Loose Cans

Don't have time to write much today, as I'm leaving for New Haven in 15 minutes (just one night out of town; I couldn't imagine ANYONE spending any more than that in New Haven proper). I'll let someone else do the talking for me. Go read the New York Times Magazine. There's a whole article about Dublin Jews, or the total lack thereof. 1,790, apparently. 1,791 if you count me.

Also, Samantha, take a look at the front page of the arts section...hell I'll just bring it up with me.

I'm back. See, it's just that over the past few days, I have spent so much delightful time in the company of people who read this blog that I've been a bit blocked for material. But I will forge on, undaunted by lack of things to talk about.

So the parents are in Russia. Or they were in Russia. Now they're in Finland. Mom was having a piece done in a concert with Somary in St. Petersburg, and after having had their fill of Russia, they relocated to our friend Nils' place on an island, or possibly fjord, in Finland. Nils is the American correspondent for Finnish national broadcasting. We're feeling jet set.

Many stories, obviously, have been coming in from the cold, but none, I think, is more tickling than this, which is not likely to tickle more than five other people out there. Too bad. I laughed. So:

For those who don't know, Valery Gergiev is one of the most famous conductors in the world. He is a staple at the Met, but his main orchestra is the Mariinsky, in Russia. He is known for being the most phenomenally spastic conductor in the business. He does not conduct so much as twitch and jerk. He does not conduct the music so much as it conducts him. He's a superconductor (ba-dump CHING!). It passes right through him, the way dairy products pass through the Ashworth men. Nick reported a fun story (related to him by Steve Fox) after hearing the one I am about to tell: Gergiev once rose to the podium at a rehearsal and began to flutter his fingers rapturously. No downbeat or anything. He just stood there and fluttered. A few moments later, he opened his eyes, stopped fluttering and, evidently incensed, barked at the orchestra, "When I do this (flutter), start playing!"

The point is that he's impossible to follow. The Met orchestra, apparently, respect him, but in that way that you have to respect someone you hate. He's a megastar conductor, and his style is likely to be imitated by a legion of like-minded young lesions on the music world (cf. imitators of Ginsberg, imitators of Plath, imitators of Stein, &c), which is not a good thing. So it was heartening, to say nothing of enlightening, to hear my mother relate this little exchange she had with one violist who plays under Gergiev in the Mariinsky (who are supposed to understand him much better than the Met, which he plays like a rental):

Mom: Do you play for Gergiev?  

Violist: Oh yes.

Mom: How do you follow him?  His conducting?

Violist: Oh, we don't.  We just read notes. Leetle crazy man!  

Mom: EUREKA!


There is something in that.

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Back on this side, Jacob and I are having a regally good time, getting along famously and hosting people more or less around the clock. There was some kind of impromptu party a few days back, with people showing up steadily from about 6pm till 1am. Some people--Ben, Seema, Rebecca--have been over just about every single day, and most nights. There was finally an engineered, old-fashioned fiesta at Casa de Ashworth on saturday night, with anyone who was anyone--who was in town--in attendance. We were even graced with the presence of Samantha Do and Nick Frisch, who came in from New Haven. It was most things parties here have always been, except for the very noticeable absence of some household staples who were in Chicago, Cambridge, the Bronx or Russia. It was weird having a party here without the parents. Everyone agreed they were missed.

Okay, and how often do you get that? "I am at a party. Wish his parents were here." Something tells me I was a terrible high schooler. Call me crazy.

We've also seen a terrific amount of movies &c. On Friday alone, we caught East of Eden (the James Dean party; not to detract from the accurately reported greatness, but never has another actor gotten so much mileage out of simple fidgeting), then went to see Tom Stoppard's Jumpers on Broadway (acting and writing spectacular, set a crime against God), and then went immediately over to the 42nd st Loew's to see Harry Potter 3. All equally magnificent. But maybe Harry Potter was the best. Because the set in Harry Potter is incredible, and Hermione is way, WAY hotter than the girl from East of Eden (and it's a a toss-up between her and the frequently and, as Ben Brantley put it, "exquisitely" naked Essie Davis in Jumpers). Hermione aside (though putting her there is hard to do), it may very well be, as Stephanie Zacharek wrote on Salon.com, one of the greatest fantasy films of all time. Alfonso Cuaron has moved on from the rigid literality of the Chris Columbus movies, and put considerably more life into this one than was ever there before. It's a wonderful movie. Go.

But last night was Les Triplettes de Belleville, which, aside from being unutterably brilliant, has the greatest soundtrack ever, even better than Kill Bill's. Because no one in Kill Bill sings in three-part doo-wah harmony accompanied by newspaper, refrigerator rack, vacuum cleaner and bicycle wheel. Nor do you have anyone playing The Well-Tempered Clavier on that bicycle wheel amid the lyric, "Swinging Belleville rendezvoooooooous." It's at the Leonard Nimoy Thalia at Symphony Space, with 2:30 and 6:30pm showings. Again, go.

Tonight is Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Let you know.

My brain aches from staring at this screen. Good thing Jacob's gone out to rent a movie so I can rest my eyes.