The Avengers: Joss the Superhero Wrangler, Part 2

Posted on May 23, 2012 by popgoddess

Since The Avengers is trampling box office records all over the place, this is kind of a moot point (or a moo point, as Joey Tribbiani would say), but I just want to add my own “Woo-hoo, yay for Joss!” to the mix. The film lives up to the promise of its rousing trailer.

The movie does feel like it’s going through the paces early on, as it brings all the superheroes together. Once they do all congregate, it never actually feels like there’s much at stake, even though technically the whole world is, but it’s a fun, hilarious ride nonetheless.  As expected, Robert Downey Jr.’s Tony Stark delivers most of the memorable quips, but the film’s funniest visual gags are actually courtesy of Hulk. I expected the other characters to be overshadowed by the showy Tony Stark/Iron Man, and, for the most part, they are, especially Steve Rogers/Captain America and “Point Break” Thor. Mark Ruffalo, though, holds his own against Downey, making Bruce Banner’s understated intelligence, caring, and restraint intriguing and even sexy, in a rumpled, low-key kind of way. I think what makes Bruce/Hulk compelling is Joss and Ruffalo’s understanding that Bruce is “always angry.”  Ruffalo plays out this character choice with beautiful subtlety: watch how Bruce holds his hands, carries himself, positions his body when talking to people, indicators of a very powerful emotion at work beneath the mellow surface.  Bruce is so much more interesting when he’s not simply resisting the anger; by embracing it, he frees up the mental energy that allows him to be somewhat more in control of Hulk. Only somewhat, though: even when Hulk is fighting alongside the other superheroes, he still seems kind of pissed off at them, occasionally bellowing at his allies. He’s angry at everyone, and Bruce has just enough control to make Hulk direct his anger primarily at the bad guys.

The Avengers is sometimes a bit by-the-numbers: the set-up for Iron Man’s moment of sacrifice is too obvious; as usual, there’s a loss that finally brings the superheroes together as a team. Also, I know Sam Jackson is bad-ass and that Nick Fury was re-imagined specifically with him in mind, but he doesn’t bring much to the role.  Although this would completely whitewash the Avengers franchise, I think Stephen Lang (Avatar, Terra Nova) would be perfect as Nick Fury.

Now for the game we Whedonites like to play – spot the Joss alums: Alexis Denisof of Buffy and Angel, unrecognizable as one of Loki’s (Tom Hiddleston and his gravity-defying cheekbones) extra-terrestrial allies; Enver Gjokaj, so amazingly versatile and chameleon-like on Dollhouse, appears too briefly as an NYPD cop during the final battle; and Ashley Johnson, also from Dollhouse, as a star-struck waitress. And totally random but hilarious cameo: Harry Dean Stanton!

I know people who don’t buy into the auteur theory of filmmaking may say that I’m giving Joss too much credit for how well The Avengers turned out, but it’s hard not to when his signature humor and character development shine through what could easily have been a forgettable summer blockbuster. I will say that the film’s broad mainstream success is kind of bittersweet; Joss isn’t our little secret anymore, not the cult favorite with the small, rabid following. Can he please direct a Wonder Woman film now?

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Clybourne Park: A Dream Still Deferred

Posted on May 15, 2012 by popgoddess

If I’d known that the goal of Clybourne Park is to shock us with the politically incorrect statements spewing from its characters’ mouths, I would’ve skipped it. I hoped for more than just shock value from the play, a sort of companion piece to Lorraine Hansberry’s classic A Raisin in the Sun. Clybourne Park’s two acts serve as bookends to Hansberry’s story of the Younger family:  the first act, set in 1959, centers on the white family living in the home that the Youngers want to buy, and the second act, set in 2009, is about one of their descendents selling the home to a white couple as the neighborhood gentrifies.  It’s a promising set-up, but, overall, the play lacks emotional resonance.  The characters, especially in the second act, are little more than mouthpieces for racially insensitive and offensively clueless sentiments. While their sentiments may draw shocked laughter from us because we recognize in them thoughts we’re guilty of as well, those sentiments don’t come together to tell us anything unique or insightful about the characters or their relationships with each other.

