Write Between The Lines

by Julio Peralta-Paulino

Water rushed the shore with the usual shimmer and foam. I looked out to the beach from the window upstairs as she dressed for lunch. A thin gathering of gulls hovered between sky and sea.

I didn’t worry over what to wear, as my thoughts were concerned and cornered by other matters.

The cigarette growing short between my fingers. There were clouds; a chance of rain, but there always was.

Back in the city, I had one more day to turn in the story.

I had a paragraph. The basic facts.

I could hear her heels were pacing and this meant the makeup would soon be applied and perhaps I should start to consider what clothes to pick for the day.

The story seemed to be a good one, at least it did when I got it.

The countess that recently divorced and moved to this sleepy beach town where even the tourists were too few to stand out from the locals.

Of course, as it happened, the distractions were decidedly better.

Sheryl, presently applying lipstick or some other color contraption to her cute yet commanding face which I found irresistible especially in the twilight hours when the moon hung above the waves like a silver watch in the chromatic sky.

And then there was the drink. The burning song of tequila, we danced through the nights.

I had just shut the cell into itself. The editor’s voice still sounding in the ear of memory. There was the hint of a threat within those words.

I didn’t mind being fired, it was just the money I’d miss and after these decadent days I would really miss it. Decadence is not a cheap affair and I suspect that it never was.

Thankfully, there is only so much debauchery an individual can take before giving up and going back to some type of normality.

I could make up a story, but they were expecting some type of statement from the countess.

A mixture of a few stale filters and ashes made its way onto the hard, steady surface of the pale red fabric that passed for a rug at the Sapphire Inn, as I introduced another done cigarette into the laminated glass ashtray.

Looking over at the laptop which had not been propped into use since the train ride, I thought I should at least write out the paragraph I have . . . “Are you ready,” she called out and I responded with a cautious yes as my preparation was only for the uncertain future.

by Julio Peralta-Paulino

Sometimes I think of Tibet
Drowning in a Sino-vat
Without a way to exit

Sometimes I forget where we met
Was I just standing there pat?
Waiting to suck on the tit of wit

Sometimes I think it’s kismet
The way and the where we are at
One apple long ago bit

Sometimes I think of Tibet
Swept under the Asian mat
Held in a genocidal pit

Sometimes I place a bet
Where everything tastes like chocolate
And no words come from the bully pulpit

Sometimes I blow a trumpet
From the tall of some high ghat
And wonder if the truth is well lit

Sometimes I think of Tibet
Defiled without format
Her freedom taxed in unholy audit

Sometimes I think of the harlot
When I never wore a hat
And everything waited to be writ

Sometimes I could roar like a jet
Sometimes I just pace around my flat
Sometimes I count the lights of my spirit

Sometimes I think of Tibet
A collegiate shut out of democracy’s frat
Made to do a back-breaking split

Sometimes I feel caught in a net
Among the saved among the spat
My own fingers in a frenzy knit

Sometimes I begin to fret
And board a nervous yacht
Feeling nothing like a pundit

Sometimes I think of Tibet
Forced to be an acrobat
Around the Himalayan ambit

Sometimes I refrain from dancing the city’s minuet
And fly off into my inner space like some cosmonaut
Alone I light a slower bullet

Sometimes I light a cigarette
Where matches tit for tat
But I’ve more than ashes to deposit

Sometimes I think of Tibet
As some republican acts like a democrat
And I wonder what any of them would really admit

Sometimes I remember women’s corset
And wonder at equality’s when upon this habitat
From Mexico City to Great Brit

Sometimes I tell you a secret
Sometimes I hear the purr of the goddess cat
Bast trust vast where we the feel emit

Sometimes I think of Tibet
Where time is a bureaucrat
And I watched that film with Brad Pitt

Sometimes I wonder if our world will regret
The temperature upon her thermostat
While the future runs hot as we sit

Sometimes I sing the alphabet
In a monotone scat
Until I find another note to hit

Sometimes I think of Tibet
Wounded by the big bully brat
Bleeding without conceit

Sometimes I feel like a cadet
Doing those chores well and stat
All for another’s benefit

Sometimes I think there’s nothing more and yet
Brilliant snows cover some rusty old slat
Glittering as if to elicit

Sometimes I think of Tibet
At the studio while playing back a dat
Is there something more to edit?

