Rescue Me from Saving Grace…

A few posts back, in my brief celebration of the new season of Rescue Me, I mentioned the dearth of strong female characters on TV and how Leary’s show, about an angry macho NYFD firefighter and “world famous pussy hound” consistently gives us the lion’s share of them.

I don’t mean “strong” in that Oprah-inspired-long-suffering-you-go-girl terms, but strong as in willful, flawed, and intelligent – the sort of woman who has been bloodied by patriarchy perhaps, but remains unbowed. A fighter maybe, but not in that Love of Ages Barbie-doll-hair-tossing-back-biting-manipulator way or of the Bad Girls trailer park-smack fest variety, but, you know, a real woman who knows she has her dark side, and whose cognitive dissonance might make her crazy, but at least she’s animate. Someone who is, even at her worst, a cut above what usually passes for “strong female character” in Hollywood.

One character who seems to aspire to that sort of status is Holly Hunter’s Grace in Saving Grace, TNT’s new entry into the “we’re not afraid to build series around actresses of a certain age” sweepstakes.

I love Holly Hunter, and I’m happy to give anything she’s in more than a second chance. But I’m not sure I’m going to be able to hang with this series. She plays a tough, brilliant homicide detective battling some fairly typical tough brilliant homicide detective problems – a moral imperative to solve tough crimes and save innocents that gets self medicated by the usual suspects: booze, frenzied sex with married co-workers and major “look at me” behavior on the job.

You could almost be tempted to see her as a female Tommy Gavin. In fact, I suspect that this show owes more than a little to Rescue Me’s second season, in which Gavin (created and played by Denis Leary) is stalked by Jesus Christ, who taunts him like the artifact of a deservedly guilty conscious that he is.

Hunter’s Grace is haunted too, by an angel named Earl with a bad Skoal habit. Earl seems like a redneck version of Clarence from It’s a Wonderful Life who possesses a pair of wings straight from the prop department of Win Wenders’ Wings of Desire (a rare instance of a movie about angels that works, in my view).

Tommy Gavin’s Jesus works because he’s organic, rising out of Tommy’s Irish Catholic upbringing and dawning awareness of just how out of control his risk-taking has become. Grace’s angel – not so much.

For one thing, Earl is too contrived – the tobacco chewing, the cracker accent, the wings – he’s a puppet with all of his strings showing.

Perhaps more importantly this angel is something that happens to Grace, rather than rising from her, and I find this a completely unappealing conceit.

Grace’s Earl proselytizes, whereas Leary’s Jesus is Tommy’s own moral center. He comes off as funny, profane, and provocative in a way that Saving Grace would like to be, but just doesn’t have the chops to carry off.

Not that the show doesn’t have its allures. Besides Hunter there is Laura San Giacomo, who could sink her teeth into realizing a multi-faceted character in the form of a forensic scientist with religious faith, and who probably won’t get the chance.

The look and sound of the show are terrifically seductive; dreamy, gritty, fantastic and hyperreal in turns.

The male characters feel peripheral, except for that sanctimonious angel – and you know, that’s OK. For once, let the men be inconsequential love interests and scene candy.

My main complaint with Saving Grace is that ultimately Grace is drawn as a bad girl who has been chosen by God for saving. She is a victim in need of rescuing, which completely denatures any inner strength Hunter projects into the role.

Kill the angel, kill the God talk, and don’t even start with the “Hi I’m Grace and I’m an…” Let Grace save herself with her own inner strength and some help from her friends the way most interesting women do.

She doesn’t need a crutch in the form of crusty Earl and his annoying tobacco spit.

Read Full Post »

I don’t care if Nic Harcourt loves them, Café Tacvba rock!

I came for Groove Armada, but at KCRW’s world music festival at the Hollywood Bowl last night, Mexico City’s Café Tacuba turned my head. I had no idea who these guys were – I thought they were some hip new norteño band from TJ. Where have I been since 1989? Obviously not paying much attention to Rock en Español. Café Tacuba has been around that long. They are megastars in Latin America, have won Grammys and Latin Grammys. They have collaborated with Kronos Quartet, for crissakes. They are often called the Mexican Beatles, but I heard more Clash last night; I found myself pogoing at one point. The front man, Pinche Juan (F**in’ Juan to his fans) reminded me a bit of a Latin Bono: charismatic, playful, earnest and inspiring but with a way cooler wardrobe. Los Tacubos streaked out on stage in a blaze of black and white and guitars and strobes and videos and then barreled through a set full of punk and ska and Led Zepplin and Nirvana and a whole lot of other folks, all of them dusting it up with an unmistakable Mexico City sensibility. Their encore was inventive and flawless.

