Elizabeth Wurtzel

Yada Yada



Wurtzel’s ‘Bitch’ an uncertain manifesto

By Traci Hukill

IF ELIZABETH WURTZEL’S luck holds, this year’s $64 million pop-culture question will be: Is the cover of Bitch (Doubleday; $23.95), the young author’s feminist follow-up to Prozac Nation, keenly ironic or just a witless attempt at sass? There’s no doubt that it’s a marketing coup. Wurtzel’s svelte, naked babehood (with nipple Photo-shopped out), the manicured hand that lazily flips the reader off, and the bored sneer on her delicate face have won this book unusually widespread attention.

But how those features relate to a philosophy separate from Katie Roiphe’s and Naomi Wolf’s “do-me” style of seduction-as-power-grab feminism remains unclear, muddled by Wurtzel’s intellectual confusion and hyperventilating prose. Wurtzel says that feminism has failed us, or at least got us stuck between an ideological rock and a desirable hard place, but this book’s frustrated rants, uncertain message, and simpering conclusion don’t help to point the way free.

Wurtzel is certainly capable enough. She’s smart, observant, educated, and remarkably adept with language. But she’s grappling with a complex problem–how women can get their emotional needs met without bringing on themselves the wrath of God, the media, men, and other women–armed with a myopic strategy, one too focused on a coterie of starlets and professional brats.

The introduction, “Manufacturing Fascination” (an apparent reference to MIT media critic Noam Chomsky’s Manufacturing Consent), concludes with a thesis statement: “This is a book about women who wrote and write their own operating manuals, written in the hope that the world may someday be a safer place for them, or for us, for all women.”

What follows is a who’s who of history’s bad girls–Delilah, Amy Fisher, Anne Sexton, Courtney Love–their apologies penned by Wurtzel herself, interspersed with stories of victims no less famous than Sylvia Plath, Princess Di, and Nicole Brown. Most are excused for their mistakes, tantrums, and marriages and then molded into examples of how the world punishes “brilliant creatures who shine”– except for Hillary Clinton, whom Wurtzel lambastes for not demanding a salary and for ignoring Bill’s indiscretions. However, the author simultaneously praises her for having “succeeded [at marriage] where so many others have failed or given up or snapped.”

Others–Paula Jones and Pamela Harriman most notably–Wurtzel shreds, and her litmus test for who merits exoneration and who deserves public humiliation defies analysis.

If Wurtzel’s logic suffers unnerving mood swings, her brilliant but manic writing should be committed. Pretentious and obfuscating allusions to history and popular culture, parallel-structure sentences that ramble on for most of a page, too many personal confessions, and a bad habit of prefacing her opinions with the word look, as in “Look, I think many people have rescued themselves from this game,” bespeak the mistaken notion that people are privileged to read her self-absorbed, stream-of-consciousness meandering through difficult intellectual territory.

It’s like having a precocious 13-year-old at the dinner table: She may be clever, she may even be right, but her constant need to interject herself impedes the conversation’s progress.

And that may be the book’s biggest flaw: Wurtzel is annoying. In spite of her astounding mastery of history and her unwillingness to shrink from the truth about where feminism has left women, her voice sounds too young and unseasoned to trust. Even the litany of her naughty escapades–screwing an Italian tattoo artist, snorting heroin, screwing a man twice her age, snorting coke–smacks of smugness, not depth and wealth of experience and sorrow of the sort that makes people speak quietly and honestly.

In the final chapter she lets slip a glimmer of humanitarianism: “And [forgiveness over vengeance] has to be the guiding principle, it is the only chance any of us has for happiness.” But that’s a half page from the end, and the rest of that chapter is Wurtzel dissolving into despair that she’ll be old and unmarried, or else explaining how that would be fine with her–she says both–and so ultimately the forgiveness schtick just seems like so much theater.

Once disciplined and experienced, Wurtzel will be amazing. Until then, readers will need patience and occasionally the help of a good dictionary.

From the June 18-24, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Sustainable Development

Crash Course


Antonin Kartochvil

You don’t need a weatherman … : The founders of the 30-year-old Gaviotas experimental settlement in Colombia have proven the viabilty of sustainable communities.

Can sustainable development put the brakes on environmental smash-up?

By Patrick Sullivan

THE LYRICAL SOUND of a woman’s voice fills the dark forest. Tentative at first, then swelling to a full-throated tune, the song rises up between the branches as a full moon shines overhead. Soon, an angelic aria echoes throughout one of the strangest places on Earth: a South American forest that stands where once, not very long ago, there were only empty acres of sun-baked plains.

Windmills, solar panels, and, most important, a new way of looking at the world have brought thriving life here to one of the harshest places on the planet. That momentous change has been wrought by the small village of Gaviotas, a unique experimental settlement in Colombia dedicated to the creation of a sustainable environmental future. The opera singer, the forest, the potent little town: All figure in Alan Weisman’s magical–but definitely non-fictional–new book, Gaviotas: A Village to Reinvent the World (Chelsea Green; $22.95).

More than mere music is being made in this remote corner of the world–a vision of the future is also taking shape. The issue that Gaviotas confronts head-on is a question with which the whole world is grappling: How can the human race survive and prosper in a world of increasingly obvious environmental limits?

Some folks think that Sonoma County could learn some valuable lessons from the Gaviotas experience–and the insights of other sustainable development theorists. The New College of California is bringing Weisman and several other thinkers and writers to its Santa Rosa campus in coming weeks for a series of talks about development and the environment.

But what, exactly, is sustainable development? The term, after all, is on the lips of nearly everyone these days, from Green Party activists to oil company spokespersons. Are they all really speaking the same language? “The term ‘sustainability’ has been corrupted and co-opted in a lot of ways,” says local environmentalist Susan Hancock. “It obviously does not mean the same thing to everyone.”

Hancock belongs to an organization called Sustainable Sonoma County, formed recently in response to what Hancock believes are disturbing trends. She deplores the development of wild lands, the endless construction of new roads, the growing problems of water scarcity and pollution.

