Jew Eat Yet?

Top Ten Los Angeles Treats

I’ve been racing the clock on some big work deadlines and need to spend every waking moment plowing through manuscripts—so what better time to drop everything and write a frivolous post about my favorite L.A. foods? I recently wrote a short article for a gourmet food magazine and loved doing it but I can’t be anywhere near as opinionated in a national magazine as I can here. And since I’m trying to avoid most of these L.A. delicacies in an attempt to control my aging metabolism which has slowed to glacial levels, writing about ten of my favorite foods in this city gives me great vicarious pleasure. So here is my short list, off the top of my head and in no special order, of some local delights you may want to check out on your next visit to the City of Angels.

1. Bob’s Coffee & Donuts

This Farmers Market hangout is an institution in L.A. and serves some of the best donuts in southern California (I like the coconut, maple, or chocolate raised). Also a superb cup of nutty fresh-brewed joe (get the two-cup “hottle” which costs far less than the slop served at Starbucks). Farmers Market is one of my primary daily hangouts, thanks to the free wireless Internet connection and an ambiance that hasn’t changed much since the place opened in the 1930s. Bob’s is nestled in the southern corner, in between Patsy D’Amore’s Pizza (see the framed photos of Patsy with his pal Frank Sinatra on the set of “Guys and Dolls”) and Bennett’s Ice Cream (try the hand-dipped chocolate-covered frozen bananas or the fresh peach ice cream you can watch them make). This area attracts the full diversity of the Farmers Market scene: the regulars such as director Paul Mazursky who holds court every morning at the same table with his group of writer friends eating Bob’s Donuts, as well as a motley group of locals, busloads of tourists, and visitors from the CBS studios next door including hordes of “Price Is Right” wannabes still wearing their “Come On Down!” name badges.

2. Apple Pan Hamburger

The best hamburger in L.A. This is a simple wholesome affair, not one of those insanely overpriced “gourmet” burgers popping up everywhere loaded with high-ticket toppings such as carmelized shallots and white truffle shavings. This tiny counter-only restaurant on Pico, just a block east of Westwood, hasn’t changed its menu in decades. The same two guys have been working that counter since the Truman administration, and late at night you’ll find an interesting mix of movie stars, rockers, and regular folk. Get the hickory burger with Tillamook cheese and an order of hand-cut fries. If you haven’t had to call the paramedics yet or go on anti-cholesterol medication, try the apple pie a la mode—they use a vanilla ice cream with an obscene amount of butterfat. I love the owners of this place because they have steadfastly refused to sell their business to developers now that this area has become prime real estate. As a result, gigantic buildings engulf the Apple Pan from all sides, such as the Westside Pavilion and the new Landmark Theatre complex, but the little shack remains exactly where it's been since it opened its doors in 1949.

3. Pinkberry Frozen Yogurt

Ready for something healthier after all that grease? Try L.A.’s latest obsessive food craze. We go to the oh-so-trendy Pinkberry stores on Larchmont, Melrose & La Brea, or the Los Feliz outlet on Vermont. Parking is so congested near some of these stores that Pinkberry has picked up the slogan, “the taste that launched a thousand parking tickets!” I usually avoid trendy items like this since I loathe jumping on any cultural bandwagon, especially one started by this town’s anorexic twentysomething glitterati, but I have to admit I’m hooked. There are only two flavors, regular and green tea, and it has a tangy, real yogurt taste, very different from the stuff we've been calling frozen yogurt for years. Beware that this crack for the masses doesn’t come cheap (almost five bucks for a medium with fresh fruit toppings) but that doesn’t stop any of the Pinkberry enthusiasts. Honestly, sometimes I think there IS an addictive drug in the product—the first time I tasted it I found it odd and unpleasant. 24 hours later, my eyes were rolling back into my head and I was moaning “Must. Have. Pinkberry.” Leah eats it plain, I like mine with raspberries, blueberries, and a bit of granola for crunch. Remember that “Seinfeld” epsidode where everyone was eating gallons of this new nonfat frozen yogurt because it was so good and then they find out that each serving had like a thousand calories? Part of me prays for something like that to happen with Pinkberry, just to hear the collective screams go up from the store’s emaciated hipster denizens. Is that mean? There's a Pinkberry store opening up inside Farmers Market in a few weeks. Now that's just wrong.

4. DuPar’s French Toast

Let’s get back to my people—the overstressed overweight pasty-faced folks with no visible abs whose sexual fantasies often involve plates of DuPars French Toast. This Farmers Market restaurant takes plain old white bread, soaks it in a heavenly egg mixture until the bread is completely saturated, and then fries it up in copious amounts of butter until it calls out for you like the Sirens of the Seven Seas. Evil stuff, especially if you don’t tell them to hold the extra clarified butter and powdered sugar, but so freaking good. DuPar’s pillow-soft pancakes are also an orgasmic delight, and I’m not even a pancake man. You really can’t go wrong at breakfast time, but…um…avoid lunches and dinners at DuPar’s if you know what’s good for you.

