10 favorite albums

In these days of iTunes and streaming music, the album has almost become a lost art. Oh, they’re still being released but there’s a feeling that it’s all just an arbitrary grab-bag, and people will take what they want and leave the rest. A song here, and a song there. And that antiquated notion of a “concept album”? Forget about it!  Well, I personally love the construct of an album. In fact, when I write original song lyrics, I often group them into imaginary “albums” and that makes it so much more meaningful to me. Sure, there are usually “duds” on every album, songs that you tend to skip. But at least you have a chance to become acquainted with them before you skip them. There is a beautiful art to how one song can lead into another and guide the thoughts and emotions of the listener, to take them on a journey that they would miss if they only downloaded one or two songs from the collection. So with that in mind, I offer some thoughts on ten of my favorite albums. It’s not really a top ten list, in that favorites have a way of changing, and these will not be presented in any particular order. And there is a lot of great work that will not be included in this list because I can’t write a 100-page blog entry. So this is just a sampling of really good albums, and I hope some of you might consider giving some of them a listen from start to finish.

JOHN MELLENCAMP: LIFE, DEATH, LOVE AND FREEDOM (2009)

As a huge Mellencamp fan from way back, I could have chosen any one of four or five different releases, but the one I’m listening to the most right now is this recording, his first collaboration with roots music icon T Bone Burnett. This marked a turning point for the artist, moving away from rock and towards an eclectic mix of folk, country, blues and Americana. Others that followed this album have not been as strong. The songwriting is exquisite in its melodies, instrumentation, and lyrical themes. It’s pretty downbeat, but that’s nothing new for Mellencamp. There is the dark humor of “John Cockers” about a crotchety old loner: “I used to have some values / now they just make me laugh / I used to think things would work out fine / but they never did do that.” This is followed by “A Ride Back Home”, which is a sad appeal to Jesus to end the singer’s failed earthly life and take him to heaven early. Then you arrive at “Jena”, which is about an actual racist incident that occurred in a Southern town of the same name, and “Mean” which seems to be about the religious right. “County Fair” is a ghost story of sorts, with the protagonist matter-of-factly detailing his final hours on this earth before he is senselessly murdered. Yet in spite of all the morbidity, there are fragments of sweetness and light, as “For the Children” is a kind of blessing bestowed upon the next generation by someone who admits that he doesn’t understand this life at all, but he has hope anyway. And “My Sweet Love” is one of the most catchy love songs you’ll ever hear.

KATE BUSH: THE DREAMING (1982)

Kate Bush blossomed into full musical maturity and creative genius with this trippy album. Before, she was fairly subdued, a shy-sounding teenage girl, in spite of her more animated onstage persona, which reflected a rich dance background. While she could always be described as a wee bit eccentric, this album took that quirk over the edge and took the listeners into flights of fancy that they never could have previously imagined. While not exactly a hit, “Suspended in Gaffa” is one of the most infectious and addictive tunes in her arsenal. She takes you around the world with “Pull Out the Pin”, a mediation on the violence of the Vietnam war from the perspective of the Vietcong. The title song takes you to Australia to witness the Aborigines getting swept off their land by the white man. “Night of the Swallow” is a heart-wrenching plea of a woman trying to keep her over-confident loved one from embarking on a deadly mission. Most captivating of all though is a pairing of songs, “Leave It Open” and “Get Out of My House”, both occupying the end of the two “sides” of the record. They are both ominous and cautionary reflections on the forces we allow to enter into our life, and what we try to keep out. In a way, they almost contradict each other, and at the same time compliment, like two sides of the same coin. The latter track ends in a spectacularly spooky and hysterical fashion, as Kate transforms into a mule. You can’t miss this.

ROBYN HITCHCOCK: EYE (1990)

When Robyn Hitchcock has a band backing him up in the studio (the Soft Boys, the Egyptians, the Venus 3), the songs tend to be very poppy and accessible. Oh, there is still the macabre and surreal imagery that his lyrics are known for, but the music tends to be radio friendly, even if the record labels and radio stations are not friendly back. But when Hitchcock goes solo, we have something very different. The songs tend to be quite stripped down, and consist mostly of an acoustic guitar and his raspy English vocals. The production is not smooth at all; some songs end quite abruptly and in unexpected ways. The lyrics are even more edgy than normal, yet with an insanely dark cackling-clown sense of humor. Take “Executioner” (“I know how Judas felt / but he got paid / I’m doing this for free / just like Live Aid”) or “Aquarium”: (“She says she’s gonna saw her head off / she only does it for attention”). Perhaps one of the most cosmically strange and funny songs of his entire massive oeuvre is “Clean Steve”, which I won’t quote here cos you just have to hear it for yourself. There’s also great tenderness on the album as he exposes his heart in the mortality meditation of “Glass Hotel” and the bitter breakup dirge, “Linctus House.” This is a moody album, and I listen to it when I’m, well, moody. “Should I say it with flowers, or should I say it with nails?” – “Linctus House”

HOWIE DAY: STOP ALL THE WORLD NOW (2003)

The original title was going to be From a Northern Sky, which would have been a much stronger title, and very evocative. Several songs would have hinted back to it in their lyrics. But that’s a small matter. Day has said he was influenced by Jeff Buckley on this album, and I can see that, although I find Day’s music to be more accessible than Buckley’s, and no less dramatic or well crafted. This is an artist who wears his heart on his sleeve, and that’s probably why I love him so much. Every track is infused with an intensity of emotion, as if the survival of the world itself hinged on whatever he’s singing about (which, incidentally, is usually love). Maybe that explains the album title. “Brace Yourself” is a warning to potential romantic interests, as if to say, “When I fall in love, I become a powerful and unpredictable force of nature”. There’s an earnestness in these songs that confronts the dangers of love and passion, as well as the beauty and tenderness. Arguably, the most powerful song on the album is “End of Our Days”, which was featured prominently in the 2006 documentary The Bridge, about the world’s most popular place to commit suicide, the Golden Gate Bridge. While I don’t think suicide is actually the subject of the song, there is such a depth to the feeling expressed in both words and melody that the filmmakers obviously thought it had the gravitas to capture the film’s dark tone, which actually featured live footage of real people jumping to their deaths.

