Random Acts of Awareness

At the Renaissance faire last weekend, I strolled though Canterbury Kitchen’s picnic benches piping jigs and reels, always good for a few tips.

Gained two right away, and then saw a form rise from a bench out on the perimeter. Was but a silhouette against the late afternoon sun, an arm rising and a finger pointing at me. The voice was that of a woman and quite loud: “Mass Bay Community College!”

Not drunk but under a slight influence, she rose, continuing to point and thrust that finger, pronouncing me “the greatest English teacher ever,” or something like that. Can’t say I recognized her, but her voice and the gleam in her eye rang a bell. She went on and on telling everyone seated that I was the reason she stopped being a wayward teen and became a nurse. That’s when I recalled her from at least 22 years ago.

Embarrasing, but nice, and from an open wallet held up for her by a friend she found $6 to stuff in my tip-mug. Had there been $66, or more, I believe she would have given it all. Fellow about my age at a nearby table was chuckling. Told him I didn’t know if I should play another jig or give a grammar lesson. That quip landed a $5 tip.

Two days later, a funny thing happened to me on the way to Salem for rehearsals of the witch trial re-enactments through the first week of November. Since the annual, long-running Cry Innocent is “immersive theater,” there are breaks in the play where the actors, in character, field questions from the audience which requires us to know about the era.

On that day, we were schooled by each other with our own chosen projects, about 15 minutes apiece. One was all about hysteria created by itself and how it spread, playing on suspicion, turning people against each other. The presentation was based on Arthur Miller’s 1953 play, The Crucible, a parallel commentary on the red-scare and McCarthyism that gripped the USA soon after World War II.

That’s what I listened to just an hour after hearing, in my car, an NPR report that schools, churches, and hospitals are now under protection of the National Guard in Springfield, Ohio.

At the Screening Room last night, an elderly woman asked what the ticket cost. Obviously a senior, and someone I thought I recognized as one of our regular patrons, I quoted the senior discount.

“Ten dollars,” she cried, “that’s way too much!”

Not sure if it was resolve on my part or the fact that I was beyond surprise that kept me silent.

“I thought it was four dollars,” she finally said.

Now I struggled to keep a straight face, but I couldn’t resist some comic relief: “That was back when Jimmy Carter was president.”

She laughed and was quite pleasant in response: “Oh, I’ve been coming here all this time! I guess I just never noticed the increase.”

What I thought: “Lady, whether you know it or not, you have experienced a neurological event recently and should get checked out.”

What I said: “Most patrons here tell us how low the prices are compared to the cineplexes.”

When the film ended, she waited for me to descend from the booth to apologize for the earlier exchange, telling me what a good film it was she just saw, what good films we always have here. I felt this nagging urge to tell her to get a neurological test, but just could not bring myself to do it. Instead, I assured her that no apology was necessary, and that we hope to keep showing provocative and inspiring films.

She danced, smiling, out the door. I longed for a stiff drink.

The film she saw was War Game. Set on January 6, 2025, it imagines, according to the blurb, “a nation-wide insurrection in which members of the US military defect to support the losing Presidential candidate.”

Hardly a flick to send you home smiling and dancing. Everyone else left looking like they also were in need of stiff drinks, though they all told me the film was riveting, enlightening, convincing.

Yes, I nodded in agreement on all three points, and off they went to think it over. What I didn’t say is what I now think over: War Game never mentions, never ever hints that the very real-life possibility of a MAGA insurrection–the very real-life reason the film was made–already has the tacit support of one of America’s two major political parties.

I don’t know if I should play another jig, write another opinion column, or drown myself in drink until this is all over.

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This pic is at least ten years old. Who took it? My daughter? Nancy Cushman? Paul Shaughnessy?

A Taste of Afterglow

And I thought potato pancakes were labor intensive!

