Fringe and cringe

Last night’s Fab Fringe Fundraiser at the Shakes' Goldman Theater had its surprises, and we're not complaining. The entertainment was as good as Funky Monkey's garlic mashed potatoes.

Fab Fringe moment: As promised, car-accident-injured and still quite fabulous Fringe producer Beth Marshall rolled out in her wheelchair with a sedately dressed Patrick Flick of Orlando Shakes. (We like his jester costume and liveliness on the troupe’s TV commercials.) Originally scheduled to co-host, the two did their parts to explain the continued intercourse between the Orlando International Fringe Theatre Festival and PlayFest before they turned the stage over to "Wayburn Sassy" and his almost female foil, "Didi Panache."

Fab cringe moment: Obviously someone forgot to tell Wayburn and Didi that there were high-schoolers in the crowd, because he wasted no time turning loose his signature crotchety and crotch-centered humor. Those of us in attendance won’t soon forget where he said to slide that credit card. Ouch! (And people used to wag their tongues about Michael Wanzie?)

Fab Fringe moment: Obviously someone finally did tell Wayburn Sassy who was in the audience, even though it was near the end of the show. And he felt like shit and said so (and more) when he returned to the crowd. Wayburn, you are very, very funny and made us laugh, but some of us can’t relax when we know there’s a baby in the bar. Excellent comeback on the auctioneering, though.

Other elevated performances by upcoming Fringe acts:

• Becky Fisher and her backup trio advised, in song and chorus, prospective Fringe performers about the “vampires” that suck out your creativity and confidence.

 • Janine Klein’s full-throated, tousled-haired ode to a Gay Bar Star (the title of her Fringe show) was slightly upstaged by her tight-tush assistant.

• Willy Marchante’s wicked choreography for his Casting Shadows dancers was wonderfully creepy.

• And, of course, the resilient cast of Orlando Youth Theatre brought on the years, er, tears with their rendition of "Seasons of Love" from their Fringe production of Rent. It left a sweet taste even in Sassy's mouth, we're sure.

Ends: No, really, this one is about ends.

It's a shame, the recession and all. Looking to put a human (if a bit nerdy) face on things? Urban Think! Bookstore is closing on March 31. Here's the letter they've sent out.

We are sorry to have to inform our customers and supporters that we will be closing Urban Think! Bookstore at the end of this month. After nine wonderful years, the hard financial facts involved in running an independent bookstore in the current economy is a reality that we are unable to constantly try and meet. As well, the ways in which books are purchased and read by people in today's technological climate presents a challenge that does not lend itself to supporting a brick-and-mortar store such as Urban Think!

What began as a small store established in the Autumn of 2001 evolved into a durable neighborhood institution that offered great books, stimulating events, and a commitment to the cultural enhancement of Thornton Park. In those ways, we succeeded mightily, and we sincerely thank our loyal customers for those opportunities.
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The legacy of Urban Think! Bookstore will be manifested in the Urban Think! Foundation, which was founded in April of 2008, and it has become a very successful and meaningful charitable organization. While supporting various community programs, it also supports the acclaimed Page 15 literacy initiative directed by Julia Young. (Page15.org)
The Urban Think! Foundation is part of the future planning process, and we envision that the space will be used to support and enhance the Foundation's mission. Stay tuned for further announcements!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Meanwhile, we are having a huge clearance sale of all our stock. Stop in and see what we have to offer, at some really great discounts... up to 35% OFF all stock!
Children's books, fiction, non-fiction ... it's all priced to move, so come in and pick up some great additions for your library.

Thank you !

First Shot: “Live”-blogging the ABC/Cablevision™ Oscars

8:29 PM – I’ve already taken a pass on Barbara Walters and the red carpet. If I time the Jäger shots just right, I can manage to miss every reference to Inglourious Basterds.

8:30 – The nominated actors line up. And your cannon fodder for tonight is …

8:32 - Neil Patrick Harris! And you thought these things were the Tonys last year.

8:33 – He’s singing in the key of Taylor Swift.

8:36 – George Clooney, someone just sent you a hard-on in FarmigaVille.

8:328 – Martin and Baldwin make a Nazi-memorabilia joke! Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.

8:39 -- And poor blacks! If these guys aren’t careful, they’re going to burn through all the comedy staples in five minutes.

8:41 – Now a Hollywood-Jews joke! I honestly may be out of a job within an hour.

8:44 – Christoph Waltz officially becomes Hollywood’s favorite Nazi. Time to run for governor.

8:49 – ABC’s crawl announces a breakthrough in negotiations with Cablevision. The producers of Undercover Boss all drink.