THE WHITE STRIPES: ICKY THUMP (2007)

Jack White and his cohort Meg White (not siblings, but formerly married) made their blues-rock fusion mark on the world with six studio albums in eight years. Then they wrapped it all up with a Canadian tour and accompanying film (Under Great White Northern Lights, excellent, by the way) and then went their separate ways. My opinion, which I think is a rare one among fans, is that they got better with each album. Their first one was the worst one, and their last one, Icky Thump, was the best. I first heard the title track in my friend Holly’s car, riding home from film school one night, and it was revelatory. There are many guitarists I admire, but the authority and confidence with which Jack played on this song struck me like a bolt of lightning. And then you add the in-your-face lyrics: “White Americans, what? Nothing better to do? Why don’t you kick yourself out – you’re an immigrant too.” Just…wow. The rest of the album follows almost as strongly as that opener. The searing “300 M.P.H. Torrential Outpour Blues” lets us into one of those uncomfortable relationship conversations that we all have, and between verses, breaks out into brain-piercing guitar noise that sounds like people playing with assorted saws to punctuate the emotional intensity of the proceedings. “Prickly Thorn, but Sweetly Worn” has Jack experimenting with bagpipes, much the same way he played with marimba in the previous album. There’s a slight lag in the second half, but the record closes with a light-hearted exhortation towards taking ownership and personal responsibility (“Effect and Cause”). I hate that The White Stripes had to end it, but since they did, it’s wonderful they did so on this high note.

DIRE STRAITS: LOVE OVER GOLD (1982)

This is for people who love the guitar and love storytelling. In its five long tracks (one of them nearly 15 minutes in length), we get a lot of both. These are what Mark Knopfler traffic in. Stories of love (mostly lost), stories of corruption, stories of locations in time(s). You take it all in with Knopfler propelling you through the songs in long instrumental sessions both gentle and fierce. It’s always beautiful though, and the 3-minute guitar solo that closes “It Never Rains” is my favorite guitar solo, period.

BILLY JOEL: SONGS IN THE ATTIC (1981)

Before Joel hit it big in 1977 with The Stranger, he recorded four lackluster albums with not a lot of artistic control over the proceedings. He wrote the songs, of course, and sang and played piano, but the production and musicianship by the hired guns were not up to the level of Joel’s songwriting craft. So, in the early 80’s, he released one of the only live albums I actually like, an album that takes the best material from those early works and revitalizes it in a live setting. The result is a stunning revelation of just how good a songwriter he was to begin with, and the potential that those songs had. The most staggering example of this improvement is “Captain Jack”, the cautionary tale of young restlessness (and recklessness) and drug addiction. This was actually released in its original version in 1973 and was a hit; that was the version that was later put on the Greatest Hits compilation. But the Attic version is infinitely better; when he launches into the final chorus, the anger is palpable, and if you think Billy Joel is a bubblegum artist with nothing to say, you’ll never feel that way again. Other standout tracks are “Streetlife Serenader” and “Summer, Highland Falls.” These are thoughtful, meditative, reflective tracks that were written and recorded before Joel became a hit-making machine. Their place is in our hearts, rather than on the charts.

FLEETWOOD MAC: TUSK (1979)

You may wonder what was going through the mind of singer/songwriter/guitarist/producer Lindsey Buckingham when he steered the band on this sharp left turn from their mega-hit breakthrough Rumours from 1977. Tusk is nothing like Rumours, not in the slightest. It was a commercial failure and disappointment at the time, but now it enjoys a unique following as something of a cult favorite. Like most Mac albums with this particular lineup, it features contributions from Stevie Nicks and Christine McVie as well as Buckingham. But Buckingham dominates with the lion’s share of the songs on this double-album, and the songs are…well…different. I don’t know what he was listening to at the time, but it wasn’t Mac contemporaries like the Eagles! The songs are wild and frenetic and sometimes rather incomprehensible. Nicks does her usual heart-pouring therapy sessions, but really takes it up a notch on the epic “Sara”. She also contributes the most hard-edged and mysterious track on the album, “Sisters of the Moon”, which is the band as close as it gets to hard rock. (I can imagine a heavy metal cover of this, it would be great.) And for McVie’s part, while she is sometimes the weakest link, her songs of love and romantic passion are enough to make the heart melt. She is at her best of this album.

SUZANNE VEGA: DAYS OF OPEN HAND (1990)

This album was sort of a transition between the soft folk of her 80’s offerings and the more electronic-oriented music that would come later. What is really compelling about this album is how introspective the songs are. And many of them, I can relate to on a deeply personal level. Take the opener: “Oh Mom, I wonder when I’ll be waking. It’s just that there’s so much to do and I’m tired of sleeping.” Two songs later, on “Rusted Pipe”, she sings of tentative beginnings: “Now the time has come to speak. I was not able. And water through a rusted pipe could make the sense that I do.” She runs a gamut of human experience, from dreaming (“Book of Dreams”) to civic duty (“Institution Green”) to the complex nature of communication (“Big Space”) to a harrowing medical crisis (“50/50 Chance”) and finally the long spiritual journey that is life itself (“Pilgrimage”). Many times, I have made mix tapes to express who I am, and at least one song from this album would usually be included. Many times, I’ve felt like “I could have written this!”

U2: THE UNFORGETTABLE FIRE (1984)

This is a unique collection of songs that were largely inspired by a visit to a peace museum, and witnessing its various displays. So you have two songs about Martin Luther King Jr (actually the weakest tracks on the album, not because of their subject but because of less imaginative musical choices). You have love songs set in the backdrop of nuclear devastation, after a series of paintings made by survivors from the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. (The band actually took the name for the album from that painting exhibit.) There’s a song about the decline of Elvis and, in a larger sense, of America. There are two songs about drug addiction in Dublin. And there is a really sweet love song, one of my all-time favorites that I want played at my wedding (if I ever have one), “Promenade”. All this may not sound very enticing, but it’s the music that really shines here, as it captures this mixture of very serious and dramatic topics. One thing that stands out much more than usual is Adam Clayton’s bass, throbbing underneath Edge’s melodic guitar rhythms and unusual frenetic outbursts. Bono sings with his usual solemnity, but here it doesn’t come across as pretentious or preachy like it does on, say, The Joshua Tree. You hear the heart of a man weeping for humanity’s suffering, and there’s a universality to it that is unmatched on any other U2 album in spite of such specific subject matter. The highpoint is the title track, which ends with a lovely orchestral coda that will leave you breathless, speechless, or both. And by the way, the video that was made for that song is my absolute favorite music video ever. It’s as powerful as the song itself. 

