musings

Let me preface this by saying that I am a lover of musicals. I am probably more fond of the more “modern” musical such as Cabaret and the rock musical “Jesus Christ Superstar,” but nonetheless a musical fan I am. Now, did the original musical Nine have a solid story line? No, it did not. Did it win awards? Yes it did. Itl won five Tony Awards, including best musical, and has enjoyed a number of revivals. But it was never touted as a strong storyline. It is based on Federico Fellini’s autobiographical (aren’t they all?) film 8 1/2.

That said, did I enjoy the film Nine? Yes I did. Did I think the acting was good? Yes I did. Do I think Rob Marshall is THE musical director? Yes I do. He knows his musicals. He knows what to get out of his actors. It was his tribute to Fellini. Actually, no. It was his tribute to Anthony Minghella’s tribute to Fellini. Do I think Minghella is in Director heaven heaving heavy sighs? Perhaps..but not entirely. All in all it was entertaining, though it felt like a string of mini videos, somewhat like what you would get when typing in a search word in YouTube and then you get all the related videos to the original. Daniel Day Lewis does a good job as the ever suffering Guido Contini, but aside from his repeating “I am sick (I yam seeeck)” or “Give me a cigarette (Geeve mee a seeegarettte),” I really didn’t empathize with him. He grew on me a little. Not much. Not as much as I wanted him to. On the other hand, I never found Marcello Mastroianni to be endearing in 8 1/2, so perhaps, we were meant to not empathize with him too much.

I liked Nicole Kidman’s song, but thought her appearance was iconic and really reminded me (almost too much) of Anita Ekberg. Did I get a little verklempt at the end of her song? Yes. I liked her singing in low tones.

Penelope Cruz was fabulous. That opening scene was probably one of the most compelling of the film. But I also didn’t empathize with her. And not because she was the mistress. I didn’t feel like she was too into her character. I don’t think she liked her character very much. And it was a little reminiscent of her character in Vicky Cristina Barcelona. The girl can do a spread eagle, though. I’ll hand her that.

I had high expectations for Kate Hudson and would have liked to have seen more of her. More more more!! Also, in the bar scene she looked uncannily like her mother. A little frightening.

Marion Cotillard was ever the class. She is luminous and endearing and gosh, imagine if there had been a more solid plot?

Sofia….Sofia…blending statue. I just shake my head…felt like she had been placed on rollers and was wheeled in and wheeled out. Too glamorous to be mamma. I kind of expected her to look to the camera and sell me sunglasses (she used to do ads for sunglasses in Italy in the 80s).

I loved the choreography for the Fergie scene…but that was the most video looking scene. It felt out of place…I know, I know…picky picky Ro Ro. But honestly, it almost belonged in the DVD extras as the “Featuring Fergie’s Video ‘Be Italian’!” Know what I mean?

Dame Judy Dench does a mean French Folie Berger, but I was a bit fearful she might start stripping. And really, wasn’t she sort of like M?

Major props go to Giuseppe Cederna and Ricky Tognazzi cause, mah boys done good!

The time has come. I need to put these words down. I need to write about you because if I don’t, I will continue to tell your story, our story, over and over and not be done with it. Not that I need to be done, but you know, I need to say goodbye because you will not come back and what could have been will never be. I cannot hope to find someone and expect to have them to be you. Not fair. I can’t afford to think that what could have been with you (and wasn’t) will be with someone else. So now, I must tell the story of you, the story of us. I will not apologize for what I am about to write; I will not try to explain.

We met under funny circumstances. Actually, my mom met you first. I remember having gone for a walk with Viola and her sister’s dog-the three of us, dragging our feet and paws in the July heat. Returning from that walk, under the shade of over-sized umbrellas and the relief of a cool breeze, mom approaches me, with her ever positive attitude that markedly contrasts my pissy mood. She hands me a set of keys, the kind that have the plastic key holder, a sign of temporary housing. She mentions having seen a young guy, who changed his shoes to rollerblades on the stairs. “He looks American,” in her ever-smiling face “when he comes back, you should talk to him.”

