I understand that the script for Whatever Works (written and directed by Woody Allen) is an old one from the 1970s, dusted off to make sure Allen could put something into production before a feared actors strike last year. If that's true, it raises a question about why it was so critical for the fimmaker to have something done in time for the summer season, and whether this signals a turn by Allen towards the creation of product instead of art. I know many would say that process began some time ago, as his annual offerings seldom generate the kind of interest (let alone excitement) that greeted his efforts back in the seventies and early eighties. This one strikes me as another forgettable throwaway, like so many of his movies over the past twenty years. I certainly don't begrudge Allen or anyone else the right to keep working and making movies as long as someone out there is willing to fund them and others are willing to go and watch (similarly, I understand why past-their-prime rock bands continue to tour and re-play their hits for those who remember their glory days). But I'm not sure I'm going to remain part of the latter group myself. In fact, I guess I've already drifted away, since I haven't gone to any of his previous movies since Curse of the Jade Scorpion about eight years ago. Although the current movie has a few good scenes and a few more good lines, it hardly holds together as anything more than a rehash of some common Allen themes (most notably-- mismatched couples brought together by chance). Larry David, the star, is awfully hard for me to take in anything but small doses, and while Evan Rachel Wood is better, Allen draws her character in such broad strokes as to make her more silly than engaging. Patricia Clarkson's character is likewise reduced to little more than a stereotype. Ed Begley Jr. and Michael McKean can usually be depended on to liven things up, but here only the former gets even a single scene to make his mark. This is not so much a bad film as an almost immediately forgettable one; which is exactly what you should expect from half-hearted fodder for the summer market.
"If art teaches anything... it is the privateness of 
As alluded to previously, I went to see Wilco at Artpark in Lewiston on Sunday night. Wilco is an amazing band, having compiled an incredible run of quality experimentation over their body of recorded work, but they are even greater live. I saw them a few years back when they were touring the A Ghost is Born album, and they knocked me out, in part because I had read that leader Jeff Tweedy did not particularly enjoy live performing, and in part because a lot of the sonic elements of their two most recent albums (the other was Yankee Foxtrot Hotel) seemed to stem from access to studio technology. Based on what they delivered though, neither of those factors made a lick of difference. The show I saw Sunday was more wide-ranging in choice of material from the breadth of their career (including a couple from the first Mermaid Avenue album, on which they collaborated with Billy Bragg to put tunes to some old Woodie Guthrie lyrics), and it was evident that the band has become even more polished over the intervening years (with Tweedy playing the avuncular host). I think the phrase I'd use to describe this show would be exquisitely tuneful noise: walls of sound cascading through the theater, without ever really losing the melodic themes. Plus, I don't think they missed a single song that I was hoping to hear-- which rarely happens when I go to a show (see my comments on Amy Rigby from the day before). There were only two, minor downsides: one was that I was a long way from the stage (serves me right: I didn't buy my ticket until the day of the show), but I have to say the sound was the crispest I have ever heard in a venue of that size. Two, I took to heart the warning on the ticket that cameras would not be allowed and so have no first hand photos (the above was found on-line), even though plenty of other folks were snapping away (of course, from where I was sitting, I wouldn't have gotten anything particularly good anyway).
Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Boys opened the show, and they were pretty good too, decked out in matching white boatsman caps. Oberst is a talented guy, and sounds good with a band behind him. But unlike Wilco, it's hard for me to see him as anything more than a better-than-most-but lesser-than-some singer-songwriter. One odd thing-- Oberst performed his whole set in shadows, although he was stage front and center for most of it. All the spotlights were on the bandmembers. An act of self-effacement? I don't know. He reminds me of guys like Steve Forbert and Willie Nile, and more recently Tim Easton and Todd Snider who never got anywhere near the attention Oberst now enjoys (which obviously isn't really a reflection on him or them so much as the vagaries of the industry), though I'm hard-pressed to see much difference in the quality of their work. He seems content to work that vein, and more power to him. But meanwhile Wilco is constantly challenging themselves to come up with something new. Even when they revert to elements of their folk/country roots, they never sound like anyone else, and it's gratifying to know they are willing to stretch out that way, and be comfortable re-examining and re-defining themselves periodically-- and playing killer live shows that can draw on the full span of their career without any evident inconsistancy showing. They are truly a great band, to my mind the greatest working today.