American Crime (season two)

I’m not sure at exactly what point cable networks took over episodic television, but ever since, it’s been nearly impossible for the old giants to reclaim their viewership. Why watch ABC, NBC, or CBS when you’ve got Game of Thrones on HBO, House of Cards on Netflix, Fargo on FX, Bates Motel on A&E? (BTW, mentioning those shows doesn’t mean I watch them all.) But this winter, something truly exceptional, one of the best things I’ve ever seen in my 42 years on planet, aired, and it was on ABC. It was called American Crime, and you most likely missed it.

To be specific, it was season 2 that aired this winter. Like Fargo, and American Horror Story (I hear), this show is completely different every season. Not only a new story, but all new characters, although some are played by actors who were also in the first season. You could call it “repertory TV drama”. It was created by the writer of the Academy Award winning film, 12 Years a Slave, John Ridley, who also wrote and directed a number of the episodes, along with other A-listers like Kimberly Peirce (Boys Don’t Cry) and Gregg Araki (Mysterious Skin). And one final technical note, this is not the docudrama about OJ Simpson; that show is called American Crime Story. So just to get it straight, there’s no “Story” in the title of what I’m writing about here.

American Crime has two Indiana high schools as its backdrop. One is an elite private school, run by the cold and calculating Leslie Graham, played with supreme subtly by Felicity Huffman. The other is a somewhat run-down budget-poor public school, where there are constant tensions between the black and Hispanic populations. Chris Dixon (Elvis Nolasto, in what is truly one of the most sympathetic adult portrayals in this story) tries to keep things functioning and keep a lid on the tensions, which turns out to be a thankless and impossible task.

A scandal breaks out at the private school. Social outcast Taylor Blain (played by Falling Skies alum, Connor Jessup) shows up at a party, hosted by the captain of the basketball team. There, he has a sexual encounter with Eric Tanner (Joey Pollari), another member of the basketball team. Throughout the show, the exact nature and details of this encounter are never revealed, but in the next few days, photos of a passed-out and half naked Taylor are spread across the school, and Taylor will confess to his mom (the always-incredible Lili Taylor) that he was raped. Eric meanwhile is outed at his school, partially shunned, and completely denies that he did anything that Taylor didn’t want.

It’s necessary for me to take a moment to praise these two young actors, Jessup and Pollari, because while the show is full of extraordinary performances all around, it is these two that do the majority of the heavy lifting and are responsible for driving that emotional stake into the heart of the viewer. Here are two young, confused gay kids, living in a small town America that is much less accepting than you might imagine in 2016. Taylor is shy, sensitive, and under-stated. As his troubles get deeper and deeper, he withdraws further into himself, until he reaches a breaking point.  Eric is a young man who wants to project a very tough masculine exterior, and it gets harder and harder as the pressure mounts throughout the series. Taylor has a hard time expressing his thoughts and feelings, and yet in his pauses, you can see the painful truth in his eyes. I’m reminded of that song, “you say it best when you say nothing at all.” A lot of actors of any age have a hard time communicating their characters like this, and that’s why Connor Jessup is so amazing here. And look, his character is no angel, which becomes more apparent as the show progresses, but you love him and want to protect him as much as his mother does because of the empathy that Jessup creates for Taylor. It becomes a high stakes proposition for the viewer, as you rush to the television set every week to see what happens. You almost pray that everything works out okay, even though you know it’s fiction. As for Pollari, his smoldering portrayal of the angry-but-damaged Eric will make you almost as concerned for him as for Taylor…almost. He is like a caged animal, imprisoned by his anger and his recklessness. He does things that could get him killed. Pollari expertly finds the balance between the macho that Eric so wants to be and the deep wounded vulnerability that is his true heart.

Huffman’s private school headmaster only wants to bury the scandal and does everything in her power to silence the Blains, with devastating results. The basketball coach, played by Timothy Hutton (who is somehow always likable, no matter what character he’s playing) just wants to protect his team and preserve the notion of camaraderie, which means burying his head in the sand. Unlike the Huffman character, Hutton’s coach is almost always a man of good intentions, but they don’t get him very far because the good intentions are not matched with genuine courage and strength of character. And indeed, one of the themes of season two of American Crime is how children suffer at the hands of adults (their parents, teachers, so-called role models) who care more about their own institutions than about people. And in many cases, parents care only for their own kids, and are willing to throw other children under the bus to protect theirs.

One primary example is the LaCroix family, an affluent black community pillar, the youngest of whom, Kevin, is the basketball team’s captain. His parents witness the community falling apart around them over this scandal, and their only thought is to protect their son, no matter what his involvement in the incident might be. One especially noteworthy performance is by Regina King, as mother Terri, who is like a lioness, protecting her cub…And yet, at the same time, Terri experiences a real character evolution during these ten episodes. She goes from scolding her son for letting Eric take the winning basket in a game and railing against Taylor’s mom, blaming her for all the town’s troubles to taking ownership of her own mistakes, and urging her husband and son to do the same. It’s an incredibly strong performance, which—like Jessop’s and Pollari’s—should be nominated for an Emmy.

Meanwhile, back at the public school, as I said before, black kids and Hispanic kids seem to be hating on each other, and the school board, which is a multi-ethnic conglomerate, just like the school itself, has the so-called adults exploiting the tensions to jockey for power and position, and the sad-sack black principle is getting railroaded amid accusations of racism against the Hispanics. Where education and politics converge, politics will always win out. There are some connections between the goings-on at this school and the more central private school storyline. Eric’s less promising younger brother goes here, and Taylor transfers here from the private school after the rape.

I’m about to go into spoiler territory, so if you want to watch this and don’t want anything more given away, you should not read past this paragraph. My comments above barely scratch the surface of why this is a vital program that I think everyone should watch, even if they think it’s not necessarily their cup of tea. Like so few other programs, it reveals the real complexity of human nature, where nobody is good, and nobody is evil. Everyone has real and difficult issues that they deal with. It’s like that Facebook meme you see one in a while, I’ll try to paraphrase it: “Don’t judge people too quickly, because everyone is fighting a secret battle that you know nothing about.” Okay, I think I butchered that, but you get the idea. There are so many twists and turns and surprises. There is so much that is fresh and innovative here. If there were more things like this produced, I might not feel the need to be an artist myself. The need derives (possibly, one theory anyway) from a sense of something lacking out there. This is what art should be. This is what you should be watching. Trust Uncle Matt.