8:50 – Are we not announcing upcoming projects anymore? That’s Ryan “Green Lantern” Reynolds to you!

8:56 – What a nice visit from the stars of all of the nominated cartoons (except Precious).

9 pm ­-- Miley Cyrus looks just the way “new Hollywood royalty” should: like a 45-year-old hooker on a spray-tan date with John Boehner. (GTL, Ms. Montana.)

9:04 – Wait a minute … didn’t T-Bone Burnett die last week?

9:05 ­– If there were any justice, Chris Pine would be accepting instead of presenting. (Also, I would be Chris Pine.)

9:11 – Hey, they found a page of a Tarantino script that could be printed on the screen.

9:17 – Oh, right, it wasn’t T-Bone who died … it was John Hughes. God almighty, Molly Ringwald looks like Kathy Griffin crashing RuPaul’s Drag Race.

9:20 – Well, it took John Hughes dying, but Lea Thompson’s face was seen on the Oscars.

9:22 – Wow, I think they’re going to talk about John Hughes for an hour. Well, he did tell Gorbachev to tear down that wall. (I did a lot of ’shrooms in the ’80s.)

9:31 – We just learned that whoever is identified as the director of the Best Animated Short will one day make the next Cars, so they all need to be shot now.

9:34 – How ’bout those winners for documentary short? It’s like watching Bella Abzug fight Terence Trent D’Arby for the remote.

9:37 – Ben Stiller goes the full Na’avi. Cameron tries to simulate mirth, can’t manage it in puny 2-D.

9:41 – Star Trek rules the makeup ghetto. This is what having 10 Best Picture nominees can do for you.

9:50 -- Jeffrey Fletcher wins for adapting Precious from … um, Going Rogue?

9:54 – See, Lauren Bacall? You work your whole life, you get to sit next to the guy who made Eat My Dust.

9:59 – And congratulations, Mo’Nique: When Sam Jackson thinks you’re acting inappropriately, you’ve really accomplished something.

10:07 -- Avatar narrowly edges out Lego Indiana Jones for Art Direction.

10:22 – Nice tribute to horror movies. Maybe next year, they’ll actually nominate one.

10:25: And to add insult to enema, The Dark Knight gets more play than in the year it was eligible. To quote Richard Pryor, “I want to kill everybody.”

10:27 -- The sound people from The Hurt Locker take it all, and Kathryn Bigelow couldn’t be any happier if she knew what they did.

10:35 -- Avatar snatches Best Cinematography from Mario Kart.

10:38 – James Taylor lends melody to the “In Memoriam” segment, to remind us all that dying isn’t necessarily the worst thing in the world.

10:48 – Holy shit, a break-dancing bomb unit! Quoth Rob Lowe: “Right, and I’m the asshole.”

10:55 – Avatar takes Visual Effects, drubbing odds-on favorite Halo Wars.

10:58 – Announcer: “Will Best Director go to a colored, a cunny, or one of our three evil white men?”

11:04 – And it’s Anvil! for Best Documentary … in any world I want to live in. Seriously, it’s great to see a film that reflects negatively on SeaWorld be honored on a network owned by Disney. It makes this whole process feel pure and above board.

11:07 – The Hurt Locker’s win for Best Editing edges the picture closer to the categories Bigelow has in fact heard of.

11:16 – Argentina wins Best Foreign Country, or something.

11:25 – Why did they keep these squirm-inducing “personal testimonials” from last year? The only thing that’ll save it is if somebody busts out the sex-rehab stories.

11:32 –And it’s Beau Bridges for Best Actor! (Remember: ’shrooms.)

11:36 – Fun fact: Lloyd Bridges was alive when this speech started. Fun fact II: The producers of The Cove are waiting in the wings to ask Bridges some pointed questions about Sea Hunt. Fun fact III: When Bigelow heard the phrase “sea hunt,” she took personal offense.

11:37 – I got nothin’.

11:43 – “Carey Mulligan … Carey Mulligan. Oh, that Carey Mulligan. Right right right.”

11:47 – Sandra Bullock gets Best Actress, and the Democrats automatically lose 14 House seats.

11:52 – Let’s see: Do you haul out Streisand as a presenter, only to have the female nominee lose Best Director?

11:55 – Nope. The ending of Shutter Island was harder to see coming.

11:56 – Madre de dios, those arms! Are we sure Bigelow really is the first female Best Director? In the Caster Semenya sense, maybe.

11:58 – Avatar loses badly to Call of Duty: World at War. (As of 8:48 p.m., this joke was to be: “And for all the Cablevision households, it’s A Serious Man”.)

