We saw this last night. H loved it. So did the full house that gave it a standing ovation. However, I was disappointed. I found it insufferably long. I found the script scattered and unfocused, spending too much time, too many songs, on subordinate narrative threads; I thought the music and songs were instantly forgettable and the lyrics filled with politically correct pap; I thought it was an insult to a brilliant novel and a fine film. However, the production and performances were first rate: it's the script and music that didn't work at all for me. But I may be the only person in Portland who reacted this way.
Sometimes, leaving the theater after such a disappointing experience, I take solace in Thoreau's phrase "a majority of one" but last night I felt depressed. I told my wife, I belong on another planet. Yes, Charles, she said, I think you do.
So what does one do with that? You find other aliens to hang with, which I did through much of my life but I've outlived them all and haven't found others (haven't looked very hard). You go home, like ET. Not sure how to do that. What else?
All the same, cruising this morning -- jazz, coffee, a sausage muffin -- I once again reflected on the great blessings in my life.
And today promises to be more dramatic than last night. I have underdogs to root for! UCLA over Stanford, Cal over USC.
In the past year, I've failed miserably at my piano studies. So I sat down and played a bit yesterday. Shooting and editing video takes so damn much time, I just fell out of the routine of practicing, taking the time to practice. I'm going to try and pick it up again, which requires backstepping some. The good news is I've found the perfect self-study book for my musical interests, and it goes lesson by lesson, page by page, interesting from the start, and I'll just try to keep plugging away at it, a little every day.
And I need to get into a writing rhythm on the novel, too, of coure. That should happen soon.
I need to reread the Doctorow novel and get the bad taste of the musical out of my brain. This is a work of layered, complex genius, not simplistic politically correct pap.
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