The first act does manage some emotional depth, thanks mostly to Frank Wood’s performance as Russ, a man who’s at once trying to hold on to happy memories and escape tragic ones as he and his wife prepare to move out of their home. Annie Parisse (Rubicon, Law & Order) also stands out in the first act as Betsy, a woman who is hearing-impaired. I think the best actors are the ones who are always listening to what’s going on around them, so it’s fascinating to watch Ms. Parisse stay connected while playing a woman who cannot actually hear. She’s fully immersed in Betsy’s reality, aware that she’s missing out on some things, but always working to pick up on other cues – body language, facial expressions – to gauge the tense situation around her. Unfortunately, whatever resonance the first act has is almost derailed by Christina Kirk’s performance as Russ’ wife, Bev. I’m not sure what informs her acting choices, but her flailing arms and quavering voice remind me forcefully of Kristin Wiig’s Target Lady from Saturday Night Live.

Clybourne Park shows us that no matter how much social progress we think we’ve made, no matter how enlightened we think we are in our perceptions of others, the same old ugly bigotry still exists just beneath the veneer of political correctness. It would’ve been interesting for the play to go beyond that fact, for it to be a starting point for a new conversation, rather than the play’s only point.

Posted in Live Performances | 4 Comments

The Palm Beach Story: Sex Gets in the Way for Joel McCrea and Claudette Colbert

Posted on May 8, 2012 by popgoddess

Speaking of sex-as-subtext in classic films, The Palm Beach Story was on TCM this week. Preston Sturges’ screwball gem is all about how sex keeps getting in the way of a wife’s scheme to help her husband by divorcing him and taking up with a rich man who can help her husband in his career. The problem is, said husband is played by tall, broad-shouldered, square-jawed Joel McCrea, so you can understand why wife Gerry keeps back-sliding on her plan. When McCrea’s Tom comments that they may not be rich, but at least they have a roof over their heads, Gerry ruefully remarks, “I wasn’t thinking about the roof.”  I hear you, Gerry.

Gerry, played with knowing humor by Claudette Colbert, lays out The Palm Beach Story’s mission statement when she says that “sex always has something to do with it.”  Gerry has a difficult time leaving Tom because of their mutual sexual attraction; she’s able to use other men’s desire for her to her advantage, for everything from a cab ride to a train ticket to an extravagant new wardrobe.  In her relationship with Tom, Gerry has very little control over her own desire; she’s helpless to resist him. In her dealings with men to whom she’s not attracted at all, Gerry has all the control, using their attraction to her to get what she needs from them.

Princess Centimillia (the brilliant Mary Astor) is the agent of her own desire, shrewdly retaining control while she’s actively pursuing the object of her affections – in this case, Tom. She serves as a sort of Greek chorus of sexual desire, constantly commenting on Tom’s attractiveness and her desire for him. As Tom points out, “you never stray far from Topic A, do you?” “Is there anything else?” she responds archly. Given her marital history, we can assume that Centimillia is often successful in her pursuit of men and has no qualms about divorcing them when she’s no longer attracted to them.  If Gerry cedes control when she desires, Centimillia seems to become more iron-willed and determined in the face of her own desire.  In that way, Centimillia functions as a sort of reverse Gerry (especially interesting given that we also briefly see a double Gerry, her twin, at the very beginning and end of the film). I think wealth gives Centimillia the freedom to express both desire and agency simultaneously.  Gerry, on the other hand, marries Tom for love and desire but can’t quite afford that decision. She has to relinquish her own desire and dispassionately manipulate others’ desires in order to achieve her own material ends.