12:01 – Bigelow pre-emptively thanks the next male filmmaker whose secrets she will suck from his cranium in the dead of night. Sleep tight, everybody!

First Shot: Ping with me, ping for the year

Thanks to everybody who helpfully pointed out that no less than Roger Ebert had commented favorably upon his mention in this blog last week. For somebody like me, who was born at the very end of the baby boom, it’s still rather amazing to think that anything you write about anybody can theoretically be known to them almost instantaneously. (Then again, I just recently remarked that even looking at a digital photo frame makes me feel as if I’ve awakened from cryonic suspension and into an episode of The Jetsons, so I’m obviously not your go-to guy for calm acceptance of technological advancement.)

I just want to reassure everybody that that gradual realization isn’t going to alter the agenda of this blog one whit, jot or iota. Just because I now know I can rhetorically propose marriage to comedian Sara Benincasa and have her “accept” within 24 hours (and take a wild guess how that one turned out), it doesn’t mean I should start pulling my punches, for fear of offending the celebrity court to which I have appointed myself jester. And I’m certainly not going to start making random shout-outs to industry power players, just to see if I can get on the radar of somebody who might be in a position to advance my career. To do so would constitute a simple breach of faith – an abandonment of the no-holds-barred principles on which my whole schtick is built, and which the talkbackers seem to respond to so warmly when they are not making fun of my height or lazy eye.

Anyway, I’ve not much else to say today, beyond a reminder that you should check back here tomorrow night for my now-traditional Oscar recap. I’ll be offering up my usual running commentary, making shoot-from-the-hip observations of the behavior exhibited by the stars of the night. Like JAMES CAMERON. And TOM HANKS. How will Hollywood royalty respond to the harsh glare of the international spotlight as they experience the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat? Only EVENT PRODUCERS ADAM SHANKMAN AND BILL MECHANIC have even the slightest inkling at this point.

And speaking of JAMES CAMERON, I need to comment on what is now the most talked-about Oscar runup story of the year. It seems presenters BEN STILLER and SACHA BARON COHEN were planning an Avatar spoof for their turn at the dais, but were dissuaded from going through with it, given that CAMERON (JAMES CAMERON) is supposedly known for lacking a sense of self-deprecation. You know what? I think he’s right. The man makes more money for the movie business and employs more people than just about all of the rest of Tinseltown combined. And his Avatar has practically reinvented the art of motion pictures. He’s practically a saint at this point. Why should he (i.e., CAMERON, JAMES) suffer the slings and arrows of chummy satire? If another, equally esteemed presenter -- MATT DAMON, maybe, or SALMA HAYEK -- wants to poke fun at some lesser player, like a craft-services person whose name I do not know because of his limited hiring ability, then I think that’s fine. Or better yet, we should keep the entire evening’s tone sober and respectful, because if you don’t have anything nice to say, you shouldn’t be saying anything at all.

OPRAH WINFREY taught me that.

And while I’m on the subject of respect, there’s something else JEFF ZUCKER that I need to get off my chest. Can we just do away with these red-carpet shows, please? There’s just too much snark going on there. What people choose to wear is their business, and shouldn’t be fair game for catty dissection. Oscar night is supposed to be a time to pay tribute to advancements in the cinematic arts, not cluck one’s tongue over the sartorial choices of starlets CHRISTINA HENDRICKS YOU WANT ME CHRISTINA HENDRICKS who are just trying to live up to the seriousness of the occasion. This isn’t YOO-HOO, MARTY SCORSESE high school. It isn’t HARVEY WEINSTEIN, I’VE GOT FUDGE fashion week. Let’s remember that even the rich and famous have feelings, and that we should honor that by only talking about them as we’d like to be talked about ourselves TOMMY WISEAU FOR SOME GODDAMN REASON.

Anyhow, it’s going to be a hoot. My cable is paid up and my caps lock is at the ready. Honestly, I’m so excited I feel like CUBA GOODING JR. on his first day of retard school.

(Oops – I meant “differently abled”! Please forgive me, GARY BUSEY!)