5. Soft-Boiled Eggs at Le Pain Quotidien

Feeling more upscale this morning? Have a hankering to sit at a communal table with Oscar-nominated celebrities? Head over to the Beverly Hills franchise of this Belgian chain for some yummy organic soft-boiled eggs, a large latte served in a huge bowl, and breads that are so delicious and rich that you will want to hurl your DuPar’s French Toast to make more room (just stop by Pinkberry and ask the patrons for some purging tips). Funny how you don’t see soft-boiled eggs on many menus. This was a regular breakfast item in my house growing up and we had a special device that guillotined off the top of the egg, releasing a rich golden orange lake of liquid yolk. Le Pain Quotidien knows how to soft boil an egg perfectly—cook them too long and they are like hard-boiled eggs gone bad, not long enough and you feel like you’re eating a chicken’s late-term abortion. Don't forgot to spread globs of the restaurant's signature hazelnut spread on your freshly baked bread. Branches of this restaurant are opening up all over town but the Beverly Hills outlet on Little Santa Monica is still the best for eavesdropping (I’ve recounted several of the horrifying conversations I’ve heard there on this blog). I’ll be decent and not name the celebrities who are regulars. Let’s just say that one movie star/author who always sits at the same table had two very famous parents. No, it’s not Carrie Fisher or Liza Minnelli, but all three of their moms were good friends at MGM.

6. El Cholo Green Corn Tamales

Yikes, could I be more of a boring white boy with this list? L.A. is known for its ethnic delicacies and there are so many of them that I love, but hey, I said these were the first ten things that popped into my head so forgive me for being about as ethnically diverse as Dick Cheney’s weekend hunting parties. Still, I have to include one of our neighborhood hotspots, the wonderful and always crowded El Cholo on Western Avenue, just above Pico. All their food is fantastic, but my favorite is the green corn tamales that are only sold between May and October. On May 1, there is a line circling the block of customers desperate to eat the first batch of these little squares of heaven. The sweet corn mixture combined with the tanginess of sharp cheddar and strips of peppers—¡Ay, caramba! The crowd at El Cholo is the most diverse and friendly group you'll ever find in L.A.—if only this restaurant were a microcosm of Los Angeles life. If you’re up for it, order the lethal margaritas, or go on Mondays to hear the roving mariachi band.

7. Phillipe’s French Dip Sandwich

Another L.A. landmark that deserves all the acclaim it gets. This is the 1908 downtown eatery (across the street from the gorgeous Union Station on Alameda) that claims it invented the French Dip in 1918 when owner Philippe Mathieu accidentally dropped the French roll he was using for a sandwich into a roasting pan full of hot juices. Instead of grabbing a new roll, he served the sandwich to a hungry patron—et voilà, the rest is history! I love all the food here, from the various French-dipped sandwiches (order the beef sandwich with their own killer hot mustard or the scrumptious lamb with blue cheese on top) to the great cole slaw, macaroni salad, or pickled beets (take a pass on the scary pickled eggs). Don’t forget the homemade baked apples, to-die-for coconut cream pie, and a perfect cup of coffee that still costs only nine cents. You heard me, NINE CENTS! You can’t afford not to eat here!

8. Pretzel Croissants from City Bakery

Okay, this isn’t really fair for this list because it’s purely a New York item, but when the famed Union Square City Bakery opened up a spacious new branch recently at the Brentwood Country Mart near San Vicente and 26th, a whole new twelve-step group was born in southern California. “Hi, my name is Danny and I’m addicted to pretzel croissants.” “Hi, Danny!” Oh dear God, the first time you taste one of these things you will FREAK. I don’t even know how to describe it: the soft, sweet, flakey texture of a traditional croissant combined with the saltiness and hint of density of a great pretzel. Thank God I don’t live anywhere near Brentwood or I might have to visit this establishment three times a day and watch my waistline take on the girth of Lower Manhattan. The rest of the food at City Bakery is outstanding, organic, and unusual—all laid out in a trendy-to-the-max salad bar (not your grandmother’s smorgasbord, believe me!). Oh, and if they’re out of the pretzel croissants, you don’t have to kill yourself—just migrate to the Melted Chocolate Cookies and make plans to join your second 12-step group in a month.

9. Susina Croissants

What? More croissants? Am I insane? Is my inner Francophile coming out? Am I being unduly influenced by my French ex-wife or half-French daughter? I can’t not mention this wonderful (non-French) bakery and restaurant on Beverly near La Brea which is my other main hangout thanks to the Internet access that everyone pilfers from the Starbucks directly next door. The croissants at this place are the real thing, they taste as authentic as the ones from my favorite boulangerie across the street from the Louvre. I also favor the tomato croissant and the delectable polenta raspberry scones. This is one of the most beautiful bakeries you’ll ever see, and you can’t go wrong with any of the gorgeous cakes, pies, or tarts. They also serve delicious grilled paninis (Leah loves the brie and pear) and they sell an eclectic selection of gourmet treats from around the world including $15 chocolate bars decorated with real edible flowers. This is a writers’ and celebrity hangout as well and owner Jenna Turner is extremely nice to us Macbook users who sit there all day nursing our loose-leaf peppermint tea and scones (although she did just eliminate 2/3 of the electrical outlets we were hoarding—it is a business after all!).

10. Al Gelato Rigatoni

This one is also a little dicey for my L.A. list since Al Gelato is a Chicago transplant. The restaurant used to be on North Avenue when I lived there but the entire half-Italian half-Irish family moved here about the same time I did 21 years ago and have been serving their homey meals on Robertson a few blocks south of Wilshire ever since. Yeah, the gelato is out of this world (my favorites are crème brulee and coconut) but in my opinion the regular food is the real ticket. The rigatoni with Mama’s homemade sauce is unbelievable. Add a meatball the size of a baby’s head and some of their freshly baked bread and you will think you’ve emigrated to Italy by way of Chicago’s south side. My mouth is watering just thinking about their salad with its balsamic dressing I have never been able to duplicate at home. The owner knows all of us former Chicagoans and if we want to take our microscopic leftovers home she’ll add a whole other serving to the container and an entire loaf of bread.