Come to think of it, The Palm Beach Story is a bit like Jane Austen’s novels in that way. As I re-read Austen’s novels over the years, I find that they’re not simply about marrying for love, but, perhaps just as importantly, about marrying wisely into money. Austen acknowledges the importance of love and mutual respect, but she is also clear-eyed about the need for financial security in a successful marriage.  The Palm Beach Story may be a whirl of whip-smart banter and sexual desire, but, in the end, each marriage, even Tom and Gerry’s (hah!) has a foundation of sexual attraction and financial security.

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Casablanca: Still Gorgeous at 70

Posted on April 30, 2012 by popgoddess

At a recent 70th anniversary screening, Casablanca proved to be as gorgeous and entertaining as ever. Honestly, what can I say about it that hasn’t already been said? I suppose I could say that it’s as though celluloid was invented to capture Ingrid Bergman’s mobile face and serene beauty on film. Each shot of her is like a work of art, whether she’s framed in almost otherworldly light in the doorway of Rick’s café or has a single tear glistening like a diamond on her cheek.  I could also say that Claude Rains’ performance as Renault is a master class in acting: even when he’s not speaking one of the film’s memorable lines, he’s fascinating to watch – always actively listening and taking in everything around him, so that we can see Renault constantly calculating, hiding his shrewd instinct for survival behind a façade of slightly dim bureaucratic officiousness. Renault’s transition from self-serving creep to reluctant good guy makes him one of Casablanca’s most compelling characters.

One of the many things I love about classic films is that they can be as demure or as suggestive as the insight and experience that we as viewers bring to them.  So when I was younger, I could easily believe kissing represented the extent of romantic relationships in films; now I can see that the demure kissing represents something deeper, that sex operates as subtext and undercurrent in so many classics. Related to that realization is my sense of how Casablanca highlights the sexual vulnerability of women in times of conflict. So many women in the film, from the young Bulgarian bride Annina to Yvonne to Bergman’s Ilsa must at least consider having sex with men in exchange for security or access.  For the most part, we only hear about the women Renault sleeps with in exchange for exit visas, but Joy Page’s Annina poignantly embodies the desperate resolve of all the other women that he exploits.

Yvonne (Madeleine Lebeau), with whom Rick has a casual (on his part, at least) relationship, gets involved with a German soldier after Rick loses interest in her. Like Marlene Dietrich’s Erika in A Foreign Affair and Cate Blanchett’s Lena in The Good German, Yvonne uses sexual relationships with men in power to guarantee her own survival and security. The same men who would happily enjoy the beautiful Yvonne’s attention are quick to insult her, like the French bar patron does, but Yvonne’s choices reflect a stark wartime reality where survival trumps notions of morality and patriotism. Yet it’s not an easy choice, as the complex mix of pain and pride on Yvonne’s face as she sings La Marseillaise makes clear.

Rick, who has no problem using Yvonne for sex, is quick to judge Ilsa in moralistic terms, comparing her to a prostitute when she tries to explain why she had to leave him in Paris. He underscores the reality of women having to use their bodies as commodities when he mocks Ilsa for “poor salesmanship.” Even Victor seems to understand that Ilsa might have to sleep with Rick to get the letters of transit. But unlike Rick, Victor isn’t judgmental about the choices Ilsa might have to make. Victor’s empathy and respect for Ilsa, not to mention his courageous struggle against tyranny, make him the true hero of Casablanca; it makes perfect sense that Ilsa radiates such awe and admiration for Victor as he leads a rousing rendition of La Marseillaise, in direct defiance of the Nazis.

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The Fades: Paul the Soul Saver

Posted on April 22, 2012 by popgoddess

General Spoiler Alert: This whole post is kind of spoiler-y, so if you want to go into the BBC TV show The Fades knowing as little as possible, I’ll just say that the show blends horror, teen angst, and humor and that I highly recommend it. Also, the first episode is slow and a bit murky, but stick with it!