Sometimes I consider the internet
A generation of followers in an electronic squat
The void within us has never been so explicit

Sometimes I feel like Hamlet
The rest is a silence that
Shatters and doth not quit

By Leigh “Tammy Tonic” Godfrey

I think the description on the website for Hotel Budapest Tourism nails the city’s Fun Fair when they describe it as, “The best of its kind in Hungary, though do not expect Disney!” I might add, “Or to enjoy the latest in safety measures!”

Actually, that’s harsh – after all it has been nearly 15 years since Catsy and I visited the Fun Fair and adjacent Grand Circus, both located in Budapest’s beautiful Varosliget (City Park). I’m sure since then, especially now that Hungary is part of the European Union, great strides have been made in the upgrade of the park’s rides. Then again, maybe not.

But let me tell you how it was not long after the Berlin Wall fell . . .

It was 1991 and about month into our European travels, Catsy and I found ourselves in Budapest. We loved “the Paris of the East,” and despite numerous warnings from many xenophobic American tourists who told us to “watch out for the thieving gypsies,” we spent many a happy day exploring the city, investigating every potential tourist trap this decidedly untouristy city held for us. Our ridiculously insufficient guide book “Let’s Go” Europe (subsequently christened “Let’s Get Lame” Europe) devoted three paltry pages to the delights of Budapest, but among them was a mention of the local Circus and Fun Fair.

As Catsy and I have always been rabid amusement park goers, we were instantly hip to the idea of a Fun Fair. Not so winning was the Circus, but as Hungary apparently has a proud tradition of circus folk, we overcame our overwhelming fear of clowns and traveled to the City Park to welcome the wonderful delights that awaited us there. And this is our story . . .

As we walked into the park to find the Circus, we were accosted by some gypsy children, who followed us all the way to the ticket window and were hovering around us constantly. Were these finally the gypsies we were warned to “watch out for” while in Budapest? They were just kids, albeit annoying ones, clamoring for money and grabbing on to our clothes. In normal circumstances we would have just ignored them, but all of a sudden we started feeling paranoid about pulling out our money in front of them. But we had made our decision and nothing was going to stop us from visiting the circus, not even a pack of gypsy children who may or may not be trying to steal from us.

As the circus didn’t start for a while, we headed over to the Fun Fair, which cost a whopping 10 forints to get into – but the minute we walked in and saw the cheesy carnival atmosphere we knew it was worth our 15 cents. You had to pay for each ride separately, and as we didn’t have much time we had to choose carefully. We opted for the roller coaster, 30 forints and worth every penny. Definitely the most frightening ride I have ever been on. Not because of loops or high hills, no – it was the decrepit nature of the cars and track and the fact the there was nothing, and yes I mean no bar, or seat belt, nothing — holding you into the car. I was sitting on the side where one enters, and it was completely open. Actually, I exaggerate, the attendant did pull a small chain across the opening which I’m sure could have born the weight of a Chihuahua before breaking. “Thanks! I feel safer already!” I quipped. And did I mention that the man sitting in front had draped his arm across the bar to put it around his (hopefully) daughter, so we didn’t even have a bar to hold on to. Basically, we clung to each other and prayed.

Yes, a truly death-defying experience.

Next up was the Haunted House. You know the kind, a carnival staple, where you get into little cars and they shoot you through the darkness, and as you whip around corners you encounter something scary. Well, in this case the “something scary” was weird papier-mâché giants and decaying scarecrow witches and silly stuff like that. Truly uninspired. But at this point, nothing was going to beat the thrill of the roller coaster with no safety bar. Or so we thought.

We had only time for one more ride, and so we slapped down 12 forints for a trip on “L’Amour.” Basically, it was “The Himalayan” with one strange addition – a vinyl canopy that flipped up over your head periodically so you were covered from the onlookers, at which point I guess you could then indulge in any sort of activities that “l’amour” might make happen. The best part (or worst, depending on who you are in this story) was that our canopy was broken, and it kept bashing Catsy upside the head, or her hair would get caught in it as it whipped up to cover us. Our hysterical laughter, the blaring German rock music and the hyped up announcer shouting something in Hungarian over the loud speaker (which you know translated to, “Do you want to go faster??!!”) made this an altogether hilarious and treacherous ride.

But the best was still to come. Yes, our visit to the Circus. Even with scary clowns apparent as we entered, we were ready to experience the Budapest Circus Extravaganza.