Theaters and galleries: shows to see now

Update 3.4.2010

Continuing shows

Alba – Paintings of Scotland
Local painter Allan Cody-Rapport displays his series based on the mythic mists of Scotland, into which he projects a spiritual essence informed by the romantic lore. One longs to see this artist more out of control, less brand-conscious and truly driven to dig into the forces only hinted at in these exquisite paintings. (through March 13, at Neu America Art Gallery at CityArts Factory, 29 S. Orange Ave.; free; 407-648-7060; www.cody-rapport.com)  

All's Well That Ends Well
Artistic director Jim Helsinger renders a delightfully full-blooded version of the Bard’s romantic fantasy about a servant girl who falls hard for an aristocrat. Marni Penning as the lovelorn Helena is radiant; Eric Zivot is perfect as the sly Parolles; Steve Hendrickson’s king is powerful; and Brandon Roberts, as the clown, and Anne Hering, as the scheming countess, bear much of the heavy comic lifting. (through March 14, at Orlando Shakespeare Theater, 812 E. Rollins St.; $20-$38; 407-447-1700; www.orlandoshakes.org)
 

Bach at Leipzig
As directed by Kevin G. Becker and Seth Kubersky of Empty Spaces Theatre Co., playwright Itamar Moses’ witty spoof is a whirlwind of facts, fugues, sight gags, double-entendres and ironic references. The closest the title character comes to making an appearance is through his music, as a handful of forgettable German composers vie against the unseen Bach for the prime job of organist at Thomaskirche. (through March 12 at Lowndes Shakespeare Center, 812 E. Rollins St.; $20; 407-328-9005; www.emptyspacestheatre.org)  

Double Exposure: African Americans Before and Behind the Camera
The range of styles, techniques and media is overwhelming, but it’s the faces that grab your attention: the fierce expression G.K. Warren captured in his 1876 portrait of Frederick Douglass; the ironic 1978 “Smokin Joe Ain’t J’mama” staged by Hank Willis Thomas; the intense expressions on the girls in Carrie Mae Weems’ 2003 “May Flowers From May Days Long Forgotten.” (through May 30 at the Southeast Museum of Photography, Daytona State College, 1200 W. International Speedway Blvd., Daytona Beach; free; 386-506-4475; www.smponline.org)

Hamlet
From the opening scene, in which the king’s ghost levitates out of the floor in a sea of fog, to the final fencing duel, director Richard Width has crafted a supremely theatrical show stocked with energy and accessibility. As the titular prince, Avery Clark is no emo moper. (through March 13 at Orlando Shakespeare Theater, 812 E. Rollins St.; $20-$38; 407-447-1700; www.orlandoshakes.org)

Maidens and Monsters: The Art of Science Fiction, Adventure and Fantasy
The debut of the local Korshak Collection of vintage American artworks combines original paintings and drawings alongside copies of the pulp magazines and books that featured them as illustrations. The legendary artists include J. Allen St. John, N.C. Wyeth and Frank Frazetta. (through April 18 at Albin Polasek Museum & Sculpture Gardens, 633 Osceola Ave., Winter Park; $5; 407-647-6294; www.maidensandmonsters.com)

Man and the Machine
Viewing the side-by-side curation of rare Cold War–era American and Soviet Union posters from the permanent collection inspires questions of how vintage political art can be interpreted in the new millennium. The U.S.A. artists tended to work in chiaroscuro and expressionism, while the Soviets used primary colors and photomontage to forceful effect. But both sets mask rather than illustrate the political truth of the times. (through summer at Cornell Fine Arts Museum, Rollins College, Winter Park; $5; 407-646-2526; www..rollins.edu/cfam)

First Shot: Ebert’s balcony scene

OK, so I watched Oprah’s ballyhooed interview with Roger Ebert. And no matter what any of us might feel about the guy’s critical acumen or his pre-cancer professional persona, it’s hard not to be touched and inspired by his trip to the brink, and the triumphant walk back from it he seems to have made with the help of some very supportive and courageous loved ones.

The interview? Meh. Somebody needs to tell this alleged queen of compassion that just because a guest is staring back at you through eyes that only seem maniacally pronounced because cancer has turned his jaw into an unmoving Halloween mask, you do not have to speak to him as if he’s – well, as if he’s retarded. Every time she patronizingly leaped to pronounce Ebert’s every anecdote “a great story” -- before his voice-emulation software was even done telling it -- I found myself pining for the intellectual engagement of Tom Snyder.

Shatner, even.

Worse, as she did in her first Palin sit-down, the hostess once again proved herself fixated on Hallmark  narratives and lifestyle issues – and either unwilling or unable to place those issues in a meaningful social context. Let’s be honest here: Love alone doesn’t save anybody from the kind of cancer this guy had. And at a time when the shocking unaffordability of health care is such a widely recognized epidemic, it would have been nice for someone to have acknowledged the simple truth that Roger Ebert is alive today largely because he’s Roger Ebert.

To the great masses of the uninsured -- some of them members of Ebert’s own drastically downsized profession – what he had would likely have been a death sentence. They wouldn’t be getting four-times-a-day nourishment drips. And they sure wouldn’t have funds (either public or private) to spend on unabashed vanity projects like programming a computer to speak in the patient’s own long-lost voice, as opposed to the impersonal but perfectly adequate Speak 'n Spell dialect that everybody from Stephen Hawking on down has to make do with.