“In the beginning was the Word . . .”  If there’s any doubt that Paul, the lead character of The Fades is a Christ figure, the opening words of the first season finale clear it right up. Paul has visions, sprouts wings, can heal, is resurrected, and has the ability to allow souls to ascend to heaven. That the Gospel of John is quoted by Paul’s best friend Mac, a total pop-culture geek, nicely mashes up religious allegory with the show’s other obsession: pop culture, from Star Wars to The Matrix to The Watchmen. Mac explicitly identifies Paul as a Christ figure, humorously admitting that he used to think that he himself was Christ’s second coming, since he (Mac) has a “complicated relationship with my father” and an “interest in carpentry.” Mac’s humorous religious reference may suggest that he’s reducing Christianity to just another cultural meme, but the show actually treats its religious themes with respect and even awe, especially the idea of Paul’s willingness to sacrifice himself to save human souls.

Before Paul realizes that he can actually liberate souls that are trapped in a sort of earthly purgatory, he discovers he can destroy the Fades, zombie-like beings who are dead but whose souls haven’t yet transitioned out of our world. It’s a useful ability when the Fades are threatening to snack on his family and friends, but Paul insists he’s not a killer; he’s determined to find a way to liberate the Fades’ souls, rather than just destroy them. Paul’s focus on the Fades’ prior humanity, his recognition of their souls, make me think about Buffy (big surprise, I know) and how that show deals with the concept of a soul.  Buffy frequently makes the distinction between being a killer (of humans) and a slayer. But she doesn’t let the fact that vampires used to be human stop her from killing vampires, with the exception of Angel and Spike.  This highlights a murkiness in Buffy’s worldview – is a soul the only source of moral, ethical behavior (which Angel’s case would suggest), or is there some other innate, core characteristic that makes one capable of goodness, love, and self-sacrifice (like the soulless Spike)?  If it’s the latter, how should we feel about Buffy rather indiscriminately killing beings who may have the potential for goodness and love? Paul, unlike Buffy, insists on valuing and saving the Fades’ incorruptible souls, despite all the cruel, depraved things they’ve done.

The Fades starts off with meandering, sometimes tedious pacing in the first two episodes, and it doesn’t set up its central characters and conflict as quickly as we might expect from a six-episode season (or series, as the Brits say). Once it does pick up, though, it offers exhilarating storytelling and the typically British, shocking willingness to kill off main characters. The complex, unsettling finale suggests that, as much as we may admire Paul’s commitment to saving souls, it may actually have terrible consequences. I hope season two will tell.

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The Hunger Games: Kick-Ass Heroine seeks Adventure-Loving Director

Posted on April 17, 2012 by popgoddess

Update: Francis Lawrence to direct Catching Fire. I’m actually not sure how to feel about him as a director: Water for Elephants – not good.  I am Legend – solid. Constantine – one of my guilty pleasures; I end up watching it every time it’s on TV (Tilda Swinton as Gabriel is kind of genius).  Let’s write down Water for Elephants as a blip and hope for the best.

Now that Gary Ross has bowed out of the sequels, may I suggest Kathryn Bigelow? The Oscar-winning director of the gritty The Hurt Locker and the adrenaline-rush Point Break could ramp up the pulse-pounding visceral tension that Ross’ installment lacked. The Hurt Locker makes it clear that if anyone can show the lasting, damaging effects that war can have on people, it’s this woman. Given what Bigelow was able to do with Jeremy Renner’s character in that film, I think she’d be able to get us inside Katniss’ head (something that’s missing from Ross’ film), making us privy to the character’s self-doubt, ruthless survival instinct, and anguished decision-making. I also think she’d be willing to let Katniss be hard-edged and unappealing, because you can’t always be likable when you’re fighting to survive. Plus, it would be kind of awesome to have a trail-blazing woman direct the girl who was on fire.

Any other ideas about who should direct the upcoming films? Perhaps Paul Greengrass (The Bourne Supremacy and Ultimatum)?  Leave a Comment below to share your suggestions.

