Shortbus and other bits

So, yes, we finally went last night to see Shortbus. A lot of the momentum has dissipated around it - it clings resolutely to the lineup of a lone theatre - but we both really felt we wanted to support it, not only for John C. Mitchell's sake, but also for the queer cause. My capsule review: "Less fun than Caligula." Yes, I was disappointed, but really could it have gone any other way? My expectation was huge after Hedwig, and this project has been germinating so long already in my awareness, that it was sort of doomed from the opening credits. However, having said that, I do think it was more than a failure of expectation. In a small part, I do think a few of the performances harmed it - it is clear that not everyone is trained to act, and it should be said that I don't fundamentally doubt the ability of untrained actors to perform well, because there were to be fair some very good performances from actors who were very likely here enjoying their debuts. But I think the bigger issue was the script, or at least the process that engendered it. Improvisation can be wonderful for a film (Mike Leigh anyone?), but it needs a firm hand, and I wonder how easy it would be to exert such control while also trying to create an environment of sexual liberty. Whateva...I'm no expert, I just know that it reeked of improv, and worse still, beginners improv workshop. The best scenes were definitely those that had nowhere to go, I mean no beats to hit, revelations to arrive at, and there were some really lovely ones - but in so many scenes the mechanics of story advancement or character exposition were downright clumsy. The question is: am I a prude? Not a sexual one, because the sex scenes were wonderfully unremarkable, peripheral to the people, as I think was JCM's intention, but a formalistic prude, requiring a certain cleanliness of intention, delivery, structure. Maybe JCM wanted to dispense with all that, in which case I'm the closed-minded fuddy-duddy. T loved it, found it daring and moving and clear - but I think he puts little stock in formalism, lets himself enter without appraising the building first. Anyway, blah blah...I'm sure you couldn't wait to hear my thoughts on the topic, well you can all relax now. Oh yes, one last thing: as I said, none of the sexual activity, including auto-fellatio, orgies and rim-jobs made me in the least uncomfortable; the finale, however, a bizarre cabaret number delivered with peculiar earnestness by a sort of MC proxy, capped off by a brass band and a sing-along, made me squirm with embarrassment and long for an act of coitus to avert my eyes to.

Other bits, or bit, I suppose: Made contact, sort of impetuously, with an old classmate whom I barely remember. Found his name online and had a vague recollection of our having been friends in my last two years of high school. This recollection is troubled by another of our having been openly hostile to one another at an earlier time. Not entirely sure which impression is the greater in his memory. Anyway, he wrote back very briefly, citing a pressing appointment and making a promise to write in greater detail at another time. What exactly is the point of reviving high school contacts, expecially in cases where the contact is only vaguely remembered? It's not as if any conscious affection exists. The point seems fairly clear: Time Regained. Taking stock of the past 18 years of my life in the hope of finding some sense of purpose, validation hidden in it.

One of the loveliest moments in Shortbus: an ex-hustler, now suicidal artist, sits in a closet and confesses tearfully to a dominatrix that when he now reads what he wrote aged 12, he finds he is still striving for exactly the same things all these years later.

Bloogle?

Imagining I would be ahead of the curve for once, I foolishly migrated my blog to the new Blogger Beta managed, it appears, by Google - despite the rather ominous warning during the migration that once performed, it could never be reversed - and now my blog is not recognizing some of my most faithful readers. DemonDoll, for some reason, is dismissed as "Anonymous" in all her comments! What have I done? Has anyone else trod this same wanton path? Will life ever be the same again??

A moment from my mouth

For your enjoyment - and perhaps also to serve as warning to those of you guilty of tooth-neglect - a snapshot from my recent tryst at the dentiste's, taken midway through the procedure:
Allow me to point out some of the more delightful features:

• The gently snaking hand of the dental clamp, ensuring that my tooth did not shatter during surgery;
• The flexible steel spikes - although only three are visible, there were in fact four - each inserted all the way down into one carefully hollowed-out canal of my root; and
• My favourite, the sort of fluid elegance of the adjacent tooth's root, curling back, recoiling as it were in horror.
• Not pictured: a blue rubber dental dam, stretched and pinned across my mouth, and perforated to allow access to the one offending tooth. I have to say after my first experience with a dental dam, they seem like a very inexact form of protection - don't you agree that lesbians deserve some improved technology after all these years?
  

Enough local anaesthetic flowed to fell a herd of after-Thanksgiving shoppers. My jaw still hurts today, two and a half days later, from being propped open for two hours. They did not, to answer DemonDoll, provide any of the lovely pills one comes to expect as reward for enduring such torment. Tylenol 3 with codeine was the best on offer (and indeed, would appear to be the wildest that most Canadians dream of - the sweet soothing waves of vicodin have yet to wash these shores), so I opted to stick with our impressive stash of leftovers at home: the one benefit in T's chronic back-woes.

Wednesday will see the completion of this phase of the ordeal: a permanent filling - although, a crown will ultimately have to go over the whole mess, but not until I've saved for it. In the meantime, soups, puddings and purees and no teeth-clenching activities...well, almost none.

Oh, yes, this puts me in mind of one final detail, the most unexpected and perhaps also the most mortifying. After my procedure, T came to fetch me (which was awfully nice of him, though the aftermath was thankfully nowhere near as traumatic as the last time), and we left at around 12:30 pm, as many of the employees were leaving for lunch. The office is located in the gay village area, and as we were walking towards the subway station, a dental employee, an amiable young man who had had, on a previous visit, commerce with my mouth, suddenly overtook us, walking swiftly and with purpose in his eye. He did not notice me, or if he did, did not acknowledge. A few feet ahead of us, he turned down an alleyway - not just any alleyway, but a rather notorious one, as it contains the entrance to one of the city's most popular "gentleman's clubs", and sure enough, as we passed the alleyway, we saw him go right in. It took awhile for this to sink in; I wasn't sure if I had in fact seen it, but T confirms its truth. Am I a prude, or is it rather horrifying to discover that one's dental professional has a thing for lunch-time raunch? Of course, he uses gloves in his work, so really what's the harm? And yet, I am suddenly not looking forward to my next visit.