Most environmentalists know what sustainable development is not. But saying what it is, well, there’s the rub. Agreeing on a common vision of our environmental future is tough. Even Hancock says her group is still mulling over their ideas.

One speaker in the New College series believes a consensus about sustainability is more than possible–it’s happening right now. Michael Schuman, author of Going Local (Simon & Schuster; $25), thinks something new looms on the American political horizon. Where others see a huge chasm between environmentalists and business leaders, Schuman sees growing agreement on the perils of the global economy.

“I think that gap is being bridged,” Schuman says. “And it’s being bridged in part by the heads of local chambers of commerce who staked their reputation on going global in the 1980s and who got burned by doing so.”

SCHUMAN’S BOOK, bristling with academic references, portrays the emerging global economy as the greatest threat to our environment. In a world where businesses can relocate at the drop of a hat, local communities plagued by environmental problems often find themselves in a bidding war to relax regulations on air pollution and alternative energy.

Schuman documents a grotesque situation in which American cities become locked in competition with some of the poorest countries for factories that provide jobs and a tax base. For instance, northern Mexico swells with low-wage, high-polluting factories while American cities fill up with the working poor, thrown out of decent jobs by mobile international businesses.

“Any effort to raise labor and environmental standards will get you nowhere unless you deal with the question of ownership,” Schuman says. “If you look at most prescriptions that are put forward by environmental and labor groups, they only deal with the how of production. They don’t deal with who owns the means of production, and that problem is fundamental.”

Hmm … the means of production? In case you’re starting to think Schuman might be a Marxist, think again. “We are basically a country that’s governed by free enterprise,” Schuman says with an air of finality. “And I think free enterprise will either save or destroy this country.”

So what’s the solution? Going Local argues that communities must establish local control over their businesses and their environment. That doesn’t mean government ownership–an idea that makes Schuman nearly shudder with revulsion. It does mean nurturing local entrepreneurs and producing for local consumption. The more firmly a business is based in a community, the more control that community has over the environment.

For an example, Schuman turns to football. As Bay Area fans know quite well, major league teams have enormous clout with local governments. After all, if the team doesn’t get what it wants, there is always a more compliant city around the corner. But there is one pro-football team that will never relocate: the Green Bay Packers. Why not? Because, in a unique arrangement, thousands of Green Bay citizens own stock in the team, with no one owning more than 20 shares. So Wisconsin’s Packers are in Green Bay to stay.

“You’re talking to someone who has never really understood the football mania of this country,” Schuman says with a laugh. “But now I’m a Cheesehead, too.”

From Green Bay, we turn back to Gaviotas. Local control is the name of the game there also, for Gaviotas is not some utopian project sponsored by U.S. environmentalists or set up by the World Bank. This unique village is actually the brainchild of one of Colombia’s most unusual citizens, a man named Paolo Lugari.

The troubled nation of Colombia has a fearsome international reputation. We know it as a place of drugs, violence, and civil war. But somehow, in this seething cauldron, Gaviotas has survived and even prospered. In the 1970s, Lugari had grown tired of working for his government on traditional development projects. He’d fallen in love with the vast landscape of Colombia’s eastern savanna. It was a harsh environment, but Lugari saw it as the perfect place to test new ways of living lightly on the earth.

Now, some 30 years later, Gaviotas has brought profound changes to the area. Lugari’s scientists and thinkers have invented new wells that bring fresh water from deep beneath the earth using only the power of human hands. They have generated power with innovative windmills that harness even the slightest of tropical breezes. They have built a viable community. And they’ve done it all, says Weisman, in a way that might seem very odd to suburban Americans.

“One of the strangest things about Gaviotas is that you almost never hear a machine,” Weisman says. “Sure, sometimes a vehicle will pass through. But most of the time, what you are hearing are the voices of nature– the wind, the rain, the birds.”

All this was accomplished in large measure because Lugari was able to convince many talented Colombians that Gaviotas was an excellent place to invest their creative energy. University students, scientists, engineers, even opera singers took the long, dangerous trip out to this place and helped discover innovative ways to make human settlement possible with minimal environmental impact.

THE RESULT is an oasis of serenity in one of the most violent places on Earth. Even terrifying visits from soldiers and guerrillas cannot disrupt the peace for long. As the rest of Colombia has descended into hellish violence, Weisman says, Gaviotas has remained a place where little children walk down the street alone at night, without fear.

“My god, where on Earth do you ever see that anymore?” Weisman asks. “Where do you see people so absolutely unafraid?”

So, you might be asking, where do we sign up? Is there any chance of another Gaviotas opening around the corner? Weisman sees no reason why similar communities couldn’t exist in Northern California or elsewhere in the United States. In fact, he points to communities like Eco-Village, located near downtown Los Angeles, as examples of other people living out the Gaviotas philosophy.

Convincing governments, however, that they should back the Gaviotas approach has not been easy. But in a world that is coming to question development models that focus on pavement and pesticides, the simple but effective answers provided by this Colombian village look increasingly attractive.

“Is there a better development model out there?” Weisman asks. “I think the answer, provided by Gaviotas, is clearly yes.”

The New College series on sustainability issues continues through Monday, June 29. Alan Weisman speaks on Monday, June 22, at 7:30 p.m. Michael Schuman speaks on Monday, June 29, at 7:30 p.m. Other speakers include Helena Norberg-Hodge, Green Party gubernatorial candidate Dan Hamburg, David Heitmiller, and Jacqueline Blix. All talks take place on the New College of California campus, 99 Sixth St., Santa Rosa. Admission is $3-$5. 568-0112.

From the June 18-24, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Medeski, Martin, & Wood

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Funkin’ Groovin’


Jimmy Katz

Jazzmatazz: Medeski, Martin, & Wood slip into the Mystic Theater.

Medeski, Martin, & Wood play jazz you can dance to

By Bruce Robinson

IF WE GET a basic feel for something,” says Billy Martin, drummer for the funky jazz trio Medeski, Martin, & Wood, “we start to work on a bit of form and shaping it. That can happen in the studio or over a few months on the road. It’s always evolving.