Note: To be sure I wasn’t influenced, I waited to read Entertainment Weekly’s post about possible new directors until after I wrote mine. Bigelow and Joss (yay!) are at the top of their list, but scheduling conflicts, blah blah blah. Oh well, we can always dream.

Posted in Books, Movies | Tagged , | 2 Comments

The Hunger Games Revisited

Posted on April 16, 2012 by popgoddess

Since my previous post about The Hunger Games posed some questions about how the movie  would measure up to the books, here’s my follow-up, now that I’ve watched the movie: overall, it’s one of the better book-to-movie adaptations I’ve seen, certainly better than the Harry Potter films. It tightens the plot, provides exposition without being too clunky about it (Hello, Austin, Basil Exposition here!), and nicely sets up the sequels. However, it doesn’t quite rival the immersive, visceral experience of the books, and I have doubts about how the sequels will reflect Suzanne Collins’ searing indictments of social inequality, unjust power, and violence.

My doubts begin with Madge; more specifically, with the lack of Madge in the film.  The mayor’s daughter gives Katniss the mockingjay pin in the book. Getting rid of Madge may streamline the plot, but it weakens Katniss’ emotional connection to her community – a connection which is central to Katniss’ growth as a person, provides a sense of history for the district, and validates Katniss’ tremendous sense of loss and anger over the fate of District 12 later in the series.

Getting rid of Madge also keeps us from examining class differences in District 12. While all district residents are subject to the Capitol’s whims, the poor and less well-connected are clearly more vulnerable. Children from poorer families enter their names extra times for the annual Hunger Games reaping in exchange for extra rations and supplies for their families. Madge’s character highlights the differences between privileged and poor children in the district. By eliminating her, the film elides the series’ harsh criticism of a system that allows a privileged few to prosper at the expense of the poor and vulnerable, that strategically keeps some people satisfied so that they have no interest in joining with the oppressed to challenge the status quo. Poor children at statistically higher risk of being sent off to die is a particularly trenchant comment on our own society, where young men and women of lower socioeconomic classes are overrepresented in the military, and thus more likely to bear the brunt of wars decided on by the privileged political classes.

The Hunger Games, Catching Fire, and Mockingjay do offer incisive social commentary, but their primary attraction is the reader’s immersive, intimate relationship with Katniss. The series is told exclusively from Katniss’ perspective; the film, by necessity perhaps, has a more omniscient perspective, providing an effective tool for exposition and context. By not being in Katniss’ head, however, we lose our visceral understanding of her almost ruthless pragmatism, her constant mental calculations for survival.  We lose the transition from her disdain of everyone in the Capitol to her grudging affection and even respect for characters like Cinna. Perhaps most crucially, we lose her evolving assumptions about Peeta, as she tries to figure out whether he’s a true ally or simply doing everything he can do to survive.

The film robs Peeta of nuance and humor, partly because Josh Hutcherson doesn’t fully capture the character and also because the script itself doesn’t allow for much depth. A case in point is Katniss and Peeta’s interlude in the cave during the games.  The film gives it short shrift, which is too bad, because it becomes an emotional touchstone later in the series. What we learn in the cave about Peeta’s memories of Katniss – her little-girl pigtails, her beautiful singing, all the little details that make him love her – makes his fate even more heartbreaking. *SPOILER ALERT* The Capitol brainwashes Peeta, basically torturing him into hating Katniss, taking his memories of her and poisoning them, turning his deep affection into correspondingly deep hatred and fear. This is what ultimately makes their relationship so moving: it’s not just a crush or attraction he can’t help, but a powerful act of will for Peeta, a testament to the trust he places in Katniss when he can’t even trust his own memories. He has to re-learn his own history with Katniss, and it’s a constant physical struggle for him to fight the compulsion, programmed into him by the Capitol, to destroy her.  In the end, their love isn’t about a nostalgic connection based on rosy-hued memories, but about two damaged people who slowly, painfully, find a way back to each other, who find in each other a balm for their traumatized psyches.

