Viewing Volver

Dara writes:

I finally saw Almodovar's latest film Volver yesterday, and while I liked it and am glad I saw it, I didn't find it one of his best or as good as his three most recent films, such as Talk to Her and All About My Mother. As visually stunning as those films, Volver didn't hit me on a gut level as even Bad Education did. The story, of a group of women whose difficult and tragic lives are intertwined, and who, in the absence of men or presence of bad ones, help one another survive, struck me as a very idealized view of women that felt contrived.

The story begins with an extremely campy view of women cleaning tombstones in a graveyard. Our heroine, Raimunda (Penelope Cruz), worries about her elderly aunt, who has become senile. Raimunda's sister, Sole (Lola Duenas), fears a ghost lives with Tia Paula. When the sisters leave the small Spanish town to return to their homes, Sole in Madrid and Raimunda outside Madrid, the aunt's troubles fade into the background as Raimunda has much larger fish to fry: the death of her husband. Raimunda tackles all the obstacles in her path in charming get-ups of red skirts and cleavage-bearing purple sweaters. Almodovar very lovingly photographs Cruz. We linger on the gold religious medallions hanging between her breasts, on her breasts, her eyeliner, her perfect profile, her tousled hair. I have never seen such a beautiful actress. Sofia Loren times ten. The friend with whom I saw the movie complained that Cruz did not find her acting rhythm until thirty minutes into the film. I was so focused on her gorgeousness I did not even notice.

As usual, Almodovar's visual world stunned me, and I was happy to be a part of it, as no one does color better than he does. But the movie bored me by the end, and several elements did not add up. One of the coterie of women is Raimunda's opposite: shaved head where she has luscious black locks, no makeup where Raimunda's eyes are kohl-rimmed, cardigans versus bustiers. But I could not figure out what this foil was supposed to represent.

I saw Bad Education in the Floridablanca theater in Barcelona before I spoke Spanish. Without subtitles, I could not grasp the whole plot. Still, because Almodovar's language is visceral and visual, I got it. It moved me. Strangely, Volver, though I could comprehend it all, stirred me less.

Elegance at the 92nd Street Y

Dara writes:

Last night James and I attended an excellent reading hosted by the Unterberg Poetry Center at Manhattan's venerable 92nd Street Y. The occasion: a tribute to past Center directors Grace Schulman, Karl Kirchwey, and David Yezzi, all poets themselves.

I always enjoy David Yezzi's work, but I am not an impartial judge as I am friendly with David through his work at The New Criterion. David read a few newer poems that benefited from a Larkian disenchantment and wry humor. David read these in a laconic, everyday voice that really allowed the poems' true meanings to be revealed. Mr. Kirchwey's work was a delight: erudite without ever being precious or smug. He displays a sense of humor but is never ironic. He has a great command of rhyme, and language interests him intensely. He said he is now obsessed with translating Verlaine; from what I can tell he also knows Greek and Latin, among other tongues. I bought his new book, The Happiness of this World, and will look forward to reading it.

Many poetry world luminaries, such as Marie Ponsot, Veejay Seshadri, and Alice Quinn attended the reading. A lovely spread followed, including "Hostess" desserts: coconut snowballs and chocolate cupcakes. To my surprise, the Y even made cookies with the readers' names printed on them. The cookies were presented as little gifts on trays. As a woman and I admired them, she noted, "And I thought the Y was having money troubles!"

The one off-note of the evening was the reading by Grace Schulman. I am not familiar with her poetry, though I do own the Marianne Moore book she edited. Never liked Moore's antics. Sorry. But I came with an open mind to appreciate Schulman. Unfortunately, her voice croaked and cracked and made it very hard to absorb her poems, which did nothing for me. Yes, I have applied for the Discovery/"The Nation" young poets' prize that she oversees and I haven't won, but I am an adult and do not bear her a grudge. Many of my fellow, non-poet listeners agreed with my assessment of her performance.

New Haven's Chez Panisse

Dara writes:

When I resided in Berkeley College at Yale University in the mid-90s, the dining hall food was so abysmal I moved off campus. The dingy, co-ed bathroom, minute cubicle with bunk beds I shared with my roommate, and the rodents didn't help either. All that has changed. Not only have most residential colleges at Yale undergone total renovations, but my college's dining hall has become a model for sustainable, local, and mostly organic food.

James and I have taken so many car trips lately to see his father, that we have taken to listening to Podcasts. Several recent ones were from a Princeton conference on food and ethics, which took place last November. Panelists repeatedly mentioned the Yale Sustainable Food Project as a model.

The daughter of Alice Waters, the chef who was instrumental in the "eat seasonal and local" movement, matriculated at Yale and inspired her mother to urge more organic dining. What has happened at the residential college Berkeley is staggering. The menu sounds amazing, it is seasonal, and some of it comes from a farm that is a fifteen minute walk from campus. The farm takes summer interns and I was kind of sad to learn the interns must be undergrads.

Unfortunately being on the road so much has meant a steady diet of McDonald's Snack Wraps: crispy chicken, jack cheese, lettuce, and ranch dressing in a tortilla. My theory is it is small enough to not make me sick, or for that matter thirsty for three days because of the amount of salt McDonald's pours on its food.