Oh dammit, I’ve been so good all week and now I’m starving for every single item I just mentioned. I’m actually writing this from a table right in front of Bob’s Donuts and at the moment am surrounded by a gaggle of girls who just came from the American Girl store at the Grove and are trying to feed their overpriced dolls bits of pink-frosted kitty-shaped donuts. At another table a young Latina nanny was sitting with her crying Hancock Park charge a few minutes ago when an old man at the table next to her let out with a ferocious roar and screamed at her on the top of his lungs to “shut her fucking baby up!” In a move worthy of Errol Flynn, the owner of Bob’s Donuts (who also owns a great fresh seafood store in Farmers Market) sprinted over the counter and ran to the woman’s defense. The mean guy was asked to leave and the super-nice employees of Bob’s and Patsy’s Pizza comforted the shaken woman. We have our crazies, but we are one big happy family here at Farmers Market. I say we all celebrate with a donut!

You Can’t Stop the Beat!

My family and I spent the last two nights surrounded by hundreds of screaming gay men. No, we weren’t at a bar in West Hollywood, we were just out at the movies. Thursday night we went to the singalong “Dreamgirls” at the outdoor John Anson Ford Theatre in the Hollywood Hills. Writer/director Bill Condon introduced the film (which contained subtitles for all of the song lyrics—as if everyone in that audience didn’t know all the words by heart!) and brought out special guest Loretta Devine who was the original Lorell in the 1982 play (and was the only original cast member to have a brief cameo in the film version). The crowd went wild when Devine sang Lorell’s big number “Ain’t No Party,” a great song that was cut from the film.

Part of me loves the camaraderie and fun of these singalong movies we go to (we’ve been to a bunch of them over the years including “The Sound of Music,” “Mary Poppins,” and “Chicago”) but another part of me always wants to tell everyone to just shut up and listen to the real singers. Not the best attitude for a singalong, huh? Thursday night’s crowd was particularly boisterous, and since alcohol is allowed to flow freely at the John Anson Ford, some of the guys got progressively more wild as the evening wore on. By the time Jennifer Hudson nailed “And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going,” there were shirtless men running up and down the aisles, fake microphones in hand, writhing in ecstasy to Effie White’s every gesture. At other movie singalongs, the crowd can be a little timid, reluctant to raise their voices for fear of drowning out the actors. No fears of this at the “Dreamgirls” celebration. The people behind us were singing so loudly that I could barely hear Eddie Murphy “steppin’ to the bad side.” The management responded to the din by raising the volume of the film to such a deafening level that my ears are still ringing 48 hours later. Leah was keeping tally of how many bottles of wine were being consumed by the pierced, tattooed man in front of us who was mirroring all of Beyoncé’s dance movements and at that point probably thought he was Beyoncé. Oy, I realize I’m painting the kind of stereotyped picture of gay events that feeds right into the agendas of right-wing homophobes who want everyone to believe that the gay lifestyle is one big debauchery fest. It’s not, of course, but let’s face it—a singalong screening of “Dreamgirls” is not the place where anyone is going to hide his inner flamboyancy under a bushel. The evening was a blast but by the time we streamed out of the theatre I felt like I needed to spend a week in a sensory deprivation tank.

But instead of immersing ourselves in quiet repose, last night found us at the Arclight Cinemas for the opening day screening of the frenetic “Hairspray,” the movie version of the Broadway musical that was based on the original 1988 John Waters film starring Ricki Lake as chubby Tracy Turnblad and the late crossdressing actor Divine as Tracy’s mother Edna. “Hairspray” was John Waters’ first foray into the mainstream, the first time one of his movies wasn’t Rated R or X. Although I think the Broadway musical and new film are great fun, each incarnation of this story loses some of the grittiness of the original. While all three ventures focus on race relations in the early 60s and the attempts by Tracy and others to integrate the all-white Corny Collins Show, an American Banstand-like teen dance show, the new film is a little too “nice.”

The only bona fide racists in the film are TV station manager Velma Von Tussle, played by Michelle Pfeiffer, resplendent in teased blond hair, blue eye shadow, and white lipstick, along with deeply repressed Prudy Pingleton, played by a twitching Allison Janney. The rest of Baltimore seems pretty far removed from the racial tensions of 1962 America. Sure, black children aren’t allowed to dance on the Corny Collin Show except for the once-a-month “Negro Day,” and true, the African-American kids at Tracy’s public high school seem to end up in detention quite a bit, but the stakes really don’t seem very high for anyone in this film. Okay, I get it, this is a musical depicting a fantasy cotton candy version of early 60s Baltimore, not a civil rights documentary. But here’s my beef. I truly believe they could have kept all the fun, great music, and parody while still conveying a more accurate picture of what the real struggle was like (as the original film did much more effectively). I worry that all the young kids flocking to this film to see teen idols Zac Efron (as Tracy’s hunky love interest Link Larkin) and Amanda Bynes (Tracy’s lollipop-sucking best friend Penny Pingleton who longs to have a black boyfriend and become a “checkerboard girl”) will leave the theatre with the terribly skewed impression that the civil rights movement was about a TV show, was led by a white girl, and came to a very happy non-violent conclusion in early 1962.