“It’s never written down in detail because we’re always changing the music, trying to express different things.”

That has been apparent from the beginning, as their debut recording, 1992’s Notes from the Underground, served notice that Medeski, Martin, & Wood were ready to include in the group’s musical mix most anything they ever had heard. Elements of funk, hip-hop, blues, avant garde, and rock all melded into an intensely rhythmic stew that immediately won critical attention.

More recently, the band has shown a willingness to go anywhere–even if it means stepping out of the spotlight–to explore those musical interests. After seven years together–during which they have recorded five highly regarded albums (as well as the funky Get Shorty film score), played uncounted club and concert dates, and reaped a trunk full of glowing reviews–Martin, keyboardist John Medeski, and bassist Chris Wood found themselves in an unfamiliar role last fall.

The acclaimed trio sat in as the hand-picked sidemen for celebrated jazz guitarist John Scofield on his recently released A Go-Go (Blue Note).

“John called us up and asked us to play on his next record,” Martin relates, “and we thought it would be a good idea.”

The shift into supporting roles on another artist’s songs and arrangements “wasn’t awkward, it was quite natural, just like getting together with any musician and making music,” he adds. “We were there, trying to help him express his music in our way. It was really just a matter of playing together, rehearsing a little bit, and putting it on tape.”

Though different than their recent collective work, this was nothing new for the threesome. “We grew up playing with people who always put charts in front of us,” Martin shrugs. “We’re all musicians who are eager to play and share ideas with other musicians.”

And that has not changed. In fact, Martin says, he is as open as ever to further outside collaborations. “Anybody who has an interesting story to tell, I would be more than happy to work with them.”

It was that same openness that brought the trio together in the first place. All three were active in the New York-to-New England jazz circuit, and they knew one another by reputation first. “I had heard about John and Chris, they’d heard about me, and we eventually crossed paths and decided to hang out and play,” Martin recalls. “We played and it felt logical, like everything was possible. And we got along as friends, so it was an instant hookup.”

WITH MARTIN’S crisp and varied drumming anchoring Wood’s melodic bass work, and Medeski’s fluid keyboards–especially the fat Hammond B-3 sound–fleshing out the harmonics, the threesome quickly gained a reputation for grafting wide-ranging jazz improvisations onto a deeply funky set of grooves.

And while he is unquestionably the keeper of the beat, Martin insists the creation of the groove is not just his contribution.

“The drummer is always expected to be able to play a good dance beat, which I’m always striving for,” he says, “but the rhythm comes from John and Chris, too.”

So it’s scarcely surprising to hear Martin tick off a list of influences that begins with master jazz drummers like Roy Haynes, Max Roach, and Elvin Jones, but quickly branches out to include Zigaboo Modeliste of the Meters, as well as 20th-century American composers Charles Ives and John Cage. “All that stuff has an influence,” he says. “I hear rhythms and textures and melodies in everything.”

Those omnipresent influences have continued to manifest in Medeski, Martin, & Wood’s recordings, including the forthcoming Combustication, which is due out from Blue Note toward the end of the summer. Unlike their previous disc, Shack-Man, which was cut in the remote Hawaiian studio that inspired its name, the new set was recorded in New York City, and is informed by the urban edge of that environment, as well as the relatively generous amount of time the threesome had to prepare it.

“We spent more time in the studio, using the studio like an instrument to help bring the music to another level,” Martin says. “We experimented a lot more, improvised a lot more. “

As for the new material, “A lot of it is spontaneous compositions,” he explains.

One way the group has stretched its stylistic boundaries is by recording the same set of compositions with two engineers of distinctly differing philosophies. “One had more of a hip-hop approach and the other had more of a chamber music approach,” Martin recalls, contrasting those approaches as “capturing the magic of the moment,” compared with “getting an almost crystal-clear natural sound.”

Somewhat surprisingly, “they ended up sounding pretty cohesive,” he laughs.

With those sessions wrapped, the threesome is back on the road. “Touring is always a priority,” Martin says simply, “because playing live is what we do.”

Medeski, Martin, & Wood perform Tuesday, June 16, at 8 p.m. at the Mystic Theater, 21 Petaluma Blvd. N., Petaluma. Tickets are $18.50. For details, call 765-6665.

From the June 11-17, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Job Hunting Online

Net-Working

The Internet helps take some of the drudgery out of job-hunting

By Rene Iwaszkiewicz

THE PARTY’S OVER. That’s right, smarty-pants. You graduated from college. Now it’s time to get a job and start paying off those student loans, or get off the dole from mom and dad. Lucky for you, today’s job market couldn’t be better.

“The job market for college grads is outstanding,” says Camille Luckenbaugh, director of employment information of the National Association of Colleges and Employers, adding that this year’s grads “very well may be enjoying the best year this decade.”

According to the NACE, the hiring of new graduates is expected to rise 19.1 percent. Now, you could go job-hunting the old-fashioned way: clipping newspaper ads, sending out scads of résumés, and pounding shoe leather. But you’re a child of the ’90s, and you figure that, like everything else, this can be done from the comfort of home by using your computer and the Internet. You’re right … kind of.

For instance, the Internet can help desperate grads track down job listings in another state or worldwide, find information on companies before an interview, exchange information with professionals in another field, allow you to share information with specialty user groups online, and post your résumé on job-search sites, says Susan Epstein, assistant librarian at Florida State University.

“I found it helpful to find out where the jobs were,” says Tara Holt, a graduating senior at the University of Connecticut in Storrs. “You can look through the classified sections of newspapers on the Internet to find jobs nationally, not just in a specific area.”

If used correctly, the Internet also can save time and broaden a job search, says Epstein. The Internet is a plus as well for those whose schedules don’t fit career-service-center hours. Through the Internet, you can locate unusual or hard-to-find information and communicate with people or resource groups in specialized areas. You can also post a résumé on various job-search networks. There are also career service centers on the Internet.