These circumstances went unremarked upon. Instead, we heard over and over again how much Ebert misses the sensation of eating. (Careful, Oprah: Your obsessions are showing.)

Please understand: These aren’t the words of some undergraduate dilettante socialist who thinks every bit of public discourse has to be political, the same way the patrons of yore insisted that every work of visual or musical art be devoted to glorifying scripture. But a bit of societal context to today’s sit-down wouldn’t have only befit Oprah’s station, but Ebert’s own recent focus as well. Because like some enlightened souls at the vanguard of their field (physicist Michio Kaku leaps to mind), Ebert has, to his eternal credit, recognized that some things in life are bigger and more important than the day-in, day-out of his chosen vocation, and that it behooves him to address them.

Of late, he’s been courageously taking on “populist” race-baiting. Just yesterday, he tweeted the under-reported story that the Brooklyn District Attorney had found no criminal activity on the part of community-advocacy group ACORN; an unnamed law-enforcement official commented that sting videographers James O’Keefe and Hannah Giles had edited the footage of their interviews with ACORN staffers “to meet their agenda.” As has been even less widely disseminated, O’Keefe hadn’t even worn his notorious “pimp” getup to those interviews, the doctored footage of which caused the essential decimation of an organization that had committed the unpardonable sin of trying to help nonwhites vote. Ebert, as his also-nonwhite wife told the Oprah audience, is respectful of other cultures – and I’m betting he recognizes the efforts of O’Keefe et al. as coming from a distinctly opposite place.

No, I didn’t really expect that this important issue would come up in an hour that contextualized Ebert’s stirring story as part of the runup to Sunday’s Oscars. To America at large, “Ebert” means “movies.” But what are “the movies” anymore? In the era of YouTube and Robert Greenwald , the line between entertainment and activism is becoming less and less pronounced. One of the ironies of O’Keefe’s story is that, in his self-styled “journalistic” zeal, he’s adopting a lawless fun-house version of the gonzo tactics fixed in the public consciousness by Michael Moore. Pictures, O’Keefe’s generation knows, are worth a thousand words – whether they’re of a pathetic holiday parade through a downtrodden Flint, or of a barely postpubescent Huggy Bear apparently getting free advice in the business of whoring.

The “apparently” part is, I guess a big thing to Ebert, which is why he’s using part of his second life to expose such thuggery. What people do with “movies” matters to him for reasons that go deeper than star power, art direction and opening weekends. Maybe it’s naïve of me to wish that such issues be brought up in a three-hankie confab with the real world’s answer to Madea. But had it happened, I would have given it a big thumbs-up.

Pintura Project: Endangered graffiti fest needs green

The graffiti diaspora has its springtime Orlando ritual: the Pintura Project, which brings together graffiti artists from around town, as well as the world. For the last two years, we’ve sung the praises of the wild explosions of color and creativity that take over Robin Van Arsdol’s warehouses on Central Avenue in Parramore. Aside from the fact that you’re watching spray-can specialists do what they normally do in secret under the cover of darkness, it’s a wholesome affair that draws a crowd of spectators from diverse cultural corners.

So we’re here to officially sound the alert that the third annual Pintura Project gathering, scheduled for April 24, is endangered because of the lack of the color green. Organizer Angel Carreras is trying to pull it together, but $1,500 in donations or sponsorships is desperately needed to kick it into gear. It’s never been a moneymaker, but the graffiti created on the spot is fierce, and even global travelers have said they have never seen anything like it. To help out, contact RV at 407-929-4161 or via www.rvbadjet.com.

Oh, and about the city’s Keep Orlando Beautiful Graffiti Task Force? They actually like graffiti, as long as it’s on private property. And truly, what's not to like? Take a look at what happened last year.

First Shot: Let’s twist again

Semi-spoilers ahead! Don’t read on unless you want to save a few bucks and 138 minutes!

With Shutter Island showing some legs, the second-weekend quarterbacking has begun in earnest. And inquiring minds want to know: How’s that twisty, game-changey thing workin’ out for ya?

Specifically, professional pulse-takers like EW’s Owen Gleiberman are curious to know how audiences are taking to the movie’s “surprise” ending. Did they see it coming? Did it work for them? If they told their friends that they knew what was ahead, were they lying? Meanwhile, the L.A. Times’ Steven Zeitchik wonders how much the “go back and take it all in again” factor is going to contribute to the movie’s overall haul.