That said, the film is a joy to watch. Newcomer Nikki Blonsky is so appealing as Tracy Turnblad that I hope evil Michelle Pfeiffer’s predictions that Tracy’s size and weight will prevent her from a career in show business don’t prove to be true in real life. The teen cast is joined by such veterans as Christopher Walken (playing Tracy’s hapless dad), James Marsden (a pitch-perfect Corny Collins), and Queen Latifah (as Motormouth Maybelle, the host of Negro Day). The dancing and singing are superb throughout, so I was even more disappointed by the lack of historically accurate oomph. It’s one thing to have Tracy begin the fight for integration, but the way most of the town goes along with it so easily defies credulity and misses some great opportunities for lambasting the bigoted mobs of the time. In the early 60s, Baltimore’s anti-miscegenation laws were still in effect. So at the end of the film when Amanda Bynes’ Penny starts making out with her black boyfriend Seaweed (Elijah Kelley) on the air, the Corny Collins Show would not only have been shut down, the entire TV station probably would have been fire bombed! I’m not even sure that John Waters would have attempted such a kiss in his 1988 film. It’s great that times have changed to the point where today’s audiences don’t see an interracial kiss as a big deal, but this is supposed to be 1962!

“Dreamgirls” also begins in 1962 and depicts a far more realistic view of black-white relations even though that isn’t the central focus of the film. We told some of our friends at the singalong about our plans to see “Hairspray” on its opening day, expecting to hear that they’d be camping out in front of the theatre in anticipation of the film’s first showing. To our surprise, several people we spoke to said they were boycotting the film because of John Travolta’s starring role as Edna Turnblad. Travolta’s devotion to the anti-gay Scientologist movement, the constant speculation that he himself is a closeted gay, and his dogged insistence in recent interviews that “Hairspray” is not a “gay film,” has soured some gay people to the new version. As our friends said, ANY movie musical, even if it is about the New York Stock Exchange or fly fishing, is a gay movie!

Frankly, I don’t think any grass roots boycott is going to keep gay people away from “Hairspray” for long. Nor should it. As much as I am repulsed by everything I know about the Church of Scientology, I can’t condemn John Travolta or his performance even though I think it was a misfire. Travolta decided to play the character as a real woman. In interviews he compares his Edna to a fuller-figured Sophia Loren. But shying away from the obvious Drag Queen persona sort of misses the point, in my opinion. It was precisely because Divine and Harvey Fierstein (in the Broadway play) were so grotesque as Edna Turnblad, especially before Edna’s big makeover, that helped make the overall lessons of the film so poignant. By playing the part of Edna completely straight, Travolta did “de-gay” the movie to some extent, and that’s not a good thing.

“Dreamgirls” and “Hairspray” were both created by mostly gay white men, many of them Jewish. Both stories are about showbiz. And yet, there’s not a single gay character in either film. For that matter, you’d be hard pressed to find any Jews in these stories. No gays or Jews in showbiz? About as likely as a dearth of Catholics at the Vatican. Of course in both of these films I think you could say that the black/white issues also stand in for the even more taboo gay/straight ones that the creators endured growing up. Both films follow the struggles of characters who are not accepted into the mainstream, who try desperately to fit in, and who ultimately discover their own voice and learn to celebrate their uniqueness. When Queen Latifah sings that “there’s a dream in the future, there’s a struggle we have yet to win; and there's pride in my heart ‘cause I know where I'm going and I know where I’ve been,” she could just as easily be at a Gay Pride march as a civil rights protest. Tracy Turnblad says that she wishes every day were Negro Day. At least they got a day. Imagine a same-sex couple trying to integrate the Corny Collins Show!

Speaking of unlikely advocates of gay rights, I was very saddened to hear that Tammy Faye Messner died yesterday after a long struggle with cancer. By all rights, Tammy Faye should have remained a laughingstock in this country, and she was certainly made fun of before, during, and after the scandal that brought down the evangelical empire she created with her disgraced ex-husband Jim Bakker. But like Tracy Turnblad, Tammy Faye defied the odds. While never taking off her outrageous make-up or toning down her flamboyant wardrobe, Tammy Faye showed the world what a real Christian is, and to many people’s surprise, including my own, proved time and again that she was one of the most loving, accepting people on the planet. As I wrote last January, while this woman used to make me shriek in horror when I watched “The PTL Club” in the 1980s, I became a huge fan. Perhaps it was the Fall from Grace that had such a positive effect on Tammy Faye, but whatever it was, she showed as much courage as some of our country's biggest civil rights leaders when she defied her own church’s teachings and fully accepted gay people into her heart without a trace of cynicism. When a gravely ill Tammy Faye appeared on Larry King last week, weighing only 65 pounds, she said, “I believe when I leave this earth, because I love the Lord, I’m going straight to heaven.” I hope she enjoyed the ride.

In honor of Tammy Faye's love for people of all stripes and persuasions, here’s a brief look at the exuberance of John Waters’ original “Hairspray.”

No Wizard Left Behind

I have a few issues with the new “Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix” film but even if you have no interest in this world, it’s worth seeing for one reason: Imelda Staunton. The actress plays Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge. Staunton’s sickly sweet, well-coiffed, pretty-in-pink cheerfulness belies her vicious cruelty, party loyalty, and thirst for power. As far as I’m concerned, Staunton’s character, looking like a nice middle-aged schoolmarm, is more sly and dangerous than the Dark Lord himself, Mr. Voldemort. Staunton owns this movie, the fifth in the series, and is so perfectly cast that I have a hard time believing that J.K. Rowling didn’t have her in mind when she thought up the character. Dolores Umbridge is the perfect stand-in for Margaret Spellings, the current U.S. Secretary of Education under George W. Bush. The film’s most interesting subplot, and the only one that had me fully engaged, involves the total subjugation of Hogwarts School and its slow descent towards a curriculum that is based on standardized testing and the suppression of original thought. Umbridge insists on drilling the Hogwarts' students in boring abstractions instead of allowing them to practice real magic, the same way some of our government policies emphasize drill-and-kill instruction over experiential hands-on learning. Whether intentional or not, the film is a crushing indictment of Bush’s reviled but still in place No Child Left Behind Act.