And what can I say, but it was worth the dollar. Psycho animal acts, energetic acrobats and, of course, intermittent clowning, made even more exciting by the fact that it was emceed entirely in Hungarian, so we could only guess at the next gem were would be lucky enough to view. Among my favorites: the bird woman with a slew of pigeons she directed to alight on a strange ‘70s centerpiece; the schnauzers in glitter outfits dancing on their hind legs, and the man who hypnotized alligators. Wow.

After the circus was over we walked through the park and I bought a cotton candy (a typical circus-type thing) and Jessie bought some corn from an entrepreneurial fellow who had a folding table and a big pot stationed at a bend in the path. At the time I maintained this is not a very typical thing to be sold anywhere, let alone a circus, but of course, I was young and naïve and had not yet moved to Los Angeles, where corn is purveyed daily on the streets of my neighborhood. So I was mistaken about the popularity and availability of corn, but I still found it to be a strange post-circus snack item. But as you will notice from her Minnesota article, Catsy is a child of the corn.

And thus endeth our trip to the Budapest Circus and Fun Fair. It is most likely never to be repeated. But thank goodness we’ll always have Disney.

by Jessie “Catsy” Nagel

I’ve been told I don’t have a closer. You know, a line that makes everyone want to run right out and go to the Minnesota State Fair. Instead, I have two words that warm my heart but seem to alienate most others: Seed Art.

Imagine being so obsessive, so organized as to categorize various seeds and eventually glue them onto backing to create a still life or a landscape or perhaps a portrait of Ray Romano or Shirley Temple. Yes, this is just one of the delights that awaits you at the Minnesota State Fair.

But if you are like many of my friends, this is not a draw (no, it is art created with seeds.) So how about being able to pet a baby buffalo at a stand that also houses a taxidermied head of a buffalo named “Fred” and various meat products for sale, including buffalo jerky? These, truly, are some unsentimental folks.

Or there is the Snake Hut where, for $1 (on top of the $9 admission fee for the Fair), you can view various snakes in glass tanks, all displayed in a room adorned with shed skins.

The Minnesota State Fair wants you to look pretty despite humid September conditions, so it offers an outdoor beauty salon where you can get “Fair Hair” (read: teased to high heaven). Once you have acquired the fashion sense of a trailer park, you can have that hair-do whipped around and flattened by the centrifugal force of the Midway rides.

My personal favorite was the Magnum P.I. ride, because the airbrushed face of Tom Selleck had a kind of outsider art quality. And there is the bonus thrill of going on a ride that has been making the carny circuit since the 1980s.

By the time you have enjoyed this, the newly supercharged teacups and the rusty-looking Zipper, you’ll possess a bed-head quality that meshes nicely with the weave-and-bob, inspired not by alcohol, but by g-force.

I have avoided the subject of food until now (unless buffalo jerky counts in your world) because you really do not want to eat before going to the Midway. If you must eat, keep it to a minimum – a few Tom Thumb donuts at most.

After the Midway, if you can stop the butterflies, head to the food pavilion to sample the biggest draw at the Fair: Fried morsels or something on a stick. Here are just a few examples:

Pork chop on a stick
Meatball on a stick
Scotch egg on a stick
Reuben on a stick
Fried Twinkies
Fried cheese curds
Fried peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
Fried Mars Bars

There is also a stand that is emblazoned with a sign that says they offer “absolutely nothing on a stick!” which proves just how silly and out of hand this whole food-on-wood situation has become. I tried the fried cheese curds (too salty), but eschewed the rest of the aforementioned goodies in favor of a pork tenderloin sandwich and some truly delicious corn.

In addition to the food stands, the fair offers the delightful and ubiquitous “best in show” displays of canned goods, cakes, cookies and the corporate sponsored Spam cook-off and Pillsbury Pie Crust bake-off (how difficult could that be?).

I loved the bee-keeping displays and the quilts, but they didn’t come close to the educational dioramas designed by school kids. I learned, for example, all about the ice industry that thrived in the early part of the last century. This is Minnesota, after all.

To update an old adage: If life gives you freezing tundra, make cocktail ice.

by Leigh A. Godfrey

I’m slightly obsessed with the Winona Ryder shoplifting case (if you can be “slightly obsessed” with anything). I can’t explain why, I just am. Not enough to buy a Free Winona T-shirt, but I get really excited when wacky Winona headlines pop up on my Yahoo homepage, and lately they’ve been there just about every day. My secret dream is to see that entire videotape of her wandering around Saks like a bag lady.