MOST BUSINESSES, for example, now have their own homepages, offering a quick and easy way to learn more about the companies. In addition, most company homepages contain job advertisements listed at the bottom of each site. They also contain e-mail addresses for contact people within a company. Search engines such as Yahoo, Lycos, or Metacrawler can help find homepages for career service sites or company sites by using keywords such as “jobs,” “headhunters,” or company names. Many online career service centers have listings of helpful job-search sites or of links to them.

There are also numerous job-search sites specific to certain groups and professional fields. These sites include job listings, job market projections, résumé and interviewing tips, and even have online experts who can help you define career goals. If one site doesn’t have what you’re looking, there are often links to other sites.

The big question, however, is this: How well do the Internet job-search sites work? Not surprisingly, those with sites on the net tout its successes. In March the Monster Board, an Internet job-search site containing a large interactive database for listing and locating job opportunities, put out a report conducted by the Advertising Research Corporation stating, “One out of every four job seekers who apply for a job through the Monster Board receives a job offer, and those receiving an offer receive an average of three offers each.” The typical visitor to The Monster Board is between the ages of 24 and 49, with an even split between female and male users, and 72 percent have a college degree.

Sites such as JobDirect, which started three years ago in Stamford, Conn., also helps undergrads and graduate students find jobs through the Web, says Rachel Bell, co-founder of JobDirect. The site offers two features: résumé posting and job listing. Once a résumé is posted, the student’s job interests are matched every 24 hours to employers’ requests. So far, students have posted about 80,000 résumés. While the company has no figures on how many students have received jobs through the site, participating companies range from the Peace Corps to Random House and Intel.

Jobtrack is another potentially helpful site for college students and alumni. Jobtrack works with university career centers and employers. Employers send job listings to colleges that are posted online by the campus career centers. Most universities allow students and alumni access to the site by using a password. You specify your search by keywords and place of interest and then send your résumé to the place of your choice. The site also allows you to post your résumé and network with participating alumni.

“I used Jobtrack and sent my résumés to numerous companies in the area,” says Laurie Scata, a ’96 University of Connecticut grad. “I heard from companies and set up interviews.”

Despite its potential benefits, the Internet also can be a waste of time, according to Epstein. “It sounds like you can post your résumé and get jobs, and that’s not the case,” she says, adding that the many of the sites on the Web offer “high expectation and low results.” Because the Internet works like a giant newspaper, it’s important to remember that not everything appears on the Internet.

Information may be dated, and there is no guarantee that posting or sending your résumé is enough. Epstein says job-seekers should still call the companies and talk with the Human Resources Department to make sure a résumé was received and try to set up an interview. She says it’s important to network, talk to people, and inquire about jobs. Many great jobs aren’t advertised, she says, adding that finding information about jobs on the Internet requires time, research, and critical evaluation skills.

“The Web is useless,” says Jeff DuBois, who graduated in 1997. “There’s so much information on the Web it’s difficult to find the information you’re looking for. It’s time-consuming. For psychology or photography, there were no job listings for the Connecticut area on the Web.”

Bottom line, the Internet is only one tool and certainly should not be the only resource used. The Web cannot replace human contact through networking and interviewing. “The best way to find a job is through connections, human connections,” DuBois says. “It’s who you know.”

From the June 11-17, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Charcuterie

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Hog Heaven


Michael Amsler

Porcine palace: Oddly, the pig motif at Charcuterie is just about the only pork you’ll find at this popular Healdsburg eaterie, with the exception of the house-cured pork tenderloin.

Folks pig-out at Charcuterie restaurant

By Paula Harris

OF COURSE, you don’t have to love pigs to enjoy dining at Healdsburg’s Charcuterie restaurant, but it sure would help. The place is a veritable porcine shrine–the corpulent critters are everywhere. There are flying wooden pigs dangling from the ceiling; plump stone pigs keeping guard near the entrance; delicate clay pigs waltzing on their hind legs; and big, solid wrought-iron pigs weighing down the counter.

All this piggy paraphernalia certainly does justice to the restaurant’s moniker. The French word charcuterie can signify either a pork butchery or the delicatessen trade.

Indeed, it is also the word for a French deli.

One recent Sunday at dusk, the popular restaurant lured us in off the Plaza, with a window full of glittering tea lights and a chalk board promising an interesting selection of wines and daily specials.

Inside, the eatery is small and intimate and has the feel of a casual European wine bar. The walls and ceiling are painted a pale shade of pink, like pigskin. The place was busy, so we opted to eat at the cozy counter that seated just two. The counter was decorated with fresh flowers and a basketful of baguettes. It provides a good viewing spot from which to watch the young rosy-cheeked, white-tunic-ed chef clattering sizzling skillets over leaping flames in the tiny kitchen to the left, and spy on the other diners to the right.

The service was a little harried. And while some staff were very friendly and accommodating, our server was impatient and even a bit testy as we leisurely (perhaps too leisurely) perused the menu.

Dinner got off to a great start with the crimini and portobello mushroom fricassee ($7.25). This rich, earthy appetizer featured finely chopped mushrooms heated and ladled into an aromatic heap and was surrounded by crostini (crunchy toasted sourdough baguette rounds). The fricassee also contained generous hunks of garlic, scallions, and bright green ribbons of shredded fresh basil, thyme, and parsley, which made the dish even more satisfying.

Next, we sampled a pair of soups (the day’s specials), which are included in the price of the entrées. The chilled carrot soup with ginger was too thick, reminding us of a veggie smoothie, and, in addition, had an unpleasant metallic aftertaste. The potato leek soup was better, but the seasonings were skimpy and the broth had an overly glutinous consistency.

The Sebastopol salad was a hodgepodge of toasted walnuts, red delicious apples, golden raisins, and crumbles of tangy Gorgonzola cheese over mixed baby greens with a poppy seed dressing ($10.50.) It was pleasant enough, but there seemed to be no real thought behind the combination of tastes. There was just too much going on here.

With a name like Charcuterie we had expected to find all manner of pork items gracing the menu. There’s only one: a house-cured pork tenderloin served with brown sugar and brandy sauce ($15). Several delicate, tender slices of pork lay fanlike across the plate. The dish was accompanied by flavorful, perfectly roasted Yukon Gold potatoes and a handful of crunchy sugar snap peas, which were the essence of freshness. Our one gripe was that the rich brandy sauce topping the pork was overly sweet.