Okay, so I clearly strayed from the movie there, but the books are so absorbing, I just can’t help it! I’m actually re-reading the series now, so I’ll probably have more related entries over the next several weeks.  For now, though, enjoy this post and remember: Have a comment, leave a comment!

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Random Harvest: Greer Garson and Ronald Colman in all their Old Hollywood Glory

Posted on April 8, 2012 by popgoddess

Random Harvest was on Turner Classic Movies the other morning, and even though I’ve already watched the film several times, I just had to sit down and watch it again. It’s such an all-around beautiful movie – a beautiful love story, beautifully shot, with beautiful stars Ronald Colman and Greer Garson.

Handsome, urbane Ronald Colman is the only actor I know to give Cary Grant some real competition for a woman’s affection (see the wonderful The Talk of the Town). In Random Harvest, Colman plays Smithy, an amnesiac WWI veteran who also suffers from a speech impediment as a result of his traumatic wartime experiences. Colman is subtly convincing as the damaged, tentative Smithy. I’m always impressed by how movingly  he portrays Smithy’s speech impediment: he doesn’t go the obvious route – no stuttering or stammering – just a painful pause that expresses his frustration, lack of confidence, and the lingering effect of wartime trauma. Greer Garson’s Paula befriends Smithy, and Colman captures his newfound, almost childlike, joy in life as he slowly regains his speech and confidence, thanks to Paula’s friendship and love.

After an accident restores his pre-war memories but completely erases his life as Smithy, Colman perfectly embodies Charles Rainier: aristocratic, reserved, and pragmatic where Smithy was spontaneous and expressive; a businessman and politician instead of an aspiring writer like Smithy.  One imagines that Charles Rainier never would’ve deigned to have a relationship with Paula, a chorus girl. Charles’ memory loss after the war actually makes Smithy and his life with Paula possible, allowing him to discover his joyful, creative side. The heartbreak of the story is that Charles completely loses that part of himself when he recovers his memory; he exists without the happiness and love that he briefly had as Smithy, haunted by a vague sense of loss for a life he can’t even remember.

The ravishing Greer Garson perfectly complements Ronald Colman’s dignified elegance as she transitions from the warm, impulsive chorus girl, to a quietly efficient assistant, and, finally, to the regal Lady Rainier.  After Smithy disappears, Paula tracks down Charles and takes a job as his assistant, under the name Margaret. Charles, of course, has no previous memory of Paula and is simply impressed with Margaret’s composure and efficiency. Ever the pragmatist, he proposes a marriage of convenience.  As Paula listens to Charles propose, her love, her hope that he might remember their previous life together, and the painful realization that he probably never will, all play beautifully across her expressive face. When Charles looks up at her, she instantly wipes away those emotions, forcing herself back into the persona of the practical Margaret. I re-watched scene about three times, marveling in Garson’s nuanced performance.

Random Harvest charts an enduring love story from chorus hall to opera house, from gatherings at the local pub to dances with the Prime Minister, from a tiny cottage to the imposing Random Hall. Its moving story, gorgeous cinematography, and memorable performances make it a true classic of Hollywood’s golden age.

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Why Buffy the Vampire Slayer is one of the best dramas of the last 25 years

Posted on March 26, 2012 by popgoddess

Buffy the Vampire Slayer was a finalist in New York Magazine’s reader poll of the best drama of the last 25 years.  Breaking Bad edged out Buffy for the win, but I’m still excited that Buffy made the list. You can read about the other finalists on New York Magazine’s Vulture blog:

http://www.vulture.com/2012/03/best-show-breaking-bad-buffy.html

Buffy was the first show I thought of when I heard about the poll. I was surprised that it was a finalist, though, because it generally doesn’t get broad mainstream recognition. You Buffy fans know what I’m talking about: the snicker and the eye roll you get when you try to convince a non-Whedonite that it really is one of the best shows ever. I’ll admit I was guilty of the same response when my best friend and Buffy sire Ashley first mentioned the show to me, but its humor, rich characterizations, and clever metaphorical use of the slayer mythology quickly won me over. 