And speaking of secret dreams, for a while (a long time ago) my secret dream was to meet John Taylor from Duran Duran and have him fall madly in love with me. Which may explain some of why I love the movie Modern Girls. See, in this obscure B-movie gem, CeCe (played by the perky Cynthia Gibb), one of the three “modern girls” of the title, is at a nightclub and in walks Bruno X, the “dreamiest” rock star on MTV. Encouraged to go for it by her cynical friend Margo (Daphne Zuniga, whom I have now seen around town twice, leading me to believe the next time I see her I have to tell her how much I love her in this movie), CeCe literally falls on top of Bruno and it’s love at first sight for the hot rocker. But the two are separated when the club is raided: “I can’t go that way, they’re checking IDs . . . I’m only 19!” CeCe sadly wails as Bruno is hustled out the door by his manager. And thus our “wacky night on the town” flick is set up for us.

But I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself. First, you must meet the modern girls themselves.

Modern Girls is set in Los Angeles and tells the tale of three young ladies whose only concern is where they will be going out that night. At the start of the film we find out that Kelly (Virginia Madsen) is the pretty one, as we watch all the boys fawn over her at the pet store where she works. CeCe is the wild one. This is illustrated by the fact that in her job as a cosmetic counter employee, she gives a matronly woman a makeover featuring Siouxsie Sioux-style eye shadow, which gets CeCe promptly fired. Finally, Margo is the aloof (read: bitchy) one. We are first introduced to her at her job as a telemarketer, where she is rude to the customers. She clearly hates being on the phone, and isn’t very good at her job. Of course, this is ironic, as just hours later we see her networking on the phone like an old pro as she wangles entrance into the hottest clubs for herself and her two friends. Margo is also the voice of reason. It is she that tells Kelly to give up her no-good DJ boyfriend Brad because he doesn’t appreciate her.

But again, I’m getting ahead of myself. But it’s just so exciting talking about this movie. It’s like stealing a bunch of $300 hair bows when you have more than enough money to pay for them!

Anyway, the three girls are roommates and clearly, die-hard partiers. As soon as they get home, Margo gets on the phone to find out the place to be that night, and CeCe sets her alarm for 10:30 pm so she can nap in anticipation for a big night out. The alarm rings, and we are treated to a montage of CeCe trying on various hideous outfits that I assume are supposed to be a vague representation of the gamut of clothing available to young recently unemployed girls living in LA in the 80s. But it really just looks like someone raided a B-movie costume designer’s closet. (Oh, wait – someone did!)

As to the music backing this montage, please see my North Shore review for my comment on B-movie soundtracks of the 80s.

Anyway, she finally ends up with this crazy-ass outfit that involves a weird boa that is not made out of feathers and a purse that looks like a rock. Need I mention, this is not and never was thought of as cool. Margo represents in a black short skirt, a Michael Jackson-esque jacket with a myriad of zippers and humongous shoulder pads, fishnets, long blue velveteen gloves, and one diamante earring that is dangly and one that is not. Sadly, this was considered relatively cool in the 80s, when fashion was as questionable as Winona’s defense that she was shoplifting because her director told her to do so.

But where is Kelly, you might ask? That is the very question posed by Clifford, Kelly’s date for the night, who shows up at the apartment as eager as one of the puppies in Kelly’s pet shop. Now what poor Clifford doesn’t know, but what Margo and CeCe do, is that Kelly has slipped out to go be slutty with bad boy Brad while Margo and CeCe were napping. And she took the car! See, these girls are poor, therefore they share a car. And everyone knows that living in LA you have to have a car. But Margo, after sneaking a glance out the window to see Cliff’s styling vintage convertible, has a cunning plan. They will tell Cliff that they are meeting Kelly at the club, so as to get a ride there. This, to me, is a stroke of scriptwriting genius. Because who didn’t make friends with some dork who drove when they were without license and/or car?

Don’t say you didn’t because we ALL did.