Okay, spoilers…not just for the sake of plot reveals, but the necessary discussion that must follow. For Taylor Blain, when it rains, it pours. Like many victims of sexual assault (and one of the things you learn is that male on male rape is much more common than you think), he just wants to put it behind him. But then there are the viral photos. Then his mom pursues justice, even when he’d rather she not. For her trouble, her past with mental illness is brought to light. Taylor loses his girlfriend when he’s outed as gay, which is a big deal simply because he needs moral support, and her anger prevents her from being there for him. Taylor gets the shit beat out of him for damaging the reputation of the prized basketball team. Taylor takes drugs to ease the pain. Taylor borrows a gun from his grandfather, and takes it to school with a hit list full of people, the top of which is Leslie Graham, the headmaster, who has done nothing but try to demonize him and his mother from the start. A compassionate secretary talks him down without even realizing it, but as Taylor is leaving the school, having committed no violence, he’s confronted and threatened by one of the jocks who beat him up. “If you say anything, I’ll kill you!” says Wes the jock. In a moment of panic, Taylor sees to it that Wes is the one that ends up dead.

Of the many, many hot-button issues that this show addresses, none is more relevant than the issue of school shootings. And while there have been many shows and films and even plays—I wrote one myself—that deal with this important subject, the approach taken here is somewhat different from what we’ve seen. In the first place, the shooting was not the premeditated one that Taylor had in mind when he came to school that day. It happened in a moment of shock and could therefore be described almost as accidental, which is why Taylor is charged with manslaughter and not murder. Add to that, the sympathetic nature of Taylor’s character and situation, and the fact that the bully Wes—while not deserving to die—was a truer villain than Taylor throughout most of the show. It’s very bold and unprecedented that a work of fiction would generate sympathy for a school shooter, but it goes back to what I said before about how complicated people are and life in general, and the situations we find ourselves in, our private battles that other people don’t know about. Some might not want a school shooter to be cast in anything but the most monstrous light because the problem is so pervasive in our society. Is it dangerous to try to understand the monster’s point of view? Or, even worse, to show that he isn’t even a monster at all?

I was bullied mercilessly in junior high. The late 80s was a time before Columbine, and when I wrote my imaginary hit list, and had to pass it forward to my math teacher who read it aloud, I was not suspended or even given a talking-to. I was not taken seriously. And truth be told, I wasn’t serious; it was a “cry for help”, as they say, but it fell on deaf ears. And so many years later, even with what we know now, there are many with willfully deaf ears and blind eyes. When everybody looks out for number one, they forget that the ostracized kid they’re ignoring might be the one who can tear their precious world apart.

This ten-episode story was deliberately devoid of resolutions. Taylor is given a chance to make a plea deal to lessen his sentence, but we don’t find out if he does so. Eric is seen about to jump into another stranger’s car for an anonymous hookup, which has proven to be dangerous in the past, but he takes a pause, wondering if he really wants to go through with it. We don’t know what happens. We don’t find out the truth about the night that changed Eric and Taylor’s lives forever, but we do know they both believe their own accounts of what happened. We can draw our own conclusions.  

Blasted

The truth is, I’m not easily shocked. At least not in terms of what’s on the stage or screen. I may be disturbed by something; that’s different. I’m an emotional guy, full of empathy and compassion, so it is possible to move me. And that’s what I found with Defunkt Theatre’s production of Sarah Kane’s first pivotal play, Blasted: I was moved, but I wasn’t shocked.

Not that it’s important to be. It’s just that I read a lot of material about the play before seeing it, and I also was familiar with Kane’s pitch black dramatic suicide note, 4.48 Psychosis, which Defunkt staged a few years ago, all leading me to think I was going to get a real gut punch, which did not exactly happen for me. Maybe it’s because of my own dark imagination, or things I’ve already produced myself (Sam Shepard’s Curse of the Starving Class and Prince Gomovilas’ adaptation of Scott Heim’s novel, Mysterious Skin, both feature the same kind of dark and gritty realism as Kane’s play). And yet, even though I was completely prepared for everything I saw, it was nonetheless a very powerful show.

What I don’t want to do here is reveal much of what happens in the story, because I think that’s what nearly spoiled it for me. The reviews told me everything that happens, as if they thought audiences needed a very detailed and specific warning. This was a real disservice. Suffice to say, it isn’t for the faint of heart. But that’s all. Let me let you discover it for yourself.

However, here’s some non-spoiler stuff about the plot:  Basically, a man and a woman who have a history together but are not particularly simpatico, get a hotel room for the night. They quarrel over a number of issues, mainly sex and the man’s raving bigotry and paranoia. The man is dying, and the woman seems to have a disorder that involves fits of laughter, followed by fainting. There is some abuse that takes place. And yet, the man (he has a name—Ian—and he’s played by a very capable and committed Matt Smith) is more pathetic than villainous. He suffers painfully in the face of the ticking clock of his mortality. It seems like he’s trying to do more than satisfy his various cravings (gin, cigarettes, food and sex); there’s a sense that he wants to preserve his dignity, and yet his lusts seem to thwart this effort every time. The woman (Cate, played by Elizabeth Parker as both childlike and full of mystery), for her part, waffles back and forth from genuine affection and interest for Ian, to disgust and contempt.

And then something unexpected happens. Suddenly we find out we’re in a war zone, and the hotel room become like its own corner of hell, and the crazy soldier who shows up unannounced proves, in his demonic cruelty, to fit right in.

That’s all the story I’m going to share. This production makes maximum use of excellent lighting and sound designs (by Cassie Skauge and Gordon Romei, respectively) to create the feeling of menace that permeates the proceedings. During the blackouts, it’s really black. You can’t see a thing. But you hear this most ominous sounding rainfall, like it’s nails pouring out of the sky, instead of water. And when the lights come back up (after not too long, I might add), the stage is dramatically changed, and you really do wonder how did they do that?

As usual, I sat in the front row, and everything felt so much more real and palpable than you necessarily want it to in a show like this. I got Ian’s bare ass staring at me just a couple feet away. When I heard him coughing and wheezing from his terminal condition, I actually wanted to move to the back of the theatre because I felt worried I might catch something, even though the rational part of my brain knew this was just a sick character. I actually don’t recommend sitting in the front row, but rather up some levels because the risers still allow for good sightlines, and my view of certain key moments was blocked because I had a big center-stage bed in front of me.

On an entirely personal note, part of my trepidation in seeing this play has to do with knowing the story of playwright Sarah Kane, who was brought up in a devout Christian household, only to abandon her faith later in life. As a Christian man, it makes sense to me that a loss of faith would be followed by spiraling despair. She attributed the violent content of Blasted, in part, to the violence of the Bible, and while I whole-heartedly admit that the Bible has a great deal of brutality in its pages, I could not really see the connection between the violence found in the scriptures, and the events unfolding in this play.