As New York Magazine TV critic Matt Zoller Seitz pointed out on Monday in his analysis of the competition on WNYC’s Brian Lehrer Show, the hallmark of many of the greatest shows is that they function as metaphors for our lives, for experiences we all share. Buffy certainly fits that bill, especially during the seasons set in high school: you think high school is hell? Well, Buffy’s high school is actually a portal to hell. Your boyfriend changes after you have sex with him? Buffy’s boyfriend changes, too . . . into a soulless murderous vampire (ok, the vampire part isn’t so much of a change).  This is what people who don’t watch the show have a hard time understanding – that a show ostensibly about vampires and a girl with super strength is actually about a girl dealing with challenges we can all identify with: fitting in, finding and losing friends, falling in love with someone who’s wrong for you, figuring out who you are.

What makes this metaphor work, of course, is Buffy’s stellar writing. While each episode may be driven by a monster of the week storyline, the overarching plot is grounded in a consistent through-line of textured character development and events with lasting consequences. That’s the difference between a perfectly decent show and an amazing show. I was recently going on about this while watching Blue Bloods, one such decent show. A lead character is assaulted and almost raped in one episode, but by the next episode, it’s like nothing happened – no after-effects of the attack, no consequences. The lack of follow-through makes the frightening event feel like just a gimmick, rather than real trauma happening to a real person. By contrast, when Buffy is almost raped by Spike, the aftershocks reverberate for the rest of the show. In another Blue Bloods episode, a cop’s family is shot at, briefly generating conflict – the frightened spouse wishes the cop would leave his job, their son acts out in school as he struggles to process the event – but it’s all neatly tied up in one episode, and nobody mentions the incident again in future episodes. When a shot is fired on Buffy, killing Willow’s girlfriend, it has tragic long-term consequences: furious, grieving Willow kills the shooter, an act that violates the show’s taboo against taking human life and forever alters Willow’s relationship with her own magical powers. Even though Buffy takes place in a fantastical world of demons and slayers, its characters are actually more believable than those on an average, less well-written show because they have realistic responses to events and evolve in nuanced, complicated ways.

Obviously, I can go on at length about all the things that make Buffy great, but if I had to pick just one, it’s the show’s full-throated feminism. Over the course of seven seasons, Buffy learns about the origins, limits, and responsibilities of her power and then re-defines it on her own terms. In the series finale, she challenges the rule, “made up by a bunch of men who died a thousand years ago,” that only one woman can have the power of the slayer at any given time. Instead, she says, “My power should be our power . . . Every girl who could have the power, will have the power; can stand up, will stand up.” In the show’s worldview, power is not about one person having it, but about using it in a way that equally empowers others around you. For me, this is the essence of feminism: it’s not about empowering women over men, but about challenging patriarchal structures that require one group to have dominance over another, that grant power through the subjugation of others. Feminism is about radical systemic change that equally empowers all people, regardless of gender, sexual, class, or other identities.

“Are you ready to be strong?” Buffy asks in her final speech. Nine years after the finale aired, that line, with its promise and its challenge, still gives me goosebumps.  To me, that’s evidence of Buffy‘s well-deserved place among television’s greatest shows.

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Nrityagram: The Graceful Grandeur of Odissi Dance

Posted on March 24, 2012 by popgoddess

I recently attended an Odissi dance performance by members of the group Nrityagram.  Although I don’t know much about the technical aspects of traditional Indian dance, I want to share my impressions of this entrancing performance.