Anyway, CeCe decides to spend a little time watching MTV with Cliff and here is where we are introduced to the fabulous Bruno X. As we are treated to a snippet of his video for “Safire” (pronounced Sa-Far-Aye), Cliff says: “Who is that guy?” Now, the discerning viewer will instantly see that Bruno X is Cliff with a British accent. (That’s right, both characters are played by actor Clayton Rohner, who also starred in another personal 80s favorite of mine Just One of the Guys.) But CeCe shrilly exclaims: “What planet are you from? It’s Bruno X.” Cliff is not impressed, the subject is dropped, Margo appears, and they are on their way. Now I have to mention both Margo and CeCe think that Cliff is a complete dork, I think mainly because he is wearing this cool vintage sweater and drives an old car. But I probably do not need to mention that clearly this makes Cliff way cooler than Margo and CeCe will ever hope to be. I mean, a purse that looks like a rock? One long earring and one short one? Puh-lease.

Anyway, they roll up to the club and CeCe explains the rules of being a Modern Girl to Cliff: “We never pay for parking, and we never carry cash, and we never buy our own drinks. And we never wait in line.” All things I honor. Well, except for the never carrying cash and never buying your own drinks. A true Modern Girl always buys her own drinks. Or, better yet, befriends the bartender who pours her free drinks all night. (See all Tammy Tonic reviews.)

They go inside (cue bad synth music no one’s ever heard of) and Kelly, in a dress that is a cross between Stevie Nicks and Jessica McClintock, is writhing all over Brad who is sporting a striped tank top, white pants with suspenders, and a mullet. (And Cliff is a dork?) Cliff is despondent and manages to make Margo feel bad for about two seconds when he tells her if she just wanted a ride she should have asked. She tells him she’ll buy him a drink, which she accomplishes by heading to the bar and picking out the most yuppified blow-dried guy out of the bunch and asks him to buy her not one, but three drinks. And then she doesn’t even put out!

Cut to aforementioned scene with Bruno X’s entry. I guess there was a point of making über-dork Cliff and über-stud Bruno X the same actor, but I don’t know what it is. Maybe the irony that they are chasing all over town for a guy that is right under their nose all along? A metaphor for the complicated male-female relationships of the time? Cheaper than paying two actors? You be the judge.

So Bruno is gone, Kelly has also been swept away in the post-raid crush, and much to Margo’s chagrin CeCe demands that Cliff follow Bruno’s limo. A goofy limo chase thus ensues, culminating in the trio having very un-PC terrorist-looking dudes pointing guns at them (please don’t make me explain this because I don’t think I can).

After proclaiming that a drink will cheer them up, Margo, CeCe, and Cliff head to the goth club the Gloom Room, and the girls proceed to give Cliffy a makeover which basically consists of them spiking up his hair with some Finesse hair spray and having him smoke a color-coordinated Sherman cigarette. And by lighting his cigarette CeCe uncovers the clue to Bruno X’s whereabouts with some hotel matches. CeCe calls the hotel but they are not going to give the sad groupie his room number. However, the girls get the brilliant idea to have Cliffy call and impersonate Bruno X! Ingenious! He finds out that Bruno is wanted on the set of his hot music video for the hit single “Bond of Addiction,” which is being shot on Melrose Ave.

The trio heads to Melrose and wanders around the video set until the director spots Cliffy and forces him to act as a stand-in for Bruno X, and Cliffy finds his inner rock star as he puts on a trench coat and dances with some Addicted to Love style dancers. In the meantime, the real Bruno X phones the video director to call off the shoot because he “met some dream girl in a club and is looking for her.” (Yup, that would be CeCe.) CeCe tries to grab the phone and then interrogates the director, who claims that he couldn’t hear Bruno because of all the birds in the background. Remember this, as it factors into Kelly’s pet store job. And it’s about this time that CeCe remembers to tell Margo that Kelly has gone off to Sharkey’s with two druggies. Cliffy asks where Sharkey’s is, and the terrible trio is off to rescue her.

Cut to wee Kelly, who has gone of to a biker bar with a wacky couple that has scored some Ecstasy. After taking a pill, Kelly rolls around on a pool table enticing every freak in the bar until Cliffy, Margo, and CeCe break in with same loopy story about nuclear waste and radiation (no, I’m not kidding) and rescue Kelly from certain gang rape.

Margo gives Kelly a talking to: “You think a good rape is like a good cigar?” and Kelly just giggles in her Ecstasy haze.

Then there is a whole scene of rain in the convertible and two flat tires in the cool car and Cliffy getting mad at the girls and all of them walking for miles through Hollywood and a bus full of tourists mistaking Cliff for Bruno X and finally, they all end up in a Ford Fiesta that Cliff uses to give driving lessons. (See he is a dork; he’s a driving instructor!) But along the way, Cliff and Margo almost make out and you see the love a growing, although Cliff thinks “Margo is too cool to care about anyone.”