Meanwhile, I’m wondering why nobody is pointing out the movie’s biggest shock: that its “jaw-dropping” denouement is a blatant and unrepentant swipe from a far better film.

Well, almost nobody. You just have to dig very deep into talkback comments and the most anonymous outer reaches of blogdom to find anyone acknowledging that Shutter’s climax is a groan-worthy direct lift from one of the most respected art-house thrillers of the past decade. (And when you do find such a mention, it’s coming from someone who can’t tell the difference between Dachau and Krakow.)

Me, I’m stunned. I had heard the initial critical commentary that the movie’s subject matter was somewhat ordinary – Variety’s advance notice called the flick “expert, screw-turning narrative filmmaking put at the service of old-dark madhouse claptrap.” In my world, however, this is the opposite of discouragement: I’m constitutionally drawn to anything set in an old dark madhouse. "Hey, Marty," my heart sang out. "Let’s clap some traps!"

But what I discovered on opening day is that the movie doesn’t just crib from the B-pictures of Scorsese’s youth, but from a comparatively recent, very influential psychodrama – a film so beloved among hardened cinephiles that it sits at No. 27 on IMDB’s list of the best ever made. In other words, a movie I’m almost certain an űber-buff like Scorsese has seen.

Ditto Dennis Lehane, from whose source novel Scorsese and co-screenwriter Laeta Kalogridis adapted their film. Lehane’s book came out in 2003 – a good three years after the landmark picture in question.

But wait a second: Maybe it’s all a big, innocent coincidence? Could be. But honestly, in the game of art, intention matters zip -- the point is getting there first.

For example, back in the early ’80s, I helped record a demo for an earnest young semi-New Wave group. As they ran through their set, it immediately became obvious that one of their tunes was an almost note-for-note duplicate of -- of all things – Billy Joel’s “Tell Her About It.” Everybody in the control room immediately pounced upon the similarity. But one of the players’ girlfriends, who was hanging around for no discernible reason, calmly reassured us that these guys had written their song long before Mr. Christie Brinkley released his.

I figured we’d send out a sworn affidavit to America’s DJs and hope for the best. Because that would have been just as workable as the position Scorsese and Lehane have been put in by their business and creative advisors, who apparently never felt the need to warn (or remind) them that their “big reveal” was an encroachment on somebody else’s turf. They all apparently counted on Shutter Island to so significantly outstrip its true and uncredited source, box-office-wise, that the point would become moot -- might making right, and all that.

Well, that’s just what happened, and before Shutter’s opening weekend was even over. Which is why I sigh a defeated little sigh with every subsequent dollar it rakes in.

There’s another problem: Unlike that other film, Shutter doesn’t play the game effectively or successfully. For a twist ending to work, everything that precedes it must make sense on its own terms. In Scorsese’s film, nothing makes sense until the twist. And that means that, for over two hours, you’re trying your damndest to figure out why the staff of the titular mental facility is letting federal agent Teddy Daniels (Leonardo DiCaprio) wander unsupervised all over grounds whose secrets they’re otherwise trying assiduously to protect. Or why so many of the performers seem to overact as shamelessly as anything you’ll see this side of summer stock. (And you know it can’t be poor direction on Scorsese’s part, since he’s in the past gotten naturalistic and believable performances out of Michael Jackson’s manager and his own mother.)

Oh, and why character after character is always just one breath away from launching into bald-faced exposition or an undermotivated monologue about life in postwar America.

As I said, it all eventually makes sense in its own (borrowed) fashion. But before you finally learn why Teddy seems to be starring in a really shitty movie, you have to do a lot of worrying that you yourself might have thrown in your lot with a pretty shitty movie. The point of a great trick ending is to pull the rug out from under you – and that only works if you’ve been standing firmly upon said rug, not sitting cross-legged and scratching your head.

Ends: Um, isn't it called CHILLounge?

Orlando ChilLounge Night, the cosmopolitan party planned for Lake Eola this Saturday, has been postponed due to weather. Apparently, it's going to be too cold or wet or something to have an open bar.

No word yet on a reschedule date.

First Shot: I don’t want to miss a thong

OK, grab a seat for a sec; I’ve got a killer idea for a movie I want to pitch to you. (Yeah, all of us “journalists” have them – humor me.)

Anyway, we’ve got this underwear model, right? She’s got rock-hard abs and cleaves that could hold a fountain pen aloft in a windstorm. And her boyfriend is this huge coke dealer. Like, world-class. They’re both Mexicans. Or Dominicans. Or something Penelope Cruz could play.