First of all, I’m thrilled that it’s a traditional performance, with live music and traditional  costumes and source material. I once attended a Bharatnatyam dance performance in Chicago which only had recorded music and whose dancers didn’t even wear ghungroo (bells worn around the ankles). I guess it was an attempt to make the dance form more accessible to mainstream audiences, but instead it stripped the dance of its essence.  It was a disappointing shadow of a traditional Indian dance performance, with its exhilarating interplay of music, movement, and storytelling.

Nrityagram’s show also avoids the pitfalls of fusion, even though it incorporates segments of  Kandyan dance, a Sri Lankan form. As dancer and choreographer Surupa Sen pointed out in the post-show Q&A, “this is collaboration, not fusion.”  Each dance form is presented on its own terms, so that both Odissi and Kandyan dance retain their integrity, rather than being diluted down.

The presence of Odissi and Kandyan dancers onstage together allowed me to identify distinctive characteristics of each form.  Kandyan dance appears athletic and even gymnastic, while Odissi appears more controlled and graceful. Where Kandyan movements and poses are angular and elongating, Odissi’s curve and bend.  Kandyan dance is dominated by a pulsating rhythym, whereas Odissi is characterized by a flowing musicality. In Kandyan dance the dancers’ torso, arms, and legs move rather broadly to the rhythm of the accompanying Kandyan drum. Odissi movements, meanwhile, are more articulated, with small, distinct movements of the hands, fingers, neck, head, and eyes.  Kandyan dance is connected primarily to the drum’s rhythm, whereas Odissi also echoes and interacts with the voices and other instruments, including the violin and flute, of the musicians onstage. The Odissi sections are characterized by a sort of harmonious melodic layering: as is customary in Indian classical music, the violin and flute mimic the singer’s voice and the percussion imitates the other instruments tonally; the Odissi dancers’ ghungroo echo the mardala drum’s rhythms as well as the tones of the violin and flute.

As always with Indian classical dance, I’m amazed at how the dancers convey a range of visual and narrative information simply with facial expressions, especially the eyes, and subtle movements of arms and hands. A single dancer can embody the small miracle of a blooming lotus flower, the intimacy of a lovers’ embrace, and a deity’s cosmic power, all within a single piece.

My favorite piece was the dance based on a poem in praise of Shiva. Bijayini Satpathy vividly represents Shiva’s long matted hair, with the purifying river Ganga flowing from it;  his attendant serpent with its open, swaying hood; the opening of his fearsome third eye; and Shiva’s Tandava, his magnificent dance of cosmic destruction.

Surupa Sen joins Ms. Satpathy onstage to depict the key mythological episode of Shiva burning Kama, the god of love, to ashes with his third eye. Kama incurs Shiva’s wrath when he interrupts the lord’s meditation with his attempts to pierce Shiva with love’s arrow. I loved the contrast between Shiva’s meditative yet inherently powerful stillness, embodied by Ms. Sen, and Kama’s mischievous playfulness, embodied by Ms. Satpathy. With wonderful economy of movement, Ms. Sen places her forefinger and thumb on her forehead and moves them apart slightly to depict the opening of Shiva’s third eye. So expressive is her posture, even in stillness, that the small motion of her fingers is enough to convey the awesome power emanating from Shiva’s third eye.

The fact that this ecstatic expression of devotion to Shiva is based on a poem attributed to Ravana, the evil king of Lanka killed by Rama in the Ramayana, adds emotional significance to the piece. Legend has it that Ravana was actually a great devotee of Shiva and that his power and strength were gifts from the lord.  Shiva gives Ravana a choice between several lives as a righteous man and a single life as an evil man. Ravana chooses to live once as an evil man and then be free of rebirth. “Dance on the funeral pyres in my heart and release me from this universe,” Ravana asks of Shiva in the poem. It is a testament to Ravana’s devotion that lord Rama himself kills Ravana, releasing his soul from the cycle of reincarnation. And it’s a testament to the Nrityagram dancers that they can so magnificently embody both the intimacy and grandeur of the stories they tell.

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