But back to the pertinent discussion of this play. Bottom line:  Defunkt Theatre has taken a very challenging work and has run with it, fully committed, nothing halfway, no holds barred, complete honesty and integrity in every aspect of the production. But this is their MO; this is what they do. This is why they’ve become a nationally renowned theatre company, known for its boldness and powerful work. If they can take a play like this, which is about as rife with challenges and obstacles as you can get, and do it so expertly, one wonders if they can do wrong at all. 

Howie the Rookie

Let me just begin with what is truly important. Carrying a one-man show requires an exceptionally gifted and courageous actor, but when you add to that the eccentric and peculiar needs of a show like Mark O’Rowe’s Howie the Rookie, those words don’t even begin to capture what kind of actor you need. Nevan Richard is that kind of actor, but I can’t say I knew the full extent of that, based on the couple of readings I did with him for Fertile Ground and PDX Playwrights. Sometimes I will go to a show like this with the idea that it’s good to be supportive of actors you’ve worked with, and maintain good friendships for possible future endeavors. But I have to come clean here: I had no idea, not really.

This is, in many ways, more challenging than something like Sex, Drugs, and Rock N Roll by Eric Bogosian, and similar one-man feats, in that those plays are mostly angry rants about politics, religion, social injustice, and anything else the playwright wants to get on his/her soapbox about. Anybody, given a stage and an audience, can rant and rave for 90 minutes. But O’Rowe’s play is actually about the art of storytelling, and it takes that art very seriously. I’m not going to talk a lot about the story in this review because that’s The Howie’s job, and The Rookie’s. I wouldn’t dare deprive you of their colorful renderings in order to give you some cheap-ass, watered-down synopsis so that whoever you might want to take to this thing on a date can ask you “What’s it about?” Wait and see, only buckle up because it’s a bumpy ride.

What I can tell you is that the action takes place in Dublin, amid a sort of macho world of adolescent male punks and female skanks. (Sorry if that seems derogatory; my words are mild by comparison to this play, which really pulls no punches at all.)  An epic 24-hour story is told from the perspectives of two young men who share a last name, The Howie Lee and the Rookie Lee. In the past, these characters have not always been played by a single actor; in other productions, the differences between the two men might be more apparent. In this one, while they are different, you get an interesting insight into what they have in common, which is more than just the last name and a Nevan-like face.

Director Matthew Jared Lee does an amazing job with very little, in terms of creating atmosphere before the play even begins. A tattered chain link fence, littered with large plastic bags of garbage, an empty paint bucket, beer cans, and the ubiquitous wooden rehearsal box that you see in many black box-type shows, this one sprayed with graffiti like “ugly fat cunt”…told you. A playlist full of what sounds like multi-genres of Irish bands on an Irish radio station (I want that playlist), leading up to a full minute of dimly lit atmospheric sounds of Dublin at night. This is, of course, accentuated by the fact that the tiny venue of Shout House, home of Hand2Mouth Theatre, is located under the Hawthorne Bridge and a block or two away from the train tracks. Honestly, long before Howie (or the Rookie in the second act) stepped onto the stage, I felt like I was really in this grimy, sometimes sinister urban setting. And no joke, if you’re sitting in the front row, as is my habit to do because of my short stature and need for good sightlines, you are right there in the action, and the actor—and the action—is in your face. My only regret about this was a brief self-consciousness in the first act, which tried to steel my attention from the narrative. (And honestly, I wondered if our actor maybe would have preferred that no one sit in the front row, at least no one he knew. That’s a theatre etiquette topic that I’m constantly wondering about.)

Something about one-man shows and their narrative structure is that you have to pay very close attention; you cannot let your mind wander for a moment, or you may lose the thread of the story. I did lose it a couple times, but was thankfully able to pick it back up. Another thing that keeps you on your toes is a thick Irish dialect (well done in this case, and that ain’t easy) and a glossary of slang that is included in the program. I actually would have liked to get the glossary a day or so ahead of time so that I could actually memorize the terms!  Also, the character’s names are as colorful as the language. The Peaches (not a chick), Flann Dingle (not a Mexican dessert), Ladyboy (no lady and no boy), and Puddin’ Boy. All these people and more cross in and out of The Howie and the Rookie’s lives and leave an impact that is alternately hilarious, shocking and tragic. (I may be sounding a bit like the PR in that last sentence…sorry.)  HERE IS A WORLD [movie voice] that most of us never will be dropped into, 2 men whose lives many of us would not come remotely close to intersecting, but you leave them and their world feeling profoundly affected and grateful you were there for a while, even if it costs you a bit of sadness. Precisely the type of the show I am always trying to create myself, and to see.

Bartender, a shot of Bushmills for everyone!  

Two regional winter productions

Women and Wallace

HART’s current production, Women and Wallace by Jonathan Marc Sherman, marks a step up in quality and content for HART Theatre. (I’m not saying past HART shows were crap; on the contrary, HART is possibly the best community theater in the greater Portland area, thanks in no small part to artistic director Paul Roder. This play simply sets a new standard.) It only runs for one more weekend, so hurry and get your tickets.

Sherman’s play deals with a 6-year-old boy (Wallace) losing his mother to suicide, and documents the next 12 years of the boy’s life as he struggles to make sense of the tragedy, and a particular microscope is aimed at how this affects his relationships with the oppose sex. First-time director Eric Lonergan makes the bold choice of casting four different boys for different periods in Wallace’s life. The 6- and 13-year-old Wallace are played by real-life brothers Cameron and Carson Bell. Having worked with these kids in White Christmas, I was surprised that they were cast, because of their shyness and lack of experience. The greatest testament to Lonergan’s abilities as director is the way he was able to draw powerful performances from the boys, the older of which is actually only 10 in real life. Now if they just learn to slow down their speech a little and enunciate, they’ll be well on their way.

The 16-year-old Wallace is played by Spencer Putnam, who does a great job capturing “the awkward years” with the funny haircut, clothing, and James Taylor fixation. A minor problem is that he doesn’t look anything like the other 3 Wallaces. But the performance is strong enough to overlook that.

The oldest Wallace, at 18, is played by Hillsboro newcomer Carter Howard, and he carries most of the show, not only acting out that time period’s scenes, but also cutting in between earlier scenes and threading together all the pieces with poignant storytelling, which captures him remembering all different ages as well as some very strange dreams and altered mental states. Howard is a real find, and an actor to keep an eye on.

Also exceptional is Nina Skeele as…well, Nina, the girl Wallace ultimately develops feelings for, and for whom he makes the difficult work of confronting his demons. She has the perfect blend of beauty, tenderness, and vulnerability that make us understand why she’s the girl that could really help Wallace out of his long rut.