Anyway, as our story begins, she’s spent a few years on his arm, and she’s seen how he runs his operation. And she’s pretty sure she can strike out on her own. (This is the female-empowerment angle that’s going to net us the Nancy Meyers audience.) So she recruits an entire regimen of fellow models to act as her drug mules. They’re flying into and out of airports in South America and Europe, which coke rammed so far into their orifices that even Andy Dick couldn’t find it.

One day, one of her “angels” gets busted with 55kg of blow, and gives her up like Catholic nookie on its 17^th birthday. Suddenly, our heroine is an international fugitive – one who just happens to look awesome in fishnets.

Outrageous, right? So unbelievably dramatic only Hollywood could come up with it? Well, guess what: It all actually happened. The model-turned-cocaine-queenpin in question is one Angie Sanselmente Valencia, and she’s currently believed to be on the loose in either Mexico or Argentina.

Now, I never thought I’d say this in my life, but somebody please put me in touch with Tony Scott! Because I really think I can write this thing – hell, who couldn’t? – and all I need is somebody with the right aesthetic sensitivity to shepherd it past the cameras.

And that’s a job for our Tony, who we can always count on to avoid the siren song of art. See, this story can’t be a quiet rumination on the cruel social forces that maneuver even outwardly successful Latinos into lives of crime. It needs to be the goddamn Coyote Ugly of dope flicks.

I’m seeing runway montages undercut with close-ups of furiously snorting nostrils. I’m picturing soft-focus curves and blood-spattered back-alley executions. I’m hearing Buckcherry. (OK, I’m always hearing Buckcherry. But at least this time I have a reason.)

Oh, and we won’t have too much trouble with legal, either. Ms. Valencia’s story is playing out in Britain’s Telegraph and Sun, which means there’s probably not a shred of actual truth in it. That means we get to pimp the movie as “ripped from today’s headlines” without risking a suit from anybody.

This is not to say that I totally trust my partner to make all the right production choices. Yes, Scott wrung lap-dancing bodaciousness out of frankly plain real-life bounty hunter Domino Harvey. But he erred badly by locating that pulchritude in the body of Keira Knightley (which is to say, in the body of a heretofore-undiscovered Jonas Brother). We can’t make a mistake like that this time; this story is too important to our culture as a whole.

Which is why I’m willing to do double duty as both writer and casting assistant, gathering the evidence we need to make our most crucial decisions  -- and doing so from a seat right up front. I know this business, and I know that the difference between success and failure is often down to the narrowest of margins. (Particularly the distances between 35 and 36 inches and the letters C and D.)

Yeah, it’s going to be tough. But you have to sacrifice if you want to get something done in Hollywood. And never let it be said I wasn’t willing to put in the hours.

You have no idea what I’m willing to put in.

Theaters and galleries: Update 2.24.10

Pictured: "Strontian"
by Allan Cody-Rapport















FINAL CHANCE

Driving Miss Daisy
It’s the excellent actors that elevate this show above saccharine condescension. Elizabeth T. Murff is as sharp and sassy as you could want in the title role, and Michael Morman paints a painfully honest portrait of Hoke, a man forced to adopt a mask of minstrelsy to hide his intelligence and dignity. (through Sunday, Feb. 28 at Garden Theatre, 160 W. Plant St., Winter Garden; 407-877-4736; $18-$22; www.gardentheatre.org)

Fresh From Chelsea: 21 Young NYC Artists
Other than the fact that all of the artworks were culled from the collection of Winter Park residents Lisa and Robert Feldman, the exhibit lacks focus. But it is redeemed by the delightful creations of the emerging artists, several of whom are names we’ll follow for years to come, such as Luis Gispert, Diana Al-Hadid and Gandalf Gavan. (through Friday, Feb. 26, at UCF Art Gallery, Visual Arts Building, University of Central Florida; free; 407-823-3161; www.art.ucf.edu)

Paradoxes Portrayed: Mixed Media Works by Ummarid “Tony” Eitharong
Orlando-based but internationally exhibited Eitharong resurfaces with a powerful retrospective. More than 50 works fill the galleries, from his 1970s drawings with attitude to his latest mushroom-cloud installation with 1,000 white origami peace cranes. (through Sunday, Feb. 28, at the Museum of Florida Art, 600 N. Woodland Blvd., DeLand; $3; 386-734-4371; www.museumoffloridaart.org)

Right Foot Forward
Last summer, the inventory at Covert Skate Shop was swept clean after a break-in, except for the 20 right-foot display shoes on the wall. More for the therapeutic value than to recover the financial loss, Tommy Mot, shop owner and DJ, asked his artist friends to take the leftover footwear and transform it by any method they desired. The results are as clever as the artists. (through Friday, Feb. 26, at Bold Hype, 1844 E. Winter Park Road; free; 407-629-2965; www.boldhype.net)