Sure enough, moments later, you show up. Of course you were surprised (and probably bemused) that I handed you the keys, fumbling over my words, not really wanting to tell you that *my mother* had picked your keys up in order to have me talk to you. We start talking and though part of me didn’t want to invest in anything more than a fun acquaintance, we were rather friendly to one another. Over the course of the week, we saw each other a lot. I found you charming, this California surfer dude who was an apprentice chef. My insecurities had the better part of me, telling me that he was being friendly because I was his English-speaking relief. You said you had the hots for my cousin, you made me your confidante and burrowed yourself into my heart. Clever!

I thought we had what most of my friends would call the hot summer fling. Kissing by the moonlight, bonding over our similarities, laughing at Italian way of life. I left that little vacation town with a mixture of relief and sadness. I never thought I would see you again, I was glad to have met you, but my heart was elsewhere. I thought. I remember thinking, on the treacherous train trip back to Milan, I got to have a summer fling with a California surfer dude. Things like this, at the time, seemed important, I suppose. Imagine my surprise when three weeks later, close to my return to the States, you tracked me down. It was an unexpected phone call, one that I thought perhaps (pesky insecurity), was made out of courtesy. We talked over the next year and a half. We truly became friends. You, always urging me to come to the better coast; telling me you wanted to show me where you lived, take me to the places you loved. Me, doing the same for you. You won that battle first.

I came to visit you in San Francisco, in July, two years after we had met. You lived in a beautiful Victorian in North Beach. You had two roommates who seemed to me more like your two older brothers, protective of you. I didn’t expect them to know who I was, I was shocked to hear, “Well, finally we meet you. We thought you didn’t exist.” Everything about my time in San Francisco was unexpected. Everything about our relationship, now that I revisit it, was unexpected. There was a part of me that could not believe how much you cared for me. There was a part of me that was scared shitless of the feelings we both had for each other; both deaf and blind to our own hearts. You told me years later that I was the only person who made you see; I told you, you were the only person that made me hear. But by then it was too late.

It took us ten years to realize that we had found one another; it took your marriage and its subsequent demise; it took my falling in love for the first time; it took your cancer. I always thought the first time we told each other I love you had been after you told me about your diagnosis. I was walking down 22nd street on a cold winter day, holding my cell-phone tighter to my ear, making sure I had heard you right. But a few weeks after you passed away, I remembered another time; a time before the cancer. It was in San Francisco. It was early morning, just as the fog begins to come in, changing the light in your room. The love we made that morning had left us hugging each other tight. You pulled away, ever so slightly, you looked at me, a look that was disarming and you told me you loved me.

We never spoke of that morning; we pulled away from that moment. We were only able to recapture those feelings, let our hearts talk again, many years later. Once again, I came to visit you in Northern California; not in the Victorian house that I liked so much, but in a modest apartment, near Mill Valley. We argued like we had never done before. We argued mostly out of frustration; we argued about arguing; we were getting all the anger, disappointment and fear out in the open. I wish I could have known that’s what we were doing, but I thought it was just a pointless discussion and that perhaps you needed to have it with me. But once the dust settled, instead of retreating, like we had done so many times before, we let it all out. And for as long as that moment lasted, the months we were once again apart, we loved; we loved each other, openly, honestly. That was a gift we gave one another, which I will treasure always; one that I hope helped you and that is helping me let go.

Stephen M. Blackwell 12/07/1969 – 03/29/2007

My mom used to call me a steamroller when I was little. I used to crawl to her bedroom, climb in bed with her and then roll over her. Like a steamroller.

Somehow, this physical quality has transmuted into an uncanny ability to stick my foot in my mouth. I’m now known as someone who often is caught saying things with great heaviness and not realizing the person I am telling them to is being flattened.

I don’t do this on purpose. Most of the time, I’m not aware I do it until it’s too late. Until the look of shock of whomever is standing in front of me gives it away. Or their sudden silence. Or their hurt.

And now, with all this soul searching I’ve been doing, with all this introspection, I find that I need to make amends. Of sorts. For the moment I cannot disclose more than this. This time the steamroller has been put away. Will tread lightly, hopefully, smoothing away the cracks without any weight.