...

Nouveau Marketing

New World Attitude: Savvy French vintners, looking at U.S. sales, make fun of...

Death Wishes

11.28.07WITH ALL this mincing holiday talk of malevolent toys and war in Iran and U.C. fee hikes, some of us just want a little luxury around the holidays. (Some of us also deserve to be well and roundly slapped.) But for those who don't want to pronounce "quinoa" when at table or for whom that extra lap around the...

Family Feud

11.28.07 HIS winter carries the usual heavy cargo of oversize emotions, love that lasts through many lifetimes, noble wars, dead wives, dead husbands, dead children: the dark end of the year's rich, fatty cinema. And yet the biggest surprise of the holiday movie season, which keeps on giving well into the new year, may turn out to be...
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