L U N A T A L K with Eva Moon

And the winner is…

I don’t know why we bother. We put on an Oscars party every year, and every year it gets duller and duller. Not the party, but the Oscars. I had inexplicably high hopes for Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin – two funny guys. But NOOOOOO! Perhaps they took their cues from Avatar: Don’t waste a penny on the script.

Fortunately my friends are a resourceful bunch. We managed to sustain ourselves during the dry excesses of eye-rollingly insipid on-screen blather with excesses of snacks, champagne and… a theremin! We may have had the only Oscars party in the whole Puget Sound area with theremin accompaniment. Much to the cats’ distress.

Oh, and when did they go back to saying “And the winner is..”? I remember when they switched to “And the Oscar goes to…” That always smacked of the dreadful self-esteem mania that swept through the schools when my kids were growing up. God forbid there should be a winner because that would mean someone would have to be the loser. Good.

No one will ever know

Chapter One

Many years ago, long before I was the confident, capable (snort) singer I am now, I was acutely nervous about a solo in a choir concert. The solo was an exceedingly obscure Hungarian Gypsy song. It would be hard to overstate just how obscure this song was. It was from a tiny village in Kalotaszeg, a tiny cluster of Hungarian villages in northwestern Romania so remote the whole region only has two lines in Wikipedia. The song was passed to me on a cassette of a cassette of a cassette from a peripatetic ethnomusicologist. The concert was at a Jewish Community Center in Sherman Oaks, CA. What exactly was I fretting about? That I would fuck up the words.

“Who will know?” the director pointed out.

She had a point. I sucked in air and tried to unclench.

I did fuck up the lyrics, singing through a brief spurt of nonsense syllables. I let it go. After all, who would know?

I found out at intermission when I was accosted by an elderly, weeping woman. She was not only from Romania. She was not only from Kalotaszeg, but she was from the exact village where the song originated! How we both ended up at the same Sherman Oaks JCC, is just one of those unfathomable cosmic mysteries. Of course, she didn’t care a burgonyakereg about the fluffed lyrics.

But, damn!

Chapter Two

About four years ago, my band Balkanarama recorded a live CD. One night, twelve songs, one take, no do-overs, no overdubs. While not flawless, it’s an energetic and true representation of our live sound. One of the “not flawless” bits occurs 27 seconds into the first song. Another lyric flub. Instead of “kerta” I bobbled and sang “ashka.” If I never mentioned it, who would know, right? Well, this song, while not exactly Billboard fare, is not quite as obscure as the first one. It was written and recorded by the famous Rom singer, Esma Redzepova so, yes, there are some who might catch it. But only one who matters: Esma herself. And what are the chances of her hearing it?

Chapter Three

Fast forward once more to 2009. The phone rings. The caller is a movie producer who wants to know if he can acquire the rights to two songs from our Live CD for the sound track of an independent film currently in production. Gee, let me think about th… yes!

The movie (due to be released in the spring of 2010) is You May Not Kiss the Bride, a romantic comedy/caper flick directed by Rob Hedden in which a mobster tries to arrange for his daughter to obtain U.S. citizenship by setting her up with a American photographer. It stars Rob Schneider, Katharine McPhee, Dave Annable, Ken Davitian and Mena Suvari. The first two songs from our CD will be the celebratory music for the big wedding scene at the end.

But of course, since Esma wrote the song, rights had to be procured from her publisher. Which means, once again, the ONE PERSON IN THE WORLD to whom my lyrical fluff would actually matter, will know.

To this day, I continue to screw up lyrics regardless of the language. But now it’s a trademark.

Moon Falling Down, TV Disaster

I would not have subjected myself to the ABC mini-series disaster that is “Impact” had it not been for the incredible synchronicity factor: The release of a movie about the moon falling down the same week as the release of my CD Moon Falling Down.

Before I comment, let me torture you with the trailer.

I hardly know where to begin. I’ve watched some really horrible disaster flicks. But this one made me wish the moon actually would annihilate the Earth if that’s what it would take to wipe it from my brain. I could start listing the occurrances of blitheringly bone-headed Bad Movie Science, but I have a life and others will surely do it for me.

Instead, let me talk about the art of telling a story. To illustrate I will compare Impact with another movie currently in theaters: Up.