I’m not a Harry Potter fanatic by any means and have never even read the books, but I always look forward to taking my daughter (who is rereading all six books right now and has pre-ordered the seventh) to the new film during its opening weekend. We went, as always, to the magnificent Grauman’s Chinese Theatre which, unlike other Potter opening days, was not even close to being sold out. I don’t think that’s an indication of the series’ declining popularity but rather a side effect of opening the movie in a trillion theatres instead of only a select few. I guess they make more money that way but it seems like a big mistake. There was always something very exciting about fighting to get into a packed movie house on opening day as opposed to having tons of seats available at every theatre chain in town.

Because I’m only a peripheral visitor to Potter’s world, be grateful that I’m unable to compare the films to the books ad nauseam or blather on about the intricacies of life at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I enjoyed the new film but I think that it is the least “stand alone” of the bunch. Newcomers to the series would be totally lost but I guess at this point there aren’t all that many newcomers. I’m grateful that they don’t hit us with endless exposition and review, but I think they could have come up with some graceful ways to bring people up to speed and acknowledge those of us who have not been part of J.K. Rowling’s publishing juggernaut. But despite my lack of Potter street cred, I am a huge fan of the unprecedented roster of talent these films employ, seemingly every actor of note in the United Kingdom.

The only frustration for me, and it’s a big one, is that depending on the plot points from Rowling’s massive tomes and how much the current director can squeeze into two and a half hours, many of these amazing actors have such abbreviated roles that their appearances start to feel like those dumb cameos in the star-studded films of yesteryear like “Around the World in 80 Days” and “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.” It is crazy to have such outrageously talented actors as Maggie Smith (as Minerva McGonagall) and Emma Thompson (as Sybill Trelawney) appear on screen for so short a time. They are great in their tiny parts but it’s a tantalizing taste of honey that always makes me want to run straight to my Netflix queue and plop myself down in front of “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie” or “Sense and Sensibility” to see them sink their teeth into some meaty roles. I only hope that these two dames have more to do in the sixth and seventh films.

Other excellent actors make brief but welcomed appearances. Jason Isaacs is always good as the creepy white-haired Lucius Malfoy and here he seems on the path towards true evil. Gary Oldman is a treat as Sirius Black and I enjoy Robbie Coltrane as Hagrid. I’m less impressed by Ralph Fiennes’ noseless Lord Voldemort but that’s probably because You-Know-Who works better as a concept than a flesh-and-blood person and in this story we’re simply gearing up for the eventual showdown between Harry Potter and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I only hope that encounter doesn’t mirror the Big Reveal between Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader—as I watched this film I had the sinking feeling that Voldemort and Harry might be more connected than we thought. Julie Walters is always a breath of fresh air as Ron Weasley’s harried mother, and Michael Gambon remains an excellent replacement for the late Richard Harris’ Headmaster Dumbledore. Gambon defends the persecuted Emma Thompson in this film and I was thrilled to read recently that the two of them are playing Lord and Lady Marchmain in a remake of “Brideshead Revisited” that is filming this summer.

New to the Harry Potter canvas is a delightfully over-the-top Helena Bonham Carter as the insane witch Bellatrix Lestrange, a cousin of Sirius Black, who long ago tortured Neville Longbottom’s parents and taunts him about it in this film. I think Carter has been hanging around with boyfriend Tim Burton for so long that she’s started to look like a character from one of his films, especially here as the Goth-like Lestrange. In her Merchant Ivory days, Helena Bonham Carter starred with both Maggie Smith and Emma Thompson, always playing the porcelain-skinned demure English lass, but lately she seems determined to shock audiences with her larger-than-life freak show roles. In her next film she plays another murderess, Mrs. Lovett, in the long awaited movie version of Sondheim’s “Sweeney Todd” starring Johnny Depp as the title character and directed by Burton. I'm in!

Yikes, I’ve already gone on far longer than I planned and I haven’t even mentioned the young cast. The three leads are growing up fast, and for all the world to see, God love them. By now those photos of Harry Potter in all his glory have been scattered to every corner of the Internet thanks to Daniel Radcliffe’s au naturel appearance last spring in a London production of “Equus.” Of the three, Radcliffe has probably changed the most since the series began, and in this film he really gets to act, even though his brooding misery seems more of a placeholder for action yet to come. Sadly, Harry’s heralded First Kiss with love interest Cho Chang (Katie Leung) is an unholy bore and I hope he dumps Chang and goes after Hermione or the captivating new “I see dead horses” crazy girl, Luna Lovegood (played by Evanna Lynch). I’ve always liked Rupert Grint and Emma Watson as Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, and they show a whole new maturity here, but they are woefully underused. Ron’s rebellious twin brothers Fred and George (James and Oliver Phelps) get a lot of screen time in this story and provide some much needed comic relief from the dour events. I also like liked Bonnie Wright as Ginny, the youngest Weasley, who at 16 is really coming into her own.

