In the summer, I never expected to see new television shows. So-o, it came as a surprise to discover two new series, “Side Order of Life” and “State of Mind.” Both are on the Lifetime Channel, which is sometimes thought of as television for women. Their slogan might be “Television for women who aren’t like any women you’ve ever met in your life” because it frequently has depressing programming: a deranged gunman kidnaps two teenage girls, a mentally unstable woman abuses orphaned siblings, a daughter kills her father’s new wife, and so on. You get the picture.Well, the new series are comedic dramas, but I haven’t made up my mind yet. I don’t know whether I love or hate the characters. The main character in “Side Order of Life” is Jenny, who is too pretty, too slim (hate that!), too bland – so far. Her best friend, Vivy, is battling cancer and is much more interesting. Jenny is the kind you love to hate and hate to love (huh?). “State of Mind’s” lead is a favorite actress of mine, Lili Taylor. As a therapist, she comes across as “real,” but there’s too much going on – four colleagues in one building, a nutty receptionist and patients. Ms. Taylor’s character is in need of some therapy of her own. It all gets irksome. In both series, there are dream sequences, a play resorted to too often. And, in both, the lead characters are humiliated in public. There must be a better way to reveal what a character is struggling with. The Lifetime Channel tries to serve women between the ages of 13 and 85 who appreciate a good love story, but really prefer to follow a romance as it unravels. So far, many of the programs on Lifetime lack something. Perhaps they lack, dare I say it, balls.
I’m sure you’ve heard the term “chick flick.” What exactly does that mean? If it means long-gowned maidens hoofing about the dance floor with men in velvet breeches and boots, then would that define the phrase? I don’t think so. “Becoming Jane” is a classy period drama based on the suppositions of Jane Austen historians, and it focuses on the author’s formative years highlighting a thwarted love affair. In high school, my English teacher recommended that we read the novels of Jane Austen, “any or all.” I opted for all and entered a different world. It was a world where women who were not born into money had to marry it. Money was the only security available to them. “Becoming Jane” is not directed at Austen readers. It is directed at moviegoers. The Jane Austen depicted on screen bears scant relation to any person, living or dead. Actress Anne Hathaway is ripe and seductive with her giant strawberry of a mouth. The chemistry with James McAvoy (who plays Thomas Lefroy) makes “Becoming Jane” a convincing story even if it’s not a strict biopic. I found it easy to sit back and enjoy the lilting tale. It was enjoyable to escape into a far more elegant and well-spoken world than the one we inhabit. Actually, Jane Austen published only six novels during her short life (1775-1817) and never married. There is an announcement (I read it somewhere) that Masterpiece Theatre will soon tackle the entire Austen oeuvre. That’s something to look forward to – especially “Pride and Prejudice” and “Sense and Sensibility.”
My art-loving friend traveled from Connecticut to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City for one purpose in mind. He was interested in seeing “Impressionist and Early Modern Paintings: the Clark Brothers Collect.” He has good taste. Unhappily, he made his trip on a Monday and the Met was closed. Bummer! Instead, he did what I do when I’m disappointed. He went to eat! In attempting to console him, I gave him my press kit and it’s an all-inclusive one complete with photos and a wonderful CD. The amazing exhibition featured more than 65 paintings – all treasures. What made this show so-o special was that it brought together celebrated masterpieces once owned by rival brother collectors, Robert and Stephen Clark. It gave the viewers (who visited on a day other than Monday) a unique opportunity to appreciate the remarkable legacies of two brothers – heirs to the Singer Sewing Machine fortune and native New Yorkers – who played notable roles as patrons of the arts in the United States. What a delight it was to viewed treasures by Degas, Monet, Pissarro, Seurat, Renoir, Homer and Sargent side-by-side with works – breathe deeply – by Cezanne, Matisse, Picasso, Eakins and Hopper. Luckily for us, the two brothers, who were estranged for most of their adult lives, shared a passion for art anchored by a mutual interest in French painting of the late 19th century. Although probably not together in one show again, the Met will continue to exhibit many of the celebrated masterpieces seen in this one unique exhibition.
Tom Stoppard returns to Broadway this fall with a new play, “Rock ‘n’ Roll.” It unfolds over the 20 years between the Prague Spring of 1968 and the Velvet Revolution of 1989. Stoppard explores the significance of rock music as a symbol of both personal and political freedom with its accompanying risks. Previews of “Rock ‘n’ Roll” begin Oct. 19.
Fooey!! I’m sour about rock ‘n’ roll. Why did we let it shake out the syncopated swinging style of song? That period, that wonderful period. Where the lyrics were close to poetry has now been embalmed as the Golden Age of American Song. I’m thinking of the wonderful music of Gershwin and Berlin and Porter and Kern – and so many others. One could easily enjoy singing, whistling, humming and/or dancing to their songs. The music was, and still is, memorable. Many of us recognized it as soon as we hear a few notes and, if you are anything like me, we even remembered the lyrics. Oh why, oh why (I lament!) did Fred and Frank and Bing get too old to be romantic! All of the above came to my cluttered mind when I read a recent book “The House That George Built,” a big rich stew of an homage. It was the house that George built with a little help from Irving, Cole and crew of about 50. Forget rock ‘n’ roll. The past decades of pop are here to stay thanks to young performers like Michael Bublé – and older ones like Tony Bennett.