You may wonder, as I did, just how many dishes are being prepared in the prolonged opening scene in the vast kitchen of a French estate a century ago. Action is non-stop as a master chef–“the Napoleon of the culinary arts”–directs his personal cook, Eugenie (Juliette Binoche at her most angelic), and a young assistant to boil this, blanche that, pour something else, drain yet more, all while moving a pot from the stove to the sink, a tray from a table into the oven, or chopping vegetables just out of the garden.

As will happen throughout The Taste of Things, sounds of chopping, simmering, and pouring serve as dialogue since, with the exception of Dodin Bouffant’s (Benoit Magimel’s) directions, the cooking scenes speak for themselves. Call it a dual feast, one each for food and film gourmets–with tracking scenes as long as elaborate 19th Century menus, visuals that tell the story while satisfying the appetite.

Eventually characters do speak. When Dodin describes ingredients and flavors and textures and seasonings and “subtle notes” to his cronies, you might wonder if the film is turning satirical. More than once, the Screening Room audience laughed out loud. But when he speaks with Eugenie, a love story unfolds.

Takes us by surprise after so much silence in the kitchen leads to an assumption that chef and cook are husband and wife, and even then the relationship is kept to the perifery of The Taste of Things with a mystery as subtle as any of the “hints” in the broth that, as Didon boasts, “only Eugenie can make.” Both sound as eager as parents hoping to adopt when they agree to bring an “astonishing” young apprentice, Pauline, into their kitchen, but the actual parents are hesitant.

Not much of a spoiler in telling you that they do marry, “in the autumn of our lives” as Didon declares. “Speak for yourself,” Eugenie chides him, “I’m in the summer. I’ll always be in the summer.” Indeed, by the time it’s over Eugenie will ask Didon a question that “is very important to me.”

Hard to tell which is more surprising: Her question or his answer. But that’s something of a dessert you shouldn’t have until you’ve finished the dinner.

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Newburyport Postscript: Just five more shows at the Screening Room: Tomorrow (Tuesday) through Thursday at 3:45; Thursday again at 7:00; and a Saturday matinee at 12:45

Save Which Date?

At the Screening Room, first thing I do when I open up is take care of the mail and any flyers from community groups put through the transit for us to post in our window for public display.

Today I picked up one that began, “On Christmas Night,” by far the largest line on the 8.5 x 11 sheet. Next line, half that size, says, “Immerse yourself in seasonal favorites.” Wonderful! We can tell that it’s a concert. So far, so good.

Next line begins, “Friday, December 8…”

Cut! I read these three lines more times than I care to admit, wiping my glasses once and wiping my eyes twice or thrice. I even turned it over and looked closely at the back side. The rest of the flyer was clear enough. It was also inviting enough to make me consider buying a ticket—for what, I will not say because I do not want to embarrass these good people.

Nothing like this has ever happened before. Only two items that come to mind are barely related:

Years ago, one local arts organization prepared an elegant flyer, luscious in color, dynamic in design. The dark blue print was gorgeous against the coffee-colored background, and delightful to read when I put it on the counter. In the window, it might as well have been a wet brown paper bag.

Then there was the woman who showed up an hour late because she forgot to set her clock forward for Daylight Saving. Sounds like a minor oversight, but the fact that it happened on a Wednesday made her the woman of my dreams. Unfortunately, that didn’t occur to me until I had laughed long enough for her to turn around, walk down the street, and disappear around the corner.

Today, while making popcorn and getting the projector ready, I spent the next 15 minutes wracking the muscle-memory of my Yankee ingenuity for a way to alter the Christmas Day, Dec. 8 flyer with a sharpie and/or a pair of scissors without making a mess, but thought better to just let pedestrians on State Street figure it out as they walk by.

I suppose that changing “On” to “Before” would not have been too ugly, but I was reluctant to mess with anyone’s preferred prepositions. Then it occurred to me to write a little ditty I could post on social media and that would eventually gain their attention–as well as the attention of anyone who looks at posts on walls of numerous Newburyport businesses.

Of course, on November 29 as I write, it’s too late for them to change the present poster, but in the future, they might make the conversion from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar. As we often hear:

Better 441 years late than never!

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