One challenge that faces scriptwriters is the lack of exposition. How do you explain important concepts and fill in back story?

Elmore Leonard wrote his great essay 10 Rules of Writing to help him remain invisible when he’s writing a book, to help him show rather than tell what’s taking place in the story. “If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.”

The opening few minutes of Up show an entire life story with hardly a word. I was so drawn into the arc of these two lives that I couldn’t stop my tears at the conclusion. They didn’t need to explain everything. An entire tale can reside in a few small details.

Impact is filled with endless lectures thinly disguised as dialogue. You can tell when they’re doing it: Any time you’re watching a movie and a conversation suddenly makes you want to cram popcorn in your ears so you don’t have to hear it, chances are it’s not really a conversation but a writer shoving his big fat writing into the story. I keep hoping the characters will rebel.

Here’s an example: At one point two scientists and a bright astrophysics grad student have just learned that the meteorite that plowed into the moon was no ordinary rock, but a fragment of a brown dwarf. The bright astrophysics grad student says, “What’s a brown dwarf?” whereupon one of the scientists launches into a textbook explanation of a neutron star. (To say the moon was struck by a piece of a brown dwarf is like saying the moon was struck by a piece of Jupiter’s atmosphere.)

The only reason the grad student (who apparently slept through Astronomy 101) existed was to cue the exposition.

Do these people not read their own scripts? If it doesn’t sound like something a person would say, rewrite it until it does.

My only cynical hope is that it was calculatedly bad so that people would stay tuned out of sheer stunned amusement at the absurdity. (“Sporadic reverse gravity! Martha, they can’t possibly top that one! Wait…”)

Nah.

Ladybug

One of my very favorite movies is Emir Kusturica’s 1998 release Black Cat, White Cat (Crna macka, beli macor)

From IMDB: Grga Pitic and Zarije Destanov are two old friends – and rivals – who haven’t seen each other in years. But a series of events beyond their wildest dreams leads to a raucously funny reunion filled with gypsy mobsters, dirty deals and shotgun weddings.

After Matko, Grga’s low-life son, botches a train robbery and is double-crossed into debt, he is obliged to force his son into an arranged marriage to one of Zarije’s kin. As the wedding day approaches – highlighted by the long anticipated reunion between Grga and Zarije – family and friends must cope with betrayals, lust, mishaps, death, farm animals and, ultimately, the pursuit of true love and enduring friendship.

We played this song “Bubamara” from the movie at Folklife Memorial Day weekend. Bubamara (ladybug) is Matko’s feisty and diminuitive sister who escapes her wedding and finds true love in a tree stump. Just see it. Sadly, only available in VHS or region 2 DVD. I keep hoping… There are lots of clips on youtube – perhaps even the whole movie piecemeal by the looks of it.

Definitely worth playing with a freshly sprained wrist.

Pigs on a Plane

A horror thriller movie for today. Be part of the swine flu hysteria.

Quantum of Evil

Spoiler alert. If you have not seen the new James Bond movie, you may want to wait on this.

Quantum: The smallest discrete amount of any quantity.

I have nothing against Daniel Craig. Sadly. (I’ve made my husband a deal: For Christmas this year he can have Olga Kurylenko, provided I get equal time with Mr. Craig.) I have nothing against Daniel Craig as the new Bond, either. I went to Casino Royale prepared to be annoyed. A blond Bond? No more Pierce Brosnan? Are they serious?

But there was Daniel Craig and he was so… mmmmm

Pierce who?

Despite the tasty new Bond and the exhausting, nonstop action (Quantum of Solace crams about six hours of explosions into a scant 106 minutes), I have to harumph a bit over the sad state of evil.

What’s gotten into Bond bad guys lately? They used to be truly megalomeniacal bastards with plans to detonate atomic bombs in Fort Knox, incite global nuclear war, incinerate whole cities with death-rays from outer space, destroy all human life on Earth… These guys were seriously and unforgettably evil.

What does our new, steely Mr. Bond face? In Casino Royale, it was a couple of thugs playing cards to get out of debt (hmmm, a plan for the auto industry? Nah, all the auto industry needs is about a million Bonds. At the rate he goes through vehicles, sales would be skyrocketing in no time) And now, in Quantum of Solace, the best they can muster up is an effete bad-dresser with a hankering to be utilities commissioner in Bolivia?