But I question that, as she is still sporting that one long earring look.

Anyway, after they are installed in the very uncool car, Kelly informs the girls she sold a bunch of exotic birds to a guy that was opening a club that night: “Club Voodoo.” Even Margo thinks it is too exclusive for them to get into but they give it a shot. It looks as though our heroines are going to be humiliated by a long wait in line, but the bouncer spots Cliffy in his Bruno X persona and lets them all in. When inside, CeCe finds out that Bruno X had been there and done an incredible “word jazz poem kind of thing” and dedicated it to her before taking off. But she manages to find his very drunk manager tucked away in a corner of the bar, and he tells her that Bruno X will be leaving from the Santa Monica Airport at 7 am. In the meantime, much to Margo’s chagrin (again), Kelly has decided in her waning Ecstasy haze she’s going to put the big moves on Cliff. But right at the moment of truth, Kelly sees Brad and gets all despondent and crazy and goes off with this psycho stalker guy in the midst of a fruit fight that has ensued (don’t ask).

Margo, CeCe, and Cliff luckily find out from the slutty girl who likes to take pictures of herself (again, don’t ask) that the psycho guy is indeed psycho, so they race off the follow them. After a not so exciting car chase, they end up at the fountain off Los Feliz Blvd., where Kelly is once again nearly raped and subsequently saved by her friends. However, in the course of saving her they are arrested and taken to the police station, leaving poor CeCe lamenting over ever meeting Bruno at the airport at 7 am.

Out of jail, Cliff and Margo finally have their kissing moment in the parking lot of the prison, and they all race off to get CeCe to the airport on time. But inexplicably, once there, reunited with the hottest rock star of the moment, CeCe questions the wisdom of running off with Bruno X. And here’s where I say: What? You’re nineteen. You’ve just lost your job. You’ve got the hottest rock star of the moment telling you you’re fabulous, he’ll buy you whatever you want, and he wants to take you away with him. And he’s cute. And you already know he’s a good kisser. Do you go? Hell, yeah you do. Oh sorry, but not if you’re stupid old CeCe, who decides that she needs to stay, because of her friends. How lame is that? I hate that so much, it’s the one false note in this otherwise beautiful reminder of the fun-loving 80s.

So I guess the real reason why I love the movie Modern Girls is, excepting the lame ending, in a badly illustrated cheesy storyline kind of way it was exactly what I did as a teenager. Taking naps before going out at 11pm. Getting onto the guest lists of all the cool nightclubs. Wearing bad Siouxsie Sioux eye makeup. Making out with rock star Charlie Sexton, who was the Bruno X of his day. Having wacky adventures with people you just met. Doing tons of Ecstasy and almost getting gang raped in a biker bar. Oh wait—well, except for the last part, it’s pretty much just like a part of my life that I remember fondly. Only with slightly worse music and clothes.

Just slightly though. Too bad we didn’t think to shoplift our wardrobe from Saks.

by Leigh Godfrey

Nash: There has to be a mathematical explanation for how bad that tie is.

A Beautiful Mind, director Ron Howard and screenwriter Akiva Goldsman have prettied up a dark tale by delivering delusions that are fun to hang out with. The mind of John Nash (Russell Crowe) is crammed full of some of the most entertaining hallucinations a schizophrenic could ever hope to find. He lives with a saucy roommate who gets him drunk and tosses his desk out of a window. He works for a dark father figure who gets him a cool job decoding messages for the government. And then there’s that precious little girl who appears just when he needs a hug.

Of course, they eventually turn on him, but it is not until Nash’s illness is revealed to friends and family that the audience sees dementia’s darker side.

Prior to his meltdown, Nash’s schizophrenia is communicated via tics and anti-social awkwardness, overlaid with arrogance. Since no one knows he’s actually nuts, these signs are viewed as trappings of an eccentric genius, or an actor trying very hard to win the Oscar two years in a row. After his breakdown, Nash’s schizo status is more subtly communicated via sloppy fashion statements, and because he carries an umbrella—even when it’s not raining!

The biggest problem with all of this? That we must take it on faith Nash is a genius, and this genius has made his disease all the more devastating. The movie is promoted with the line “John Nash was one of the most brilliant minds of his generation.”