A favorite returned to the Fables menu today, and since there was nothing else that I hadn't already sampled, I was free to indulge. The Creamy Black Bean is one of my two or three favorites, maybe falling just a little short of the Sweet Potato Pablano but a bit ahead of the African Peanut. Isn't it odd that I'm ranking them at all? I mean, if I had not started doing these little write-ups, I'd be satisfied to just enjoy them "in the moment" (or not, as the case may be). But since I've undertaken to keep a record, I feel somewhat compelled to give them a degree of relative worth compared to all the others. Actually, what's really got me worried now is that I've completed the cycle, and will not have any new varieties to sample and report on through next week (after which I head back to Montana and endure a forced separation from my favorite soup venue). Maybe the chefs there will surprise me.
First up is a fountain in Congress Park that sits between Broadway downtown and the neighborhood of large mansions (and the aforementioned racetrack) on Union Avenue.
This gazebo is another nice feature in Congress Park. There was also a carousel and a pretty little stream running through a very green meadow.
Here's one of the big mansions we walked by-- every house on Union Ave. is big, mostly ornate, and different from all the others around it. It boggles the mind to think of all the money that must've been floating through this place at one time (and maybe still does).
Here is another of those big houses, perhaps a bit more modest than most of the others, but impressive nonetheless. I especially like the big, rounded porches, especially the round one on the corner of the second floor.
The houses in the previous two pictures date from the late 19th century, and reflect the wealth of the nation by that point in time. This last one is of a place known as Fort Klock just outside Fort Johnson, about fifty miles or so west of Saratoga. It was built in the 1750s, and occupied by the same family until the 1930s. It is a much more simple affair, with its major feature being double walls that made it a safe haven when enemies were lurking about the neighborhood. We stumbled on this place by accident-- seeing a historical marker, we turned in, and although he was in the process of shutting down for the day, the docent kept the place open a little longer and gave us a tour. It turned out he was the great great great great (there were at least four, maybe five "greats" in there) grandson of the first inhabitant of the house. His hospitality made out last stop one of the highlights of the trip. Next year, I'm thinking of making another loop through the state, possibly to the north (maybe the Thousand Islands).
"It is the besetting vice of democracies to 
Isn't Chicken Gumbo supposed to have okra in it (like in the picture above)? Actually, I think it usually includes sausage as well, though I didn't miss that as much as the okra in the cup I had at a diner after the Amy Rigby/Wreckless Eric show this past Saturday. Oh well, it was hot and loaded with other stuff, so I really can't complain too much. And, it was a nice complement to the meatloaf dinner I ordered (I often order meatloaf in diners-- it seems to me that is a staple menu item of such places, so they generally get it right). Tomorrow I should be back to Fables for something more exotic; but it seems like awhile since I had something really good, so maybe the law of averages will be working in my favor. We'll see...
Here are a few shots from the Saratoga battlefield about thirty miles or so north of Albany. Saratoga was perhaps the key battle of the Revolutionary War, as the improbable American victory there prompted the French to back our cause. Above is a blockhouse that sits in a park alongside the Hudson a few miles from the actual battlefield, but commemorating the battle nonetheless.
Next is a shot of the battlefield from the present-day visitors center. Actually, the battle was fought in several places around this countryside, but this was where the first encounter took place, with some American sharpshooters under Dan Morgan first engaged the advancing British before falling back into the woods.
Heres' a sepia-toned view of the same field from a different angle. The sepia gives it a slightly more historic feel, don't you think?
Above is a painting one of the offensives from the battle on display in the visitors center. Can you picture this kind of action in the very serene-looking fields in the preceding images?
Curtis and I took a little hike down along this path, which covers the same ground as some of the advancing British in 1777. It was a beautiful day for such a morning stroll, but then we didn't have sharpshooters taking potshots at us as we walked along.
"In doing good avoid fame. In doing bad
Yesterday afternoon, Sally, Natalie and I drove over to Rochester for the Bop Fest, a fairly intimate (I'd guess no more than a couple hundred folks, if that) musical gathering featuring several bands. The one I most wanted to see was headliner Amy Rigby, performing with her husband Wreckless Eric (that's them in the photo above). The show was sponsored by The Bop Shop, the premier record store in Rochester (and one of the better ones you'll find anywhere anymore). There was a rain shower that delayed things a little bit, and the local Gay Pride parade passed by the venue (an old industrial complex converted into retail space, with a nice central courtyard, where the musicians played) which drew virtually the entire crowd over to the street to take a look, causing another brief intermission. But despite those interruptions, it was a pretty good time.