With hormones raging among the younger Potter cast, I thought there’d be more adolescent sexual tension in the film, but all we get is that tepid kiss between Harry and Cho. I wonder if Rowling ever considered making any of the characters gay—that would have been really interesting. My vote would have been for either Hermione or Luna to discover their homosexual leanings, or perhaps Draco Malfoy or one of the Weasleys. Of course that would have made Rowling’s books even more controversial than they already are in some circles.

Oy, for someone who claims not to be obsessed with this world, I’m sounding like a true Harry Potter nerd, aren’t I? I was never that into those long and complicated Quidditch matches in the other four films but I found myself missing the game in this one, there was such a lack of regular daily school life experiences. But I don’t mean to sound too negative, the film is a must-see despite its flaws. Besides Imelda Staunton’s chilling performance, my other favorite part of the film is a brief moment when Harry is able to peek into the mind of his sometimes nemesis, Professor Severus Snape (wonderfully played, as always, by Alan Rickman), and learns something about his revered late father, James Potter, that is quite surprising and shakes things up for him even though this revelation is not addressed in the rest of the film. A few days ago I would’ve said that I didn’t give a snidget’s ass about what happens to these characters and now I’m counting the days until the release of “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince” in November 2008. And that, my friends and muggles, is the marketing genius of the Harry Potter empire.

My Nephew, the Son of God

I was just looking through my recent posts and getting more depressed by the second. Jeez, what a downer I am—no wonder my stats are plummeting faster than John McCain’s campaign coffers. Why do I only write about mood swings, fundamentalists, and dead celebrities? Time to lighten things up around here and go back to my other reliable standby: shameless family promotion.

Take a look at this unbelievably cool full-page photo of my nephew’s band, The Blisters, from the current issue of “Chicago” magazine (if you click on the photo, it will pop up large enough to read the article). Have you ever seen a better action shot of a band, the Rolling Stones and Beatles included? Now THAT is a rockin’ group. Not to ruin the magic, but my sister sent me photos she took during the shoot and it was a pretty amazing process. Each of the boys was photographed separately against this very cool chalkboard backdrop. Their images would instantly appear on the souped-up Mac and could be manipulated separately from the background. How do they do that?

Unfortunately we’ll be missing the Blisters’ return engagement at Lollapalooza this year but we’ll be in Chicago for their Millennium Park gig on August 20th. Then we’ll be heading back with the Tweedy clan for the west coast leg of the current Wilco tour. If you’re at any of these events, feel free to approach the out-of-place middle-aged bald guy to tell him how depressing you think his blog is.

Spencer has been away for almost a month at the same overnight camp my mother went to in the 1940s. Now it’s run by a different Jewish organization but it looks exactly the same. It’s especially poignant for my siblings and me to see Spencer in surroundings that are so familiar to us from many black and white photos of our young mother. It’s Spencer’s biggest experience to date with organized Judaism and my sister is wondering if he’s going to come home and start separating milk and meat products or refuse to play in his band on the Jewish Sabbath.

Most of the photos of Spencer that have appeared on the camp’s website show him with his new best bud, the son of True Ancestor blogger, David Gottlieb. I only met the Gottlieb family through blogging (their blogging ranks include David, his sister Annie, his brother, his father, and his nieces and nephew) but I have uncovered so many connections between our two families that I’m convinced we were all hanging out at the same pogroms back in the Old Country. We had no idea David’s son would be at this camp, much less in Spencer’s cabin, it seems like a freakishly bizarre coincidence…OR IS IT?

In my recent post about the so-called controversy surrounding the use of Wilco songs in some Volkswagen commercials, some critics have all but accused Jeff Tweedy of having a God complex. What nonsense. But be sure to tune in to tonight’s episode of “Lil’ Bush,” the new animated series on the Comedy Network, where Jeff will be playing…um…the voice of God! Gulp. He joins Iggy Pop as Lil’ Rummy, Frank Black as the Devil, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers as themselves. Will this part create delusions of grandeur? Oh well, it’s better than his last role. This isn’t the first time Jeff has been animated. He appeared in our Toronto cousins Jeremy and Jonas Diamond’s brilliant series, “Odd Job Jack” on the Canadian Comedy Network. (For some reason, this great show is not yet available in the U.S. but you can watch episodes online.)

I’m wondering how Spencer’s camp would react if they knew one of their new campers was the son of God. Maybe they’d be fine with it—the first one was Jewish too. I wonder if Jesus was any good at water polo.

“Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien!”

For the past few days I’ve been belting this French song whenever I feel the slightest neurosis coming on. It’s very empowering—just when I feel myself slipping into that familiar Black Hole of self-judgment and recrimination, the song’s defiant lyrics (“No, I Regret Nothing!”) provide a slingshot back to the surface and a resounding counterpoint to the overwhelming feelings of regret that dog me whenever I’m feeling down. Regrets about paths not taken, goals not achieved, and the tiresome list of fear-based behaviors that have wreaked havoc in my life. I’ve always appreciated this provocative song, but the reason it’s back in my head this week is because Kendall and I just saw the brilliant new film about Edith Piaf, the French singer who became a national icon after her tragic death at the age of 47. Piaf recorded “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” in 1960, three years before she died. It became a kind of personal anthem for the star, whose hardscrabble life provided no shortage of misery and pain.

Have you noticed that whenever public figures talk about the difficult times in their lives, they invariably mention that despite all of the anguish they may have experienced, they have no absolutely no regrets because it is those very difficulties that made them who they are today? This is a very audience-pleasing sentiment, but it’s also part of a carefully crafted dance between celebrities and the public. We love hearing that our idols have no regrets about their own painful pasts provided they express remorse for any pain they may have inflicted on others (as if the two are ever that clearly delineated). So while you won’t see Hitler getting a round of applause on Oprah for declaring that he doesn’t regret his past actions, you’d definitely hear tumultuous approval for the former hooker/drug addict/car thief who finally got her life together and is now insisting that she is a stronger, better person because of her personal travails.