Oh, he was? Okay, I believe you!

Howard briefly shows Nash’s mathematical revelations via nifty visual effects. A conversation about dating leads to pretty girls disappearing in puffs of smoke, and lo and behold!—four seasons of scribbling later the “Nash equilibrium” is born. Judd Hirsch pronounces it “brilliant,” and the next thing we know it’s five years later and Nash is heading up Wheeler Labs at MIT.

Things seem to be going well for him. He is tic-free and hunky, and he even has a girlfriend. Then, William Parcher (Ed Harris), a shadowy operative with the Department of Defense, flatters Nash by calling him the “greatest natural code-breaker” he’s ever seen, and enlists him to decipher messages and save the world. Nash sees numbers and letters pop out of magazines and more frantic scribbling ensues. (But this time, it signals his descent into MADNESS!)

Although this thrillery twist may captivate viewers more than watching Nash teach applied calculus, ultimately, what Nash really did, or even who he really is, is not the point of A Beautiful Mind. He wrote a thesis while at Princeton that forty-four years later won him the Nobel Prize in economics. In between, he married and suffered from schizophrenia. No doubt Goldsman and Howard felt any more reality would not serve the story of intrigue and espionage and love and redemption they were cooking up. Fair enough, but I would have liked to have seen more of the young, arrogant, brilliant Nash, and less of the cloak and dagger trickery that leaves poor Ed Harris with not much to do but glower from under a black fedora.

Thank goodness for Jennifer Connelly, who not only saves Nash (as only the love of a good woman can do in a movie) but she nearly saves A Beautiful Mind as well. While her screen time is limited and she is forced to say lines like “I have to believe something extraordinary can happen,” Connelly, as Nash’s wife Alicia, is able to transcend the golden glow of Howard’s Oscar bait and bring some gravity to this fable, without weighing it down.

by Kerrin Ross Monahan

Nicholas Shakespeare is a talented award-winning British author. The 1995 fiction he wrote is based upon the manhunt and capture (in 1992) of Abimael Guzman, the leader of Peru’s violent guerilla organization, The Shining Path.

The author’s antagonist is Ezequiel, actually “the dancer upstairs,” or, more accurately, the choreographer of violence and chaos. Rejas, the policeman/pursuer is a very sympathetic and complete character who possesses the most admired trait of humankind. In the end, he is the one who loses the most. He won the battle, but lost the war. He is Peru, and, as one critic remarked, Everyman. It is impossible to separate the cold political from the agonizing personal.

Everything and everyone is as tightly intertwined as a Peruvian highland cap, and, as the narrator’s aunt remarks at the end: “What they say about her is true. Love is eternal for as long as it lasts.”

by Kerrin Ross Monahan

“Elizabeth Brown
Preferred a book
To going on a date.

While friends went out
And danced till dawn,
She stayed up reading late.”
— The Library by Sarah Stewart

The Dante Club by Matthew Pearl is the author’s first novel — an imaginative and extremely erudite work from a Harvard summa cum laude.

It definitely helps if one is already familiar with Dante Alighieri’s The Divine Comedy, as well as being on at least nodding terms with some of Longfellow, Lowell, and Oliver Wendell Holmes’ works. Throw in a basic understanding of the Civil War horrors and its dark aftermath — post-traumatic stress syndrome, not to mention rampant unemployment and, voilà! — one is ready to go.

At the risk of being strung up from the nearest Harvard lectern, dare I suggest that this book would make one hell of a terrific movie? — shot in alternately sepia tones and the stark blue and white of a New England winter. Good lines from the very interesting and diverse cast (not only 1865 Boston’s famous literati but a potpourri of bums, cops, and “foreigners”). Ghoulish pre-CSI type of murder scenes, gloomy church crypts and tunnels, dingy rooming houses and seedy bars, formal drawing room and elegant dinner tables — it’s all there: a visual and aural feast for the critical moviegoer.

If only Hollywood had the tried and true stable of well seasoned character actors that the British film industry has always relied upon! This is no time for a cutsey blond Valley girl starlet, dumb leading men with Spicoli accents, or aggressive kick-ass types of either gender. Intelligence, intelligence, and more intelligence!

In the right hands, the moviegoer will be led through the deepest and darkest circles of Dante’s Inferno.

“Lasciate Ogne Speranza, Voi Ch’intrate.”
(“All abandon hope, ye who enter.”)