The Tarbox Ramblers preceded Amy/Eric to the stage, and they performed a spirited electric country blues set. The persevered without their bassist, who leader Johnny Tarbox informed us was in the process of having a baby, "maybe at that very moment." If he hadn't mentioned the absence, I for one wouldn't have noticed-- and I mean that as a compliment, as the remaining duo was quite good regardless.
When the headliners finally came on, they were also clearly having a good time, despite the weather delay. The two complemented each other, in style and personality, and it's easy to see how they hooked up (Eric told a great story of how they met when Amy did a show in his hometown of Hull, England and performed a cover of his most famous song, "Whole Wide World," but used the wrong chords). The highlight of their set, for me, was Rigby's vigorous performance of "Dancing With Joey Ramone" from her Little Fugitives album. My only complaint about their show was that there was minimal (maybe three or four songs) material from Rigby's deep catalogue, with much of the focus on Eric's composition,s and songs off their recent collaborative recording. But it was entertaining, nonetheless.
However, I think Natalie (despite her protestations to the contrary) might've preferred a show where the performers (and for that matter, the bulk of the audience) were a bit more on her side of 50. Ah, youth!
Continuing my little travelogue of my short trip earlier this past week, above is a sepia-toned (somehow it seemed appropriate) of a gazebo on the grounds of the Fenimore Cooper Art Museum, located on the path leading down to Lake Otsego.
Above you can see one corner of the garden behind the Museum, with some nicely pruned bushes and other botanical delights.
Next is a shot of the lawn spreading out behind the Museum and down to Lake Otsego. 
These next couple of pictures are of the Hudson River, taken at a riverside park just south of Saratoga (from day two of the trip).
It's easy to forget that New York is a largely rural state, punctuated on either end by a couple of large metropolitan areas. Is it any wonder that it served as an inspiration to a whole school of painters (The Hudson River School), or writers like Cooper and Washington Irving?
Back when I was growing up, my Dad watched Walter Cronkite virtually every night, and his was a more familiar voice and face than even some of my relatives. I remember his hosting the various NASA launchings throughout the sixties, and I remember him from a couple of programs that I always took to be aimed at kids-- The 20th Century and You Are There-- though I'm sure a lot of adults enjoyed (and learned from them) too. (Sidenote: why doesn't someone release those classic programs on DVD?). I generally don't make a big deal out of media/entertainment retirements, last shows and the like, but I remember making a special effort to make sure I didn't miss Cronkite's last regular broadcast in 1981: I was out of the house, and realizing that his sign-off was imminent, made my way to a nearby department store to watch it on the whole row of TV screens on display in the electronics department. Having studied media history, I still think of Edward R. Murrow as the dean of broadcast journalists, but Cronkite wasn't far behind. Although both were associated with CBS, Cronkite was not one of the "Murrow Boys" recruited by Murrow to the network during the World War II years. But when Cronkite became their colleague later on (during the war he was a correspondent for the AP), he quickly established he was the equal of Charles Collingwood, Eric Severeid, Larry LeSeuer, Howard K. Smith, and the others in terms of erudition and integrity; and perhaps surpassed them in demonstrating as strong an empathy for his audience as for the stories he covered. It's a sad commentary to realize that we're unlikely to see his like again on TV news, and tragic that those in charge of the media don't seem to care (despite what will certainly be a plethora of tributes from them over the next few days).
"I have often said, and oftener think,
After going through the Baseball Hall of Fame, we strolled along Cooperstown's Main Street to look at the old nineteenth century buildings and whatever other sights might catch our attention. Here's a view of the south end of Otsego Lake looking up a creek from a bridge on Main Street.
Here's a shot of the front of the Cooperstown Library, which goes back to before the Civil War. We wandered in and it seemed a great place to while away a few hours on a warm summer evening, but we had other places we wanted to check out.
Here's Curt and I flanking a statue of James Fenimore Cooper that sits in the small park behind the Hall. Apparently, Cooper's house stood on the far side of this park before burning down in the 1930s.
The house that burned should not be confused with the Fenimore Cooper House (now Art Museum) that sits on the west side of Otsego Lake a mile or so north of town. We drove up there, but unfortunately arrived after the building was closed (missing what looked to be a cool exhibit of american artists' renditions of Rome). But we walked around the grounds and that was pretty impressive in itself.
Here's the view looking out towards the lake from the back porch of the Fenimore Cooper Art Museum. Apparently James Fenimore Cooper was inspired by this place to write his Leatherstocking tales, with many of Natty Bumppo's adventures happening near and around Cooper's hometown, with the Lake as a primary focus.