How many interviews have you seen that go into explicit detail about someone’s wretched past and then conclude with that person saying “I wouldn’t change a single thing.” It’s such a popular stance that it’s almost shocking to hear someone say that they DO have regrets about past decisions. When that happens on a talk show, the audience will usually let out with some kind of “Awwwww” that says, “No, you shouldn’t feel that way, you have nothing to apologize for, you are perfect just as you are!” Have we become such a Self-Help/New Age generation that any expression of guilt or remorse is seen as a character flaw instead of a positive step towards recovery? I DO have regrets about my past, plenty of them, but I realize now that the trick is to use these regrets in a constructive way and not just as a reason to gang up on myself as a worthless loser and thus avoid doing the work that is necessary to get out of that self-obsessed spiral of pain.

I’m still working through this “regret” stuff. Just like guilt, I see that I need to sort through my regrets and decide which ones require more thinking and which ones really do provide insights into areas I’d like to work on. When I look at my high school and college years, for example, and remember how I boxed myself off from a lot of experiences and social interaction because I was so terrified of rejection or being less than perfect, I regret not taking advantage of the opportunities that were available to me. It’s not that I spend a lot of time ruminating about these years, but it is helpful to take those feelings and look at ways in which I still try to fly under the radar, still avoid taking certain risks because of fear of failure, and still hesitate to engage with others because I’m scared of rejection. I remember the Holocaust survivor mother of a good friend of mine who used to insist that “Guilt is a virtue!” We wanted to put that line on a T-shirt, we thought it was so funny and crazy, and to be honest, this woman did mean it in the most dysfunctional Jewish way possible. But on the other hand, isn’t our current disdain for any expression of guilt or regret just as insane?

The problem for people like me is that we tend to stave off all feelings of regret for so long, refusing to look at these so-called “negative” feelings, that we eventually build up an internal avalanche that overtakes us to such an extent that we reject them all lest we suffocate from their intensity. So instead of being able to calmly look at feelings that might serve as helpful tools for self-discovery and growth, we run screaming in the other direction and continue to waffle between the extremes of regretting nothing and regretting EVERYTHING without discrimination. My warbling of Piaf’s song helps rescue me from that avalanche by reminding me that it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. I have no doubt that Edith Piaf ‘s haunting rendition of “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” was so powerful precisely because she also struggled between that place of having total regret for every decision she made in her life and that part of her that understood how many of her unique qualities and strengths were borne from this adversity.

And speaking of the beloved “little sparrow,” I strongly urge you to go out TODAY and see this amazing new film about Edith Piaf, even if you don’t particularly care for her music or have never heard of her. I could rattle off a list of performances by actresses that I think are extraordinary, but it’s only about once every decade or so that you have a chance to see someone take on a role with such skill and passion that it literally takes your breath away. I remember feeling that way about Meryl Streep’s 1982 performance in “Sophie’s Choice” and now, 25 years later, I definitely feel it about Marion Cotillard’s channeling of Edith Piaf in “La Vie en Rose.” Though way more beautiful than the diminutive French singer, Cotillard transforms herself completely in this film and undergoes the most realistic, brutal aging of a character that I’ve seen since Robert De Niro nearly killed himself to play Jake La Motta in “Raging Bull.” Cotillard plays Piaf from her teens to her death in her late 40s. It’s hard to believe that Edith Piaf died at the age I am now, the excesses of her life left her looking more like she was in her late 70s.

One of the things I love about “La Vie en Rose” is that it doesn’t insult the audience’s intelligence as so many Americans film do. The story is told in a non-linear way without a lot of explanation, with constant switches to various years in Piaf’s life, from her early childhood when she was abandoned by her alcoholic mother and the years she spent living in her paternal grandmother’s brothel, to her adolescent life on the streets with her circus performer father and the desperate years on her own before her great success (and subsequent agonies) as a troubled superstar. The scenes are organized more thematically than chronologically, further emphasizing Cotillard’s uncanny ability to portray Piaf’s vulnerabilities and talents over a thirty-year period. I can’t remember the last time I saw Kendall moved to tears while watching a modern movie (she tends to be far more entranced by the actresses of the 1930s and 40s) so I was startled to hear her sobbing during Cotillard's rendition of “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” at the end of the film.

This is a painful, funny, inspiring, and ultimately heart-breaking look at the life of this incredible woman. Obviously some dramatic liberties were taken, some bordering on the cliché. I loved Catherine Allegret’s take on Edith’s hardened brothel-running grandmama. Allegret looks exactly like her mother, famed actress Simone Signoret, and the role is a classic Signoret turn. Piaf was a major figure in the life of Signoret’s second husband, Yves Montand—as mentor and lover—but Montand is not seen in the film and is only mentioned in passing. I assume the decision was made to leave out such well known stars whose lives intertwined with Piaf for fear of audience rebellion at actors who looked too different from these iconic performers. Gerard Depardieu shows up briefly as one of Piaf’s early champions. Depardieu is great, as always, but every time I see him appear out of the blue like this, I wonder if it’s possible for a French film to get a distribution deal in the U.S. without his presence. Oh well, at least we are spared Audrey Tatou in the lead role. Nothing against the impish star of “Amelie” (who will next be seen as Coco Chanel in a big-budget extravaganza), but for a while she seemed to be the only French actress allowed on American screens. I really enjoyed Emmanuelle Seigner as Titine, the fictional whore with a heart of gold who has a big impact on young Edith’s life. I once sat behind Seigner and her husband Roman Polanski in a Paris movie theatre. Don’t ask me what the film was because I spent the whole two hours watching Seigner and Polanski carrying on right in front of me in a scene worthy of one of Polanski’s more ribald films.