One of the only hiccups in terms of the actors and their performances was the fact that there were so many family members playing opposite each other. 13-year-old Wallace’s first kiss scene doesn’t work at all because it’s the actor’s sister he’s in the scene with, and an audience can tell that everyone involved was very reluctant and tentative about making it real. I was also initially concerned about the casting of young Cameron as the kid who finds his dead mother…and she is played by Cameron’s actual mother!  But, to my relief, it was done in a way that seemed responsible.

There are many moments in this play that are very thoughtful and moving. One has the sense that playwright Sherman could have gone even further exploring the darkness that inhabits Wallace’s childhood and adolescence. The most effective scene in the play deals with a vivid description of a depraved and sadistic dream, and in a way it doesn’t quite fit with the rest of the play, because it’s so much darker in tone. Perhaps Sherman could have further delved into this territory, but chose not to for fear of the play becoming less marketable. I think it’s kind of a shame.

Director Lonergan is experienced as a set designer and builder, but in this case, he should have handed that duty—as well as sound design—to someone else. The double-layered textured mauve backdrop is both an eyesore and a distraction. There doesn’t seem any purpose to have one back wall in front of a bigger back wall, other than to move furniture more economically. (It doesn’t add to the actual set.) And that’s another problem. In between all those touching moments are long, clunky scene changes. The drama and momentum of the story would have been much better served by a simpler, more streamlined approach to a minimal set. Making every scene look different is not as important as keeping the action going. And every time there is one of those long set changes, the audience is brought out of the story, and reminded they’re in a dark theater, watching a stage crew. And as far as the portable sets, they weren’t worth the trouble of making them. Wallace’s bedroom never looks like a boy’s room. He may have Mother issues, but why would he have a wedding ring quilt on his bed? The set doesn’t lend anything to the personalities of any of the characters.

Another technical problem was the music. The play is set between 1975 and 1987. But the music was like a radio station, covering hits from the last three decades. And because there were so many set changes, there were a LOT of tunes. The anachronism also served to say, “This is a play, you’re not really in this person’s life”. It would have been better to use music from each time period. And how about some of that James Taylor that Wallace loved so much?

Credit is due to Karen Roder for her top notch costume design, as always, as well as stellar lobby and window displays which really add to the experience for the audience.

In spite of the flaws, Women and Wallace is worth seeing for the dramatic content, and the performances. This is a show that has the potential of redefining audience’s perceptions of HART Theatre, and, in a greater context, the possibilities of community theatre in general. 

A View From the Bridge

In his essay, “Tragedy and the Common Man”, Arthur Miller described the characteristics of the modern tragic hero. He is someone to whom a sense of inner pride is very important. His name, his reputation, and his place in the world are the things he values above all else, and when those things are challenged, he will go to any lengths to defend his honor and dignity, even if it means he must die to do so.

That concept is evident in Miller’s most famous play, Death of a Salesman, and it is also at work in A View From the Bridge, now playing at Wilsonville STAGE. Wilsonville’s 20-year-old community theater company is in a period of flux, with a new name, a hot new logo, and new blood. Among the new blood is View’s director, Terry Kester, who is sometimes listed with seven letters after his name, lauding his apparent accomplishments in an attempt to lend the company some gravitas. This is not really necessary because if the work doesn’t speak for itself, the program bio will speak for him.

Fortunately, the work does speak for itself, and what it is says is both timely and compelling. A fine ensemble of actors has been assembled to portray an Italian American family, led by Kevin Martin as longshoreman Eddie Carbone. Eddie is a solid, hard-working family man who has a devoted wife, Beatrice (Zoe Niklas) with whom he has raised his orphaned niece Catherine (Eve Bradford) from childhood. But there are problems. As Catherine has gotten older, Eddie’s affection for her has possibly taken a mildly inappropriate turn, just as her over-dependence on him has stunted her own emotional growth. Seeing all this, Beatrice has grown weary, and is ready for Catherine to be on her own. Adding to the mix are two illegal immigrants, just arrived by boat, who they agree to house temporarily with unintended consequences. When Catherine falls under the spell of the charming Rodolpho (played with surprising confidence and vulnerability by relative theatre newbie Rayman Kirby) Eddie reacts  badly.

The cast is mostly very solid here, especially Martin and Niklas as husband and wife, both loving and devoted people, both tired and frustrated at the same time, often with each other. As director Kester says in his program notes, it is hard not to care for and empathize with these people, for we do share many of their characteristics, or know and love people who do. I appreciated Peter Armetta as the lawyer who narrates this tale to us, the audience, as if we are old friends he is confiding to, this heavy burden he needs to get off his chest. And Matthew Sunderland has improved since I last saw him on stage. While he falls somewhat short of the passionate loyalty towards his brother Rodolpho and the menace with which he puts Eddie in his place, he puts in a good effort.

These performances could have benefited from some time with a dialect coach. Not only were the accents uneven among the different cast members, but in some cases (mostly Kirby), it was a little too thick, making the words hard to decipher. This was not helped by “in the round” staging, where half the time, an actor who’s speaking has his or her back to you, or is by some other means blocked from view.

On the other hand, it’s worth noting that the intimacy of the arena-type staging made the whole experience feel very up close and personal (sometimes, perhaps, too much so, as not everyone likes to get shot with sprays of saliva from brawling actors). In the moments of conflict, the tension was palpable, and you really feel the fear and desperation that is happening in that room, in that moment. Still, if it were me, I would have used the raised stage, if only for better sightlines. I love good sightlines.

Another choice I may have differed with Kester on is playing it safe when it came to some of the more provocative moments, particularly when Eddie was drunk and confronted the young couple after being together. If you know the play, you know that Eddie actually forces a kiss on both his niece and her intended husband. Here there was no kiss, but rather a watered-down attempt from Eddie to accuse Rodolpho of homosexuality by doing a little dance with him. Strange and awkward, this scene only made me scratch my head, somewhat puzzled (the play was new to me when I saw it; I only read the scene later to clear up my confusion). It frustrates me that in 2016, someone thought it was necessary to censor this scene for the audience.