This was a great night, and even if it had sucked, there is no better summer party in L.A. than the Hollywood Bowl. People come with their picnics and take up residence in their box seats (even the cheap seats are worth it). Before long it’s a block party. My favorite neighbors this time was the Latino family two boxes over; a woman maybe in her 50s, her grown son and his two young kids. The boy looked to be around 10-11. He loved Groove Armada- he and his little sister jumped up and down to the funky soul mixes nonstop for the entire set. But it was his Tacubos he came for – and evidently so did most of the bowl – he knew the words to every song, he waved a candle in the air during the ballads, and danced his little butt off for the rest of the set. His abuela got into it too – shaking her hips and waving her hands in the air like she just don’t care.

¡Oh mi dios! ¡Los Tacubos me tiene vuelo! Pensé que la roca era muerta hasta que despertaron mi corazón de su slumber. Soy así que mezclado para arriba adentro, perdí mis llaves y mis vecinos tuvieron que venir me ayudan. ¡Mirar qué tú han hecho a mí, mis queridos! ¡Gracias mis amors!

Y ahora para su visión el placer aquí es un acoplamiento para el vídeo para mi canción preferida de la tarde :

Cafe Tacvba – Dejate Caer

(universalmusicgroup no me dejará encajar esto de YouTube)

 

Read Full Post »

Becks and Posh! Posh and Becks!

 

 

 

Girlfriend looks as though she could use some dinner. I wonder if she would need to book a month in advance to get into Pizzeria Mozza the way I did. Pizzeria Mozza, in case you’ve been too busy analyzing the war in Iraq or something is the lovechild of L.A. foodie darling Nancy Silverton and Mario Batali, of the orange clogs and the unfortunate affiliation with Iron Chef America. This, and the newly opened Osteria Mozza next door, is Batali’s first foray into the Los Angeles dining scene after creating his empire of highly regarded restaurants in New York. Don’t be fooled however. Pizzeria Mozza is definitely a Nancy Silverton joint.

The “authenticity” of Nancy’s pies, along with the difficulty getting in to taste them, have sparked a heated debate among foodies. My moment finally arrived last Friday night at 6:15PM. This happened to coincide with the much anticipated opening of Mozza Osteria. As I walked by the window, I saw the Osteria staff in their brand new whites getting their marching orders. First night – the horror! Oh to be a spider in the corner.
Pizzeria Mozza on the other hand has been open since last winter and it hums to a soundtrack of Beck’s Guero CD, laughter and foodie chat. Even at 6:15PM the tables were full and people were milling around the entrance waiting to get a place at one of two bars that seat on a first come first served basis. Everyone appeared to be in a good mood except for the hostess, a boho hottie who looked as though everything was getting on her last nerve – a full 3 hours before sundown. I said a little prayer for her as she guided us to our table, a deuce at the end of a long row next to the window facing Highland, and with a good view of the front door action and the rest of the room.

First up were some delectable squash blossoms fried to perfection with a creamy ricotta filling, except my second one had no filling and a bit too much batter. Then came a lovely piece of fish served in a chunky fresh tomato sauce with cici (garbanzo) beans, a tad too salty for me but perfectly cooked. Then the pizza – a classic combination of guanciale (a pork cheek bacon – memorize this and order it the next time you see it on a menu) and a bagna cauda (a hot bath of olive oil, garlic and anchovy) of bitter greens, with an egg dropped onto the pizza as it went into the oven. I love bitter greens with bacon and egg anyway – see below for a quick, easy supper – but I’m telling you this pizza took it to a level I would never be able to recreate at home. For starters, I usually have the dish with lardoons – thick cubes of pancetta or thick sliced bacon. Typically a bite of lardoon will dominate the palate for a bit before allowing the other flavors to join the party, but the guanciale, which was barely visible, seemed to coat the wilted greens with a crispy deliciousness that melted into a sublime marriage of bitter smoky porkiness that got even better when the silky sweet egg yolk arrived to sooth the bitterness of the greens. I’m coming back.

I was completed enchanted by our first choice of dessert – a “sofiata” which is really a profiterole substituting a subtle pistachio ice cream for the traditional pastry cream, and a drape of sweet cherry syrup studded with macerated dried sweet cherries and a slick of honey. We also ordered the caramel coppetta, (sundae) accompanied by a sticky marshmallow and peanut kind of deconstructed candy bar. It was good, but it didn’t really come together for me. I wish we’d ordered the butterscotch budino that everyone keeps raving about instead.

Service was excellent. We were promptly seated and our server was welcoming, knew her stuff, helped me pick out a perfect wine choice, and actually seemed to like the fact that we took our time with our food (the table next to us turned over twice before we left). The bill came in at $50 per person, including wine, minus tip.

Mozza serves the best kind of causal food served in a casual environment, and you leave wanting to explore the menu further. But when it takes a month to get a table, how can anybody with a real life hang? Also some of the dishes seem to work better than others. This is fine at a place where you know they’re experimenting with flavors and techniques. But when its a month between reservations, you need it to be right.

Granted, seating at the two bars is first come first served, with one bar serving as a kind of wine bar, and the other a close encounter with the wood burning oven. I can see myself going one night and eating bruschetta and chatting with the bartender about his wine pairings. Another night I might want to watch the action at the wood burning oven.