As we cut into our tenderloin, we noticed on the opposite wall several black-and-white close-up photos of piglets reclining in their pen.

WE ATE OUR PORK with downcast eyes and pangs of guilt under an exhibition of snouts and trotters and a farrow of sleeping piggies, with their closed eyes, curly tails, and curvy smiles …

The baked herb-crusted Pacific king salmon with fresh corn chutney, also served with roast potatoes and sugar snap peas ($18.50), had the potential to be moist and buttery, but it arrived undercooked. The whole-kernel corn chutney had a sharp flavor that jarred with the salmon.

We were somewhat solaced by the restaurant’s good spectrum of wines in a variety of price ranges, including end-of-bin offerings, and featuring current releases of local wines and selected wines from other regions. The Rochioli Russian River Valley 1996 Pinot Noir ($35) was pricey but well worth it for this superior wine. It’s a classic pinot–redolent of soft ripe strawberries.

For dessert, we tried the orange rosemary crème caramel ($5), an herbal concoction that was not at all sweet and tasted more like an appetite-enhancing starter than a dessert. Weird.

The lemon pot au crème ($5), however, was delicious: an intense lemon dessert topped with a cloud of whipped cream, served in a deep white bowl, and accompanied by a huge strawberry and a jaunty Russian cigarette-type cookie. Simultaneously refreshing and decadent.

All in all, several of the dishes we sampled could be less heavy-handed, but the atmosphere is upbeat enough to please all but the most staunch oinkophobes.

Charcuterie
335 Healdsburg Ave., Healdsburg; 431-7213
Hours: Open daily: lunch, Monday to Saturday, 11:30 a.m. to 3 p.m.; dinner, Sunday to Thursday, 5:30 to 9:00 p.m.; Friday and Saturday, 5:30 to 9:30 p.m.
Food: French Mediterranean
Service: Inconsistent
Ambiance: Small, intimate; wine bar
Price: Moderate to expensive
Wine list: Good spectrum
Overall: ** (out of 4)

From the June 11-17, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Ann Arbor Film Festival

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Trouble on Tour


Bette AllenHappy face: Sonny Goff mugs with unidentified costar in ‘Don’t Run, Johnny’

Ann Arbor Film Festival hits North Bay

By Patrick Sullivan

THE PANICKED MAN stumbles gracelessly down haunted city streets. Somewhere, an ominous voice cackles gleefully at his feeble attempts to escape his cruel fate. San Francisco indie film maker Tom Brown’s darkly comic take on being diagnosed HIV-positive might be unsettling to those who see nothing funny about AIDS. But bitter experience provided the raw material for the plight of Brown’s protagonist.

“He gets the news over the phone, and that’s the way I was notified,” Brown says with an wry chuckle. “Back then the doctor didn’t bring you in and prep you–he just called me at work and said, ‘I don’t know where you’ll be in three months or three years, but good luck!'”

The resulting short film–Don’t Run, Johnny–is one of the highlights of the upcoming 36th Ann Arbor Film Festival’s visit to the Lark Theatre in Larkspur. The 21 independent and experimental short films on display provide a welcome antidote to Godzilla and the other bloated summer blockbusters now besieging local theaters.

Getting a good short film noticed (or even screened) can be a Herculean task in these troubled times, and opportunities for film buffs to see well-crafted shorts are equally rare. But the touring Ann Arbor Film Festival does its level best to sate short-film hunger all over the country.

Since 1963, Ann Arbor has been providing an accessible alternative to commercial cinema for aspiring and accomplished filmmakers from North America and around the world. As the oldest festival of its kind, Ann Arbor has racked up an impressive list of past participants, including such cinematic notables as Brian DePalma, Andy Warhol, Gus Van Sant, and even George Lucas.

This year, the range of settings and characters is striking. We encounter the ever-changing west Texas sky in Hub City and follow an entrepreneurial small boy’s attempts to rent out his bicycle to neighborhood kids amid the rubble of war-torn Beirut in The Street. We also meet a delusional woman who believes she is the illegitimate daughter of John Wayne and Patsy Kline in Have You Seen Patsy Wayne?

Easily the most disturbing faces featured are people we know all too well. Another San Francisco filmmaker, Jay Rosenblatt, has assembled an intimate history of five of history’s most brutal dictators in his hair-raising Human Remains.

Rosenblatt’s 30-minute work illustrates the banality of evil by presenting historical footage of Hitler, Mao, Stalin, Franco, and Mussolini engaged in such ordinary human activities as sitting down to dinner, complete with historically based dialogue created by Rosenblatt. The film maintains a purposeful (and ominous) absolute silence about the dictators’ public atrocities.

The resulting tension is nearly unbearable, even for the filmmaker, who says that making the film was brutally tough. For three years, Rosenblatt sifted through archival footage and read mountains of historical material about these political mass murderers.

“The experience was very difficult,” Rosenblatt says. “After a while, I just couldn’t stand to look at their faces.”

It’s not all so grim, thank goodness. Young love, fascinating animation, and the sexual politics of romance-novel covers perk the festival up. Playful technique is also in focus here, as in Full Service Automation, in which Darya Farha explores some funky Xerox animation. And Brown’s Don’t Run, Johnny provides a peak comedic experience, with its Ed Wood-inspired atmosphere and gleefully morbid narrator.

But playful or grim, behind these films lies a tough economic reality of blood, sweat, and more sweat. The truth about indie films is that each one requires a deep personal investment from a patient creator. Imaginative financing doesn’t hurt, either. Brown–a self-taught filmmaker who dropped out of high school– finagles the money for his movies by selling spots in credit rolls.