Come on.

Where the Hell…

Sometimes you find something completely without cynicism or snark that just makes you smile.

Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

Oscar Night: There Will Be Food

And the nominees are:

COLDCUT MOUNTAIN – The inspirational true story of six heroic friends who took on the monumental task of consuming appetizers intended to feed sixteen – and conquered the mountain.

THE BRUCHETTA ULTIMATUM – A party guest dodges new, superior international snacks as he searches for his unknown pasta while a culinary agent tries to track him down.

NO COMPANY FOR LO MEIN – The feast was laid but the chairs were empty. Where were the eaters of the night? Lurking… lurking…

HOW GREEN WAS MY FACE – The evidence was clear: Four empty champagne bottles. Four. Oy.

MIDNIGHT CHOWBOY – It stalks the kitchen by night. What leftover party wings are safe from its slavering jaws?

Coming soon to a theater near you:

A TIME TO DIET

Anything Else But This

I’ve been pondering for about a week how to write this without coming off like a wheezy old fart shaking her walker at these kids today.

But the game is up. I may have to accept that my old fart status became permanent the day I saw the Moldy Peaches sing Anyone Else But You. It’s from the soundtrack of the movie Juno which is the best selling soundtrack of all time. Best. Selling. Soundtrack. Of. All. Time. Check out the song (and the other six songs they have on it) and then tell me how you feel. And the movie’s been out for what? About nine minutes?

I actually do have some inkling why the song appeals so strongly to teens. My son went through a rough patch where he was convinced he was weird and wished he were normal like everyone else. I tried to explain to him that the very definition of a normal person is someone you don’t know very well. And this song, like America’s Funniest Home Videos, gives a slice of the other side of normal. It’s not just you. I can understand that.

But this song deprives me of every last precious sour grape. They’re not young and cute. They’re not well-connected. They can’t write a melody of more than two bars. They can’t even sing or play. I’m fresh out of excuses for the pitiful state of my own music career. And at the same time, I feel like I should be thrilled: Someone made it who didn’t fit the mold and quirk ruled for a day. w00t!

My consolation is the thought that someday they’ll get some guitar lessons, shampoo and a personal trainer, learn a third chord, start to write beautiful, clever, insightful songs and yet at every gig from now until they’re gray and playing the casino circuit, no one will want to hear them play anything else but Anyone Else But You.

Will someone please hand me my walker?

Enchanted Sweeney

Here’s a double bill for a holiday weekend: Tim Burton’s Sweeney Todd followed by Disney’s Enchanted.

The two movies have a couple of things in common: Character actor Timothy Spall appears in both movies, in a similar role, oddly enough. In Sweeney Todd, he plays evil judge Turpin’s sidekick, the beadle and in Enchanted he’s evil queen Narissa’s sidekick, Nathaniel. Both are musicals. And both are worth seeing.

There, the similarities are lopped off with a decisive sweep of the razor.

Sweeney Todd is a grisly, gornographic helping of hemoglobin, but it’s so stylishly lush I’ll forgive the bloody excess. Johnny Depp’s theatrically raised arm gave me enough warning to know when to cover my eyes. (I admit it: I’m a wimp.) The man can put over a song too. Who knew? Helena Bonham Carter doesn’t really have the pipes to give Mrs. Lovett her due, but she’s so pitch perfect in the role, you’ll eat up whatever she serves. Her rendition of The Worst Pies in London is, um… unforgettable. Alan Rickman, true to form, steals every scene with his flawless timing and who could imagine a more perfect Signor Pirelli than the lanky and outrageous Sascha Baron Cohen?

After filling up on bloody soup, we felt in need of dessert. Enchanted proved to be just the thing – a frothy little confection, lightly dusted with enough wry humor to settle the meat pies. The opening scene is a perfect send up of every Disney princess movie cliche and what followed was either enchanting or we were so grateful for a cheerful, sunny NYC after Burton’s dark, perennially twilit London, that we mistook relief for art. Whatever the cause, we laughed out loud and left the theater convinced it was the next Princess Bride.

In retrospect, I have to think some of our appreciation of Enchanted was due to its contrast to Sweeney Todd. The next Princess Bride? What was I thinking? Have fun storming the castle…