Although this play was set in the 50’s, there were some inconsistencies with costumes. Catherine’s outfits looked modern to my eye (though I freely admit to knowing nothing about fashion and may be completely off base), and I swear, Marco had black athletic shoes that looked recently purchased from Payless. While the minimal set didn’t bother me a whole lot, I was bothered by the lack of effort in showing any passage of time. The only characters who had any costume change at all were Catherine and Rodolpho. And what about the home accents that Catherine was going to purchase with her job money? I would have appreciated the addition of a rug and a tablecloth in between scenes. That would not have taken much time or effort, nor would it have stolen momentum from the pacing. I also would have appreciated an intermission, but that’s just me. It didn’t seem like a one-act play to me, although I’ve read in my research that it was indeed just that originally, but was later changed to a two-act structure.

The light and sound design were purely functional and did not seem to add much to the production, in the way of content. The sound sometimes blared out over the actor’s lines. This was especially noticeable for the soft-spoken Armetta.

There was very little marketing for this production, so I was surprised to see as many people there as I saw. But seriously—almost nothing on Facebook, nothing on PDX Backstage, maybe a single listing on the Oregonian, but I’m not even sure about that. I had mixed feelings about going to this show, but was extremely glad that I did. Therefore, I wish more people were going to know about it.

I wonder if Arthur Miller knew when he wrote this play that so many years later, we would still have such angst and divisiveness surrounding matters of immigration and prejudice. I also wonder why Miller named this play A View From the Bridge. Of course, we know the Brooklyn Bridge is close by, but I suspect something deeper. It could be a bridge that connects one lonely human being to another, or one person to his or her dream (like Rodolpho’s Broadway dream)…Whatever the case may be, whatever promised land is waiting on the other side, there are those who, for one reason or another, are not able to cross.

The 400 Blows ****

Here is another film I watched on the advice of my friend and colleague, James, and I am oh so glad I did.

There is something lost in the translation of this film's title, which in French is apparently an idiom for "to raise hell". So it's not a boxing picture. Okay, that helps. I admit I was afraid because it was from way before I was born and in black and white. (These are not bad qualities, mind you, but for some reason, I'm just reluctant to open myself up to older works, even classics such as this. I have been delighted by ancient films like Night of the Hunter, and you would think I'd get over my phobia, but maybe I will after a few more like this.)

The 400 Blows is part of the French New Wave cinema of the late 50's and 60's, and it comes from one of its primary auteurs, Francios Truffaut. I had seen one of his before--also because of a cinephile friend--called Jules and Jim, and while that had its moments, it didn't exactly leave me clamoring for more. But this coming-of-age film, which would be the first of several films exploring the same protagonist with the same actor (Jean-Pierre Leaud), made the kind of emotional impression on me that I suppose it's made on thousands of viewers for decades.

Plot-wise, there's not much to tell. A boy in his early teens is ignored, misunderstood, and mistreated by the adults in his life, leading him to the exact kind of trouble that his elders expect of him. (Sometimes we live up to others' expectations, if only to spite them, or because we take them in and believe these lies about ourselves and they become self-fulfilling prophecies.) By the end, we have a sad, haunting portrait of a lonely boy who never seemed to have much of a chance at happiness.

I was not the same kind of child or adolescent that the film's main character, Antoine Doinel, is. With very few exceptions, I was a model of good behavior, almost completely unrebellious. I didn't lie, I didn't cheat, I didn't steal, I didn't misbehave, I didn't get into trouble. You might think it's because my parents were super-strict, but that's not really the case. I was raised with a particular set of values and a huge amount of love, and I just didn't want to ever disappoint my parents, or any of my elders, for that matter. I suppose my general shortage of friends and peer pressure may have contributed to this good behavior, as it does seem like Antoine's trouble often stems from being egged on by classmates. But my point is, I didn't feel connected to this character on the basis that I could relate to him. I really couldn't very much. And yet, I cared about him. Maybe it's the father in me that has never had children but knows if I did, I'd treat them a lot better than Anoine's parents treat him. Maybe it's something to do with Leaud's acting ability; as his character plays aloof to the adults in his life, somehow his inner emotions are easily telegraphed to us watching. How is it we're paying so much closer attention than the people in this boy's life?

If I make this movie sound like a tragedy, it really isn't, at least not in the traditional sense. Although this film ends with uncertainty, we know that the life and adventures of Antoine continue in several other installments. I don't know how eager I am to see them though. The final moments in this film are so artfully captured, and the last frame leaves a lot to imagine, contemplate, and dream of what might be. I don't know if I want to replace my own notions with the actual continuing story that Truffaut ultimately decided to tell. Maybe I will eventually, but for now, I'm stuck--and yet quite content--with this freeze frame.

The wistful teen world of John Green

Note: there may be spoilers ahead.

My interest in John Green as an author began when I was looking at IMDb and saw the poster for The Fault in Our Stars, which I then clicked a link onto and subsequently decided to see when it came out. As the film got closer to opening, I was surprised to learn what an intense and devoted following the book and its author had. So I knew I'd be seeing it at a theater surrounded by obsessed teenage fans, waiting desperately to find out if the film matched their image of the cherished novel. Of course, I had no preconceptions. I saw the film with a clean slate, and I loved it more than anything I'd seen in a long time.

So much, in fact, that I decided I wanted to read the book and get all the little details that the movie inevitably would have to leave out (because you can never put it all in the movie, as everyone knows). I found a box set of 4 of John Green's books, horrendously priced at a local bookstore, but wonderfully bargain-priced online, so I ordered it, and set about to read all four books, starting with the one I already (sort of) knew.

The Fault in Our Stars  ***

I found that the movie was actually very faithful to the book, something I would also notice when I saw the film adaptation of Paper Towns a year or so later. The novel did fill in more details, as I expected it would, but for the most part, I don't remember what's in the novel and not in the movie, with the exception of a scene involving trying to sell an old swing set on Craigslist. (That was a deleted scene on the DVD however.)  I think the novel might be a tad less sentimental than the film, as films about romance and dying tend to be deliberate tearjerkers. John Green was trying to tell a good story, and the filmmakers were trying to make you reach for the Kleenex. Both efforts were successful.

By the way, if you're new to this story (book or film), it's about two teenagers who meet at a cancer support group and fall in love. Period.

This first book I read by John Green showed me that John Green has an amazing talent for writing teenage characters were are very smart--much smarter than you normally see depicted in movies--and relatable at the same time. You care very deeply what happens to them, and it's this affection for characters that makes his books page-turners, more than any kind of plot device.