Sophia Loren is the only actress ever to win an Academy Award for a leading performance in a foreign language film (for “Two Women” in 1961). Roberto Benigni is the sole actor to get such an honor (for 1998’s “Life Is Beautiful”) but don’t get me started on him, I am not a Benigni fan. If Marion Cotillard doesn’t join this group and win the Best Actress Oscar next year, I will personally chain myself to the Academy headquarters on Wilshire Boulevard and demand justice.

Go see this film. You won’t regret it. And to get you in the mood, here’s the real Piaf singing my new theme song:

Jewish American Diva

The first gift I remember ever buying for my mother when I was young was a copy of “Bubbles: A Self-Portrait,” the autobiography of opera singer Beverly Sills who died yesterday at her home in New York. My mother was a huge fan of Beverly Sills. With her red hair and Russian Jewish background, Sills looked like she could easily be a member of our family. My mom was not an opera fanatic, but she had a prenatal connection to this art form. After seeing a production of Verdi’s famous opera at Chicago’s Lyric Opera House a few months before my mother’s birth, my grandmother gave her baby Aida as a middle name. Naming a Jewish girl after an Ethiopian princess was a fairly radical move in 1934, and I can only imagine the reaction of my ultra-orthodox great-grandparents. I suppose my grandmother drew her in-laws’ attention to my mother’s first name, the very traditional Judith which means “Jewess.”

My main contact to the opera when I was growing up was through one of my grandfather’s closest friends, Danny Newman, public relations maven for Chicago’s Lyric Opera for nearly 50 years. I saw Danny regularly at my grandfather’s synagogue and was always transfixed by his glamorous Warsaw-born wife, Dina Halpern, Grande Dame of the Yiddish Theatre, who got stuck in New York while on tour in 1938 and thus became the only member of her immediate family who did not perish in the Holocaust. Danny and Dina were tight with the top echelon of opera singers from around the world. I’m sure they knew Beverly Sills quite well.

My mom worshipped Sills, not only because of her incredible voice, but because they seemed cut from the same cloth despite their wildly different career paths. Beverly Sills was born Belle Miriam Silverman, in Brooklyn, New York, to first generation Jewish immigrants. “Bubbles” Silverman spoke Yiddish as a kid and was just as precocious as a certain Judith Aida Karoll in Chicago. At the age of 7, Bubbles was already showing off her impressive pipes and trademark gusto in a short 1938 film called “Uncle Sol Solves It.” Take a look:

Beverly Sills broke all kinds of boundaries in the world of opera as an American Jewish woman. Her lifelong quest to make opera lovers out of the widest possible audience was a resounding success. This afternoon I heard an interview that Sills gave to NPR in 2002 in which she told a story about one of her many fundraising exploits as general manager of the New York City Opera, a post she took after she retired from performing. She had approached a philanthropist who did not care for opera for a huge donation of a million bucks. In their conversations, she made it clear that she didn’t just want his money, she also wanted his body in the audience. The rich guy gave her a choice: he’d give the million dollars if he never had to attend the opera or he’d give $900,000 if she did insist that he go to a few performances. Sills chose the $900,000. The man and his wife attended the opera several times over the next year. Finally, at a big party at the man’s home, Sills noticed that all of the guests but her had a small gift on their plate. “How come everyone got a trinket except for me?” Sills asked. “Look under your damn plate, Beverly,” he replied. She lifted up her plate and found a check for the remaining $100,000 made out to the opera company. She had turned him into an opera lover after all!

Sills’ frequent appearances on Johnny Carson and other talk shows, her playful TV outings with the Muppets, her wonderful specials with Carol Burnett, and her popular recitals with symphony orchestras around the country went a long way in introducing people who would never think of stepping foot in an opera house to this vibrant art form. She was kind of like the Gomer Pyle of the opera world, never losing her thick Brooklyn accent when she spoke or her down home sense of humor, and then transforming herself into one of the world’s most serious coloratura sopranos as she sang all the great operatic roles. Reviewing her 1969 performance in “Manon” in “The New Yorker,” critic Winthrop Sargeant wrote: “If I were recommending the wonders of New York to a tourist, I would place Beverly Sills at the top of the list—way ahead of such things as the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building.”

I remember when Beverly Sills shocked the opera world by retiring from singing when she still seemed to be in her prime. “My voice had a long, nonstop career,” she said in 1980. “It deserves to be put to bed with quiet and dignity, not yanked out every once in a while to see if it can still do what it used to do. It can’t.” Yet Sills herself went on to lead several opera companies and become chairman of Lincoln Center. She worked tirelessly for many charities, especially her lifelong commitment to children with special needs. What a mensch she was. I’ll never forget her amazing smile and infectious laugh.

Like my mom, Sills died of a particularly aggressive form of lung cancer. And she never even smoked. Although my mother had perfect pitch and a great passion for all types of singing, she couldn’t sing a note. But if Judith Aida could have played the title role in the opera she was named after, I bet this is how she would have looked. I only hope that my mom now has a front row seat for Beverly Sills’ latest gig.