But what do I do when a few of my girls have a Friday evening open and we want to share some pies and a bottle or two of wine? Or a friend from New York who treated me to lunch at Lupa finds himself in L.A. for the evening and I want to return the favor? Pizzeria Mozza should be able to accommodate that – spontaneity is built into the spirit of the place. Maybe that will happen soon, now that the Osteria has opened. Until then, the place will seem too precious to me. Quello non è buono!

Eggs with bitter greens and pork lardoons enough for two

Prep the lardoons:

• Ask your butcher for a 1/2 inch thick round of pancetta, all in one piece
• Cut the pancetta into strips about the width of your little finger. Then cut the strips into chunks about the length of the tip of your index finger to the first knuckle.
• Using a strainer, drop the lardoons into boiling water for a minute, set aside to drain.

Prep the greens:

• Cut a bunch of dandelion (or other bitter grean) and a head raddichio into a rough chop.
• Using the strainer, submerge the greens into the boiling water for a minute until the dandelion turns bright green. Remove, drain, set aside.

Then:

• Heat a frying pan on medium heat.
• Add enough olive oil to coat the bottom of the pan generously.
• When it starts to shimmer, add 3-4 cloves of garlic chopped into small chunks – don’t mince. They should sizzle in the pan. Cook them until they are toasty brown, then remove from the pan. Turn heat under pan to low.
• Add the lardoons to the pan and let them cook until they are thoroughly browned and crispy. Remove from the pan and set aside. Try not to eat them all.
• Make sure that your greens are relatively dry. If you like you can drain some of the fat in the pan off, but make sure you have enough to coat the greens.
• Over low heat, add crushed dried red pepper to the fat in the pan. Add the greens and toss to coat with the fat and pepper. Cook a while longer until the greens soften and lose their crunch, but don’t let them get soggy. Toss with the lardoons. Turn off the heat, cover to keep warm on the stove.

Poach 2 -4 eggs

Pile the greens into a shallow soup bowl. Place one or two eggs on top. Add a dusting of freshly ground black pepper. Shave some nice Parmesan over that.

Serve with some crusty bread and a nice glass of white wine.

Read Full Post »

It’s the Fourth of July

It’s Fourth of July and anyone in Los Angeles heading to see fireworks had better already be there. I can hear the first crackles and pops from Universal Studio’s display, and if I try, I could maybe see some twinkling star fire above my neighbors’ tree tops. But I’m not of a mind to angle for a better view. Nor did I spend the day eating hot dogs and potato chips at the beach. Too much trouble: too crowded, too much traffic. Way too hot.

I had a vague plan to catch up on housekeeping, errands and reading today. By the time I made it to my local coffeehouse at 10AM, I was “glowing.” By the time I made it to the patio with my coffee and muffin at 10:15AM, sweat was streaming down my back in rivulets. I didn’t have my glasses.  This became a sign to go home and make use of the air conditioning that is eating up the savings from my gas bill; maybe I could get enough housework done so that my weekend can be chore-free. In the car, the radio played Paul Simon singing An American Tune:

We come on the ship they call the Mayflower
We come on the ship that sailed the moon
We come in the age’s most uncertain hours
and sing an American tune
Oh, and it’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright
You can’t be forever blessed
Still, tomorrow’s going to be another working day
And I’m trying to get some rest
That’s all I’m trying to get some rest

I’ve always envisioned this song being sung by a lonely soldier, circa Viet Nam. I thought of a line from Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried: “They carried all they could bear, and then some…” It was hard to shake the moment off. It was hard not to break down in tears.

 

A little later I saw high clouds drifting through the sky. A breeze picked up. I remembered hearing someone mention that fire-retardant was being sprayed around areas near local fireworks displays as a precaution against wildfires.

 

In the afternoon, I fell asleep reading House of Meetings by Martin Amis:

 

Yes, so far as the individual is concerned, Venus, it may very well be true that character is destiny. And the other way around. But on the larger scale character means nothing. On the larger scale, destiny is demographics; and demographics is a monster.

 

Later, I ran out to do some errands and encountered two bewildered drunks with red faces and paunchy, hairless bare chests being cuffed and stuffed into a squad car while peope stood around watching. As I pulled up to the curb in front of my house, a pair of runaways approached me. They wanted a ride into Hollywood. They’d been walking all the way from Sun Valley, they said. She had a vein in her leg that was killing her, she said. Four months pregnant, she added. She was bone thin and blue eyed with a wide red mouth under penciled-in black eyebrows. He was skinny too and heavily tattooed. The piercing at the side of his mouth appeared to be bothering him. They looked young and sweet and dumb, and like there was probably a good reason to be running away. I would have liked to give them a lift, but it would have been foolish to do so. You just don’t know what people are up too.

 

Like bad sex, the fireworks at Universal are over after about 20 minutes. The sky is illuminated with a creepy pink fluorescence. Nearby, someone has just shot off a high powered rifle three times. Sirens reply.

Hey baby, it’s the Fourth of July…Dave Alvin

Read Full Post »