“Our prices have gone up, but on Don’t Run, Johnny we were doing them for $25 a pop,” Brown says. “We’re the only people I know who actually sell crew positions. If they’re not taken, we sell ’em right off. So if anyone wants to be to be gaffer on the next film … “

The grim economics of the industry raise a perennial question: Will independent film survive the titanic stomp of big-budget blockbusters? That no longer seems in doubt–audiences seem more hungry than ever for thoughtful, provocative films. Still, the winners of the Ann Arbor Film Festival do prove that Hollywood is right about one thing: size does matter. But, as it turns out, small is better.

The 36th Ann Arbor Film Festival plays June 16 and 17 at the , 549 Magnolia Ave., Larkspur. Programs 1 and 2 begin at 7 p.m. and Programs 3 and 4 begin at 9:30 p.m. on both days. 415/924-3311.

From the June 11-17, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Marriage of Figaro

0

Merry Melody


Steven Yeager

Randy dandy: William Neely romances Jenni Tenenbaum in ‘Figaro.’

‘Figaro’ hits high note at Cinnabar

By Daedalus Howell

IT TAKES A threesome to make a love child as marvelous as Cinnabar Theater’s The Marriage of Figaro. Climbing nimbly into bed are 18th-century French playwright Pierre Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais, his Austrian contemporary Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and at the apex of this marvelous ménage à trois, the Cinnabar Opera Theater company under the bang-up direction of Cinnabar grandsire Marvin Klebe.

Springing from Donald Pippin’s new translation of the work and guided by music director Nina Shuman, Klebe’s The Marriage of Figaro furnishes an imminently enjoyable second installment in the theater’s ongoing Figaro Fest–a three-year cycle of Beaumarchais’ Figaro-based plays and the operatic works they inspired.

The opera’s labyrinthine plot hinges on an outrageous privilege permitted under ancient feudal law whereby the gentry could choose to usurp the groom’s place in the nuptial chamber when their servants wed. The licentious and conniving Count Almaviva (baritone William Neely) intends to bed maidservant Susanna (soprano Jenni Tenenbaum), who is betrothed to Figaro (bass-baritone Ethan Smith), the lecher’s valet. Figaro, of course, resolves to thwart the count, and there ensues a morass of double-crosses and deceptions that leads to a comic comeuppance.

The tight, topnotch ensemble cast–led by the adroit Smith’s sly, finagling Figaro–has more chemistry than a pharmaceutical lab. Soprano Tenenbaum is a delight as the droll Susanna–she seems to bond on a nearly molecular level with her onstage cronies. Her voice is superbly matched to her role, as is Neely’s to his truculent count, and soprano Eileen Morris’ to her cool countess.

In an ingenious stroke of gender-blind casting, mezzo-soprano Lisa Houston plays the post-adolescent scapegrace Cherubino, a hopelessly romantic young man infatuated with anyone boasting two X chromosomes. Houston’s knack for comic nuance often borders on the sublime, as when, in a Chinese box of acting conundrums, her character must disguise himself as a woman.

Making an impressive debut is young soprano Mikka Bonel as the lovesick Barbarina. Director Klebe, in an Andy Warhol fright wig, plays her father, Antonio the gardener, with cheerful readiness.

Conductor Shuman’s musical acumen is well matched by the eight-piece composite of strings and woodwinds dubbed the “Filarmonico Figaretto.” This taut group performs Mozart’s score with levity and precision.

The finely crafted costumes and economically understated set (well lit by Megan and Bronwen Watt) reflect the shrewd decision to reset the opera in the more practical, less costly fashions of the 19th century. Dressing the upper crust in the manner of the 1700s would have been an exhausting and costly endeavor, as impractical on stage as it was back then in real life.

This production is model operatic theater and, for that matter, a nice blueprint for the perfect soft drink: light, effervescent, and sweet, without a modicum of saccharine. If the Cinnabar could bottle its recipe, the need for arts fundraising would go the way of New Coke.

Bravo! Brava!

Cinnabar Opera Theater’s production of The Marriage of Figaro plays through June 20 at the Cinnabar Theater, 3333 Petaluma Blvd., Petaluma. Fridays and Saturdays at 8 p.m.; Sunday, June 14, at 3 p.m. Tickets are $12 -$18. 763-8920.

From the June 11-17, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Scoop

Atomic Rage

‘The Conqueror’ and other bombs

By Bob Harris

ONE OF THE funniest, strangest, and saddest movies of all time is RKO’s 1956 epic The Conqueror, starring John Wayne, certified American Hero, as … Genghis Khan.

Believe it or not, that’s the sanest part of the movie.

At least John Wayne could ride a horse. The Tartar queen who steals Khan’s heart is played by Susan Hayward, a pale Irish woman with bright red hair. Imagine Nicole Kidman trying to pass for Connie Chung and you’ve pretty much got the idea. Khan’s mother is played by Agnes Moorehead, who went on to play Samantha’s mother on Bewitched. And Genghis Khan’s “blood brother” is played by Pedro Armendariz, a Mexican heartthrob who doesn’t look remotely related to John Wayne or the Mongols.

Bizarre enough? We haven’t even started.

Ever try to cast an entire horde? The producers couldn’t quite come up with several hundred actual Mongolians to ride along as Khan’s rampaging minions, so they hired … a bunch of American Indians.

One of the most jarring moments in the entire film arrives about halfway through, when two actual Chinese guys appear briefly as extras. After a full hour of trying to convince yourself that John Wayne and this weird menagerie of Europeans, Mexicans, and American Indians are all from Mongolia, actual Asians look positively otherworldly.

Given the Cold War politics of 1956, everybody couldn’t exactly fly to Mongolia to film the thing. Instead, they decided to substitute … Utah.

Enamored with Utah’s Snow Canyon area, director Dick Powell shot most of the film in the same exact chunk of the Utah desert. So if you watch closely, there are several spots where Wayne and Armendariz ride some great distance and wearily dismount … almost exactly where they started. Man, it’s fantastic. Trust me. You’ve got to rent this thing sometime. It’s a freakin’ laugh riot.

The Conqueror was such a colossal disaster that RKO never recovered. The Postman and Waterworld were bad, but Kevin Costner still hasn’t wiped out an entire studio. Yet.