There were a few imperfect moments in the book, which also made their way into the movie. Of course, one of the key story elements is the main character Hazel Grace's obsession with a particular book called An Imperial Affliction by one Peter Van Houten. There is a lot of emotional buildup to an eventual meeting with her idol in Amsterdam. When the meeting finally takes place, Hazel and her boyfriend Gus are disappointed for very obvious reasons. But I was disappointed too, for different reasons entirely. I thought the scene was too overwrought and more than a little far fetched. Yes, sometimes people don't live up to our expectations, but this character was so over the top asshole that he came across as to be almost cartoonish, even when he was played by a super-high caliber actor in the movie, like Willum Dafoe. It just played like a lot of nonsense to me.

My other complaint is on a more personal level. John Green is self-professed Episcopalian Christian, and it surprised me to see cheap jokes about the "heart of Jesus" and write a story about death and dying in which not a single person seems to have any hope or inclination that there may be an afterlife. To be clear, I would not want Green to evangelize in his novel, but the truth is, a lot of people in such situations do take comfort in the notion of a God, and to not even acknowledge that seemed a little short-sighted to me.

Paper Towns  ***

The next book I tackled was Paper Towns, and it tickled me when I learned that was next film that was to be made from Green's books. On its surface, it seemed like it would be a lighter affair, but it still packed an emotional wallop by the end, in spite of a good dose of humor throughout.

The centerpiece of the story is something that many of us can relate to, a childhood and/or teen crush that is long lasting, but unrequited. In Quentin's case, it started out when he was a boy, and a pretty girl moved in next door, and there was actually a friendship that developed but eventually faded. His feelings didn't fade though, all up until high school graduation approached. He had to watch her, so close (as they were still neighbors) and yet so far, as she became Miss Popularity and also a thing of mystery, rumor, and innuendo among the student body at their high school.

Not wanting to really rehash the plot here, suffice to say, he gets a surprising night of exhilaration and joy with Margo Roth Spiegelman (the crush), followed by a disappearing act, and the rest of the novel involves trying to find out where she went and why she left. Both the night with Margo and the road trip with a bunch of friends to track her down in upstate New York are the highlights of this book, filled with humor and mirth. They also explore the uniquely emotional and temporary bonds we form with our school friends, from whom we have that nagging awareness that we'll part ways, and things will "never be the same". (I actually think the movie hit that last note better than the novel did.)

Finding Margo in the end was very much like the heroes of The Fault in Our Stars finding Van Houten. It is a let-down for our protagonist, Q, and it's a let down for us...only in a slightly different way. The book treats this better than the movie, which is a little too pat in its goodbye scene. There's a little more angst in the written version, as there should be. But the problem for me, as the audience, was not that Q didn't end up getting what he thought he wanted, but that this beautiful, mysterious character was clearly emotionally unstable and unhealthy, and was going to continue to be that way. That is all right in the sense that not every story must have a happy ending, but I thought that the tone of this revelation was a little blasé, and that neither the author nor the protagonist seemed to care that much about the fact that the book's captivating Margo character was probably going to wind up homeless on the streets of New York City, meeting an ultimate fate that can't be very good. It seemed like a heartless ending to an otherwise very thoughtful story.

An Abundance of Katherines  **

Well, I have at least one friend who considers Katherines to be her favorite John Green book. So that's something. But to me, it was the weakest link, the bad egg, the bastard child, the runt of the litter. It deals with a young genius named Colin who has dated only girls named Katherine (about 19 of them) and has been dumped by every one of them. He tries to solve the mystery of his cursed love life by inventing a theorem and by going on a crazy road trip with his only friend, Hassan.

There are things to like about this book. Colin, in spite of being a prodigy, is someone we can all relate to. He knows a lot of things, but none of the really important ones about life, love, and happiness. There are many clever devices John Green uses in the book, such as footnotes to explain math problems and obscure factoids, which appeals to the nerd in all of us.

My greatest problem with the book is the annoying Hassan character. He is self-centered, rude, insulting, and altogether unlikable. He keeps referring to Colin as "Kaffir", which means infidel. With every page, I wondered why Colin tolerated this. The only benefit he seems to get from Hassan's friendship is an occasional dose of tough love/truth, which we all sometimes need, but I feel like John Green could have created a better character for that purpose.

The road trip leads to some unexpected places, but ultimately never really goes anywhere. It really felt like it lacked direction, and not in the good way of a story about teens trying to find themselves, but in the sense of an author who seems to have lost his own way as well.

Looking for Alaska  ****

The last book in the box set I read is, I believe, Green's first novel. It's also the next that will be made into a movie. (Big surprise that it's not Katherines!) I'm not completely sure about this, but I think Looking for Alaska might be my favorite of the bunch. And when the film comes out, it will be me stressing over how well it lived up to my expectations.

This is a boarding school story, which appeals to me in the sense that it deals with a different kind of growing up than the one I experienced. I'm not saying I wish I had gone to one, but it's fun to imagine and think about. The kinds of friendships formed in such places can be very strong, out of necessity because you don't have the family and hometown connections to rely on. So right away, I was drawn in to the story of Miles, the protagonist, so thin in stature that he gains the teasing nickname of Pudge. It doesn't take him long to make friends with his roommate Chip, other students Takumi and Lara, but most importantly the resident girl of mystery and instant attraction, Alaska.

All these characters have a lot of adventures and conversations and new "grown-up" experiences, and you really feel like you're with them as it all happens. It's a book that is very good at creating a sense of place and atmosphere. The tone is perfect throughout, and a lot better than you would expect from a first novel. It is funny, fun, and heartfelt. It's a novel that you never want to be over, even when the mood changes drastically right in the middle.

This is not a book of plot twists and surprises. In fact, John Green uses a literary technique which basically lets you know exactly what's going to happen and when, without ever having to say it in advance. I'm not sure why he did this, but I think it was to demark that moment in time when a person's life changes forever, when nothing will ever be the same. In Paper Towns, we had such a moment looming in the distance and it was a source of dread, but we never got to it. In Looking for Alaska, we do get to it about halfway through the novel, and it's somewhat devastating, no matter how much we knew about it going in. It is even arguably a more bitter pill than the obvious outcome of The Fault in Our Stars because it seems so random and senseless. But trying to make sense out of the senseless is a very real part of the human condition, and one which Green deals with very well.

So those are the John Green books I've read so far. There are a couple more, mostly collaborations. There's a Christmas one which I intend to read this year. Green is a fascinating author and person (his video blogs are alternately insightful and sometimes silly). What makes him a good YA author is that he never talks down to his audience; he respects them and understands them, as if he had only graduated himself yesterday. He is very current in terms of modern trends in technology, social media, and culture. He seems open-minded to almost every perspective and personality type. He seems like the kind to be a friend to nearly everyone. This is what makes him relevant and such an important part of our literary (and film) landscape today.