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
Director Alan Bruun’s perfect companion to the Orlando Shakes’ Hamlet stars Timothy Williams and Michael Marinaccio as the prince’s buddies. The terrific cast mines the depths of Tom Stoppard’s intellectual conundrums, magnificent wordplay and affecting characterizations, maintaining every layer of sly wit and dark comedy. It’s very funny. (through Sunday, Feb. 28, at Mad Cow Theatre, 105 S. Magnolia Ave.; $15-$28; 407-297-8788; www.madcowtheatre.com)

CONTINUING

Alba – Paintings of Scotland
A landscape is one thing; landscape as theming for darker forces is entirely another. Local painter Allan Cody-Rapport, the artist of the month at the relatively new Neu America Art Gallery, displays his latest series, this time based on the mythic mists of Scotland, into which he projects a spiritual essence informed by the romantic lore. One longs to see this artist more out of control, less brand-conscious and truly driven to dig into the spiritual forces only hinted at in these exquisite paintings. (Through March 13 at Neu America Art Gallery at CityArts Factory, 29 S. Orange Ave.; 321-948-8310, www.cody-rapport.com)

All’s Well That Ends Well
Artistic director Jim Helsinger admirably delivers the comic goods and renders a delightfully full-blooded version of the Bard’s romantic fantasy about a lovely servant girl who falls hard for an aristocrat. Marni Penning is radiant as lovelorn Helena; Eric Zivot is perfect as the sly braggart, Parolles; Steve Hendrickson’s portrayal of the king is powerful; and Brandon Roberts, as Lavatche the clown, and Anne Hering, as the scheming countess, successfully bear much of the heavy comic lifting. (through March 14 at Orlando Shakspeare Theater, 812 E. Rollins St. $20-$38; 407-447-1700; www.orlandoshakes.org)

Cosmology
Drawing with an 01 Micron pen on thirsty paper is like mowing the lawn with fingernail clippers; it’s a rigorous, ritualistic process. In Rafael Santiago’s patient hands, hairline threads of color bring amazing depth and richness to his own absurd and sublime world, populated by bunnies named Buck and striking Afrodeity figures. They also seem to be a release for the New York artist. (through March 6 at Bold Hype, 1844 E. Winter Park Road; free; 407-629-2965; www.boldhype.net)

Double Exposure: African Americans Before and Behind the Camera
The range of styles, techniques and media is overwhelming in this triumph of an exhibition. But what grabs your attention instantly and won’t let go long is the faces: From the fierce expression G.K. Warren captured in his 1876 portrait of abolitionist Frederick Douglass, to the 1978 ironic “Smokin Joe Ain’t J’mama” staged by Hank Willis Thomas, to the intensive expressions on the three girls in Carrie Mae Weems’ 2003 “May Flowers.” (through May 30 at the Southeast Museum of Photography, Daytona State College, 1200 W. International Speedway Blvd., Daytona Beach; 386-506-4475; free; www.smponline.org)

Hamlet
From the opening scene, in which the king’s ghost levitates out of the floor in a sea of fog, to the final fencing duel, director Richard Width has crafted a supremely theatrical show stocked with energy and accessibility. As the titular prince, New York actor Avery Clark is no emo moper; his Hamlet would be Baker Acted today. (through March 13 at Orlando Shakespeare Theater, 812 E. Rollins St.; $20-$38; 407-447-1700; www.orlandoshakes.org)

Maidens and Monsters: The Art of Science Fiction, Adventure and Fantasy
The collection of vintage American artworks belonging to attorney Stephen D. Korshak and his wife, Alma, makes its debut in an exhibition that also displays original copies of the aging pulp magazines and books that featured them as illustrations, dating from 1914 to 1995. The artists are legends, including J. Allen St. John, N.C. Wyeth and Frank Frazetta. (through April 18 at Albin Polasek Museum & Sculpture Gardens, 633 Osceola Ave., Winter Park; 407-647-6294; www.maidensandmonsters.com)

Man and the Machine 
Viewing the side-by-side curation of rare Stalin-era American and Soviet Union posters from the permanent collection inspires questions of how vintage political art can be interpreted in the new millennium. The U.S.A. artists tended to work in chiaroscuro and expressionism, while the Soviets used primary colors and photomontage to forceful effect. But both sets mask rather than illustrate the political truth of the times. (through summer at Cornell Fine Arts Museum, Rollins College, Winter Park; $5; 407-646-2526; www..rollins.edu/cfam)