THE CONQUEROR was also a disaster in another, much more horrifying way. The town of St. George, where the cast and crew spent much of their time, and Snow Canyon, where most of The Conqueror was filmed, were about 100 miles downwind of the Nevada Test Site. That’s where the U.S. government tested various atomic weapons.

The government didn’t bother to warn anybody about the fallout.

So the cast and crew of The Conqueror spent three solid months subjected to contaminated air, food, and water.

The result?

John Wayne, Susan Hayward, Agnes Moorehead, Dick Powell–all died of cancer; Pedro Armendariz committed suicide while dying of cancer. By 1980, when People magazine did a head count, at least 91 members of the cast and crew had contracted cancer. People never found out how many of the Indian extras were afflicted.

The town of St. George suffered a similar fate. Uninformed of the danger, and exposed in their homes for years instead of months, the residents of St. George eventually contracted cancers in staggering numbers. They were ordinary folks, just like you and me.

And they were expendable.

St. George is now a popular tourist gateway to Bryce Canyon and Zion National parks. Utah’s Web page now refers to St. George as “Utah’s Hot Spot.” Nobody seems to catch the irony.

OK, India and Pakistan have now tested some big big bangs, and everyone’s worried about how their future nuclear stuff might visit all sorts of horror on their enemies. But how about what they’ve already done to some of their own people? India tested its nuclear weapons within literally walking distance from several small villages.

And already hundreds of Indians are showing some of the classic symptoms of radiation poisoning.

Officials say the sick folks are just looking for a handout. Which doesn’t explain why livestock is keeling over as well. Even if Pakistan and India avoid a hot war, innocent casualties of their conflict have already begun to mount. But they’re ordinary folks.

Expendable.

If you or I knowingly, recklessly, and needlessly kill a single innocent person, we then stand guilty of manslaughter and deserving of contempt. Does it not follow that if a government knowingly, recklessly, and needlessly kills an innocent person, or, indeed, hundreds of innocents–in fact, the very people said government is supposed to represent –then this government stands equally guilty and contemptible?

Humankind will someday abolish nuclear weapons.

Or vice versa.

From the June 11-17, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Mountain Play

Leap of Faith


Michael Amsler

Peak experience: Lawrence Pech soars above the half-completed stage at the Vineyard Theater. Behind him, workman continue preparations for the Mountain Play’s upcoming second season in Jack London State Park.

Is Mountain Play in Glen Ellen to stay?

By Patrick Sullivan

BEAUTIFUL, isn’t it?” says dancer Lawrence Pech, gesturing broadly out at the green vineyards rolling away in the distance. The steep slopes of Sonoma Mountain stare impassively back. Jack London State Park is a busy place on this overcast June morning. The bird songs are almost drowned out by the whine of saws and the thump of hammers. Pech smiles cheerfully and takes in the view as he moves with nimble ease among the burly carpenters who are pounding away at the wooden stage rapidly rising off the wet ground of the grassy meadow. A woman out for a hike stares in wide-eyed surprise at the activity.

Both the small army of carpenters and the graceful Pech are part of a massive effort to export Marin’s venerable Mountain Play to Sonoma County. This year marks the second half of an ambitious two-year cultural experiment. Soon the extravagant set of Hello, Dolly! will be trucked north to crown the broad plywood stage taking shape on this damp grass. Then Pech will hit the boards as a featured dancer in the production.

But Jack London State Park is a long way from the 4,000-seat stone amphitheater on top of Mt. Tamalpais. Just how well can this trademark Marin experience expect to fare outside the misty environs of Mt. Tam? Are Sonoma County and the Mountain Play ready for a long-term relationship?

Old age sometimes has rich rewards. For 85 years, the Mountain Play has been staging lavish productions ranging from The Tempest to South Pacific. But in the mid-’90s, the organizers realized they had a problem most theater companies would die for–an overwhelming demand for tickets.

The number of people willing to make the hike up Mt. Tam to the theater overlooking San Francisco Bay mushroomed for many reasons. Some people were attracted by the tradition of community celebration that had built up around the event. Others were drawn by the increasingly spectacular productions, which included such special effects as the airplanes that buzzed the stage last year during South Pacific. This year, the play cost nearly $800,000 to produce, up from $13,000 in the late ’70s. Whatever the draw, the company was turning away teeming crowds of would-be spectators.

“We realized that we were losing 3,000 to 5,000 people a year who would have loved to see the show,” says Marilyn Smith, who has produced the Mountain Play since 1977.

Why not simply add more shows in Marin? Because the production company’s agreement with the state limits them to six performances a season. The only solution was to find another venue, and the company cast its eye north because many audience members in Marin were making the pilgrimage from Sonoma County.

THE MOUNTAIN PLAY organizers are not shy about calling their experiment here a success–so far. Indeed, Pech says ticket sales were so hot that for a time the Sonoma County shows were selling out faster than those in Marin. Moreover, the play has found eager sponsors among local wineries–including Kenwood Winery–which seem anxious to put a local stamp on the production.

But the company also has not made a final decision to return next year, and won’t do so until a Mountain Play Association board meeting in September. It all depends, say the organizers, on how well Hello, Dolly! fares this summer. It seems that one year of sold-out performances is not enough; the Mountain Play wants to be certain it has correctly gauged Sonoma County’s appetite for performing art.

“The best way people can show their interest is to buy up tickets for this year,” says Smith, a bit hopefully. She quickly adds that a special family bargain rate is available for the weekend of July 4–ticket sales have been sluggish for those shows.

A successful season could mean more than just the return of the Mountain Play. A lavish performing arts festival may also be at stake. Pech says his dance company is planning next year to stage a production– tentatively titled “Valley of the Moon Festival of the Performing Arts”–on the same stage the play will leave behind. The production will feature both classical and modern dance, music, and poetry.

“There’s nothing else like it on the West Coast that I’m aware of,” says Pech, whose Glen Ellen home lies just a couple of miles from the park.

But will all this really fly in Sonoma County? Pech– who trained with ballet star Mikhail Baryshnikov–says yes. He thinks the Mountain Play has already demonstrated the area’s growing appetite for the performing arts. He also says he will work hard to impart a local flavor to his production. To that end, he is planning a reading of Jack London’s work at the festival.

