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.