“I want to pay homage to London,” says Pech. “I don’t just want to paste us into any old park.”

OF COURSE, the success of the Mountain Play will hinge on more than just the county’s appreciation for the arts. The production must also overcome some of the logistical problems it experienced last year.

Chief among these was a daunting transit snafu. The shuttle buses slated to transport the audience members from off-site parking to the park theater somehow got lost. That left some people waiting on a soccer field behind Sonoma State Hospital for more than hour.

“It was a big stinker,” says Smith with a rueful chuckle. “We can laugh about it now, but it wasn’t too funny then.”

The same bus company is in charge this year, but Smith says this time their directions are clear. New bleachers will also insure a more comfortable experience for taller audience members.

Of course, the larger question is how comfortably the Mountain Play will sit in Sonoma County. Smith and Pech say they are cautiously optimistic about the play’s future here, but nobody is making any promises.

Only time–and ticket sales–will tell.

The Mountain Play’s production of Hello, Dolly! plays June 27 and 28, and July 4, 5, 11, and 12 at the Vineyard Theater in Jack London State Park, Glen Ellen. All shows begin at 5:45 p.m. Tickets are $22/general, $17/seniors and those under 18; children under 3 admitted free. 415/383-1100.

From the June 11-17, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Talking Pictures

0

Sinking Feeling

By David Templeton

In his ongoing quest for the ultimate post-film conversation, David Templeton occasionally gets just plain sick and tired of movies. This week he meets entertainment journalist Paula Parisi–author of a new book on director James Cameron–and attempts to not talk about the blockbuster film Titanic.

While growing up in the ’60s and ’70s, and then through her college years in the early ’80s, entertainment reporter Paula Parisi always viewed herself as a novelist, a creator of fiction, a writer of books. “I became a journalist because it was the only thing I could think of to support myself,” she candidly announces, immediately lighting up in a delighted, disarming grin that morphs into a confident, self-possessed, um … giggle. “I suppose I thought I’d sort of feel my way down the path toward writing books, but then once I started earning a living as a journalist, I got lazy and didn’t pursue creative writing the way I should have. It really took a kick in the butt to get me going.

“And the kick in the butt,” she grins, “was seeing the Titanic looming ahead on the Mexican coastline.”

Apparently, the kick was successful. Parisi–who lives in L.A.–is touring the country to promote her brand new first book, The Titanic and the Making of James Cameron (Newmarket Press; $14.95). In the delightful, compellingly written work, the author who first made a name for herself as a writer for Entertainment Weekly and Wired magazine has capitalized on her longtime fascination with director James Cameron and his fervent, visionary promotion–and often the actual invention–of numerous groundbreaking cinematic technologies. Cameron has come to trust Parisi over the last few years and gave her exclusive access to the set during filming of Titanic. The result is a rather enthralling account of one man–inarguably an intense, egomaniacal man–and his willful drive to accomplish the near-impossible.

Parisi, it turns out, has seen the film–still in the Top 10 after half a year in release–a total of five times, to my six. We decided to skip the movie and go straight to lunch. And who hasn’t hashed over the deeper meanings of Titanic a dozen times already? Sitting down at the table, I secretly wondered how long we could go without directly mentioning the movie itself.

“So,” I remark. “Driving over a dune in Mexico and seeing a massive Edwardian steamship beached on the shore. It sounds like a kick.”

“A kick? It was an epiphany!” Parisi laughs. “Because it was such a startling experience. Having tracked Cameron’s career, I’d been interested in writing a book about him for a while. But when I saw that ship sitting there, I thought, ‘This is extraordinary.’ It was screaming out, ‘This is a story to be told.’

“I mean everybody has ideas, all the time, right?” she goes on. “But how many people have an idea and then can translate it into physical reality, let alone on a scale as vast as the recreation of a steel and wood, 775-foot-long ship , 10 stories tall. It’s hard enough to get simple little things done around the office–get the dishes washed, balance your checkbook, whatever–and here this guy has an idea that must have seemed absurd, and he pushes it through!”

“It seems that the historical tale of the Titanic’s sinking is a story about being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I say. “Your story seems to one of being in the right place at the right time. Who knew Cameron’s brainchild would become the biggest money maker of all time?” Damn. I mentioned it.

“No, I was just in the wrong place long enough that it became the right place by default,” she replies. “I just knew that Cameron was a good story. It boils down to this: If you believe strongly in something, don’t give up. Just stick with it. Don’t let people sway you. That’s the lesson of James Cameron, the man who invented his career by force of sheer will.

“Few of us could get away with walking through life as a dictator, insisting on following your own inner visions and ordering people around. Maybe that’s the difference between being a genius, and being, you know, the rest of us.”

“So the secret to success is what?” I wonder. “Getting in touch with our own inner-megalomaniac?”

“That’s exactly what I did,” she says, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “My husband tried to talk me out of doing the book, because I kind of disappeared while writing it. And I just said, ‘Look! I’m writing this book. If you don’t like it, that’s the end of the marriage. Nothing is going to stop me from writing the book!

“And in a way I was sort of play acting what I thought James Cameron would do. The thing is, once you get a little taste of it, you have the courage to go one step further. I began threatening to steamroll anyone who got in my way.

“And it worked!” she shouts. “All the way down the line. People just got out of my way. Eventually I had to pull back, of course. Because you know what? It’s incredibly draining to go through life with that kind of attitude. And truthfully, it was only play acting. I was faking it. And I don’t know if it would have worked long term. If I’d used the inner megalomaniac approach as a rule-of-thumb, I would have destroyed my marriage.”

“Cameron himself has a hard time staying married, doesn’t he?” I mention, referring to his recent split with fourth wife Linda Hamilton.

“And now I know why,” Parisi nods. “He doesn’t pull back. He’s like Superman or something. That’s how he lives his life.

“As useful as that may in making a movie like Titanic,” she adds, “there are times when you have to calm down and just be human.”

From the June 11-17, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

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