Yes, Streep embodied an aged Thatcher, (and if one person mentions prosthetic makeup I’ll scream NICOLE KIDMAN BY A NOSE!)  but this Thatcher could have been any aged woman suffering from dementia. If one were to take Margaret Thatcher out of the equation, we all would marvel at Streep’s ability to accurately posture herself into someone we all fear: You and me in our dotage. According to articles, Meryl didn’t get to see Thatcher in her private life, or meet her, so she had to innovate. She had no choice. And it was frighteningly accurate. She did all the things my mother does in her dementia-like moments. I especially remember once wanting to help my mother put away clothes that were draped over a chair for a way-too-long period of days, and having her tell me to leave them there because she had “plans” for them. She did eventually move them when she was ready. I saw Meryl’s confused memory and the search for clarity in her eyes; and the dulling of the irises.  She had the stooped back and the faltering steps — yes, Meryl nailed it. And maybe it was all fiction but it was the best darn fiction she has done in years.

The movie wasn’t perfect but it was a catalyst, at least for me, to reacquaint myself with the Falklands War. I had (shamefully) completely forgotten that there were so many casualties. I was living an uncomplicated life during those times. I had a small black and white TV with rabbit ears but I followed the conflict for all the wrong reasons. You see, about ten years earlier I had taken a 17-day cruise aboard the s.s. Canberra. It was a wonderful cruise which was only blemished by one bout of sea sickness in the Strait of Gibraltar. The Canberra was the flagship of the P&O lines; well-outfitted and enormous. It was about half the tonnage of the QE2 (then the largest liner in the world), but by comparison, the Titanic wasn’t a whole lot bigger than the Canberra. When Thatcher ordered troops to the Falklands, the slightly-rusty Canberra and the QE2 served as troopships during the Crisis. The Canberra also ferried defeated Argentinians back to their mainland. So I followed the war because I followed the ship. Anyway, toward the end of The Iron Lady I thought, just for a moment, that I saw documentary footage of troops aboard the Canberra returning home to a jubilant crowd. I’ll have to rent The Iron Lady DVD and do a freeze frame to see if my eyes really did recognize the Great White Whale. Sadly, I heard that the Canberra was eventually sold, beached, and dismantled for scrap.

It’s a shame that ships like the Canberra, with their sleek looks and cutting bows are disappearing. Now they build them bigger and with smaller draughts to allow them to dock or drop anchor in shallower waters. On the Canberra I had to “walk the plank” (see photo below) down to a boat to take us ashore in Greece. Today’s cruise ships, like the Oasis of the Seas, are ugly. Their decks look like thick pieces of white corrugated cardboard that are stacked high and beyond the dimensions of the barge-like hulls. The tragedy of the Costa Concordia has reminded me that I have always thought, architecturally speaking, that these new cruise ships were structurally imbalanced.

I’m afraid I have digressed from one Iron Lady to another. The very things that keep us alive, water and oxygen, rusts one British Iron Lady, and the elements have already taken the other. I’m sure Meryl can successfully pantomime a cruise ship in a game of Charades, but she has mastered the disconcerting manner and voice of my mother — anyone’s mother — in the twilight of their lives.

Starred Review. O’Nan checks back in with the Maxwell family from Wish You Were Here in this bracingly unsentimental, ruefully humorous, and unsparingly candid novel about the emotional and physical travails of old age. At 80, widow Emily Maxwell has become dependent on her equally aged sister-in-law, Arlene, to chauffeur them to the rounds of Pittsburgh’s country club dinners, flower shows, museums, and increasingly frequent funerals. After Arlene has a stroke, Emily is forced into reclaiming her independence, but she remains clear-eyed about her diminishing future and what she can expect of her two adult children and four grandchildren, giving O’Nan the opportunity and space to expertly play out the misunderstandings, disagreements, and resentments among parents and their grown children. Emily fears saying the wrong things (yet often does) and frets about her grandchildren, who are uninterested in family traditions and lax with thank-you notes. The unhurried plot follows Emily from a lonely Thanksgiving with Arlene to a Christmas visit from her daughter and two grandchildren, Easter with her son and his children, and the eve of her summer departure to Chautauqua. During this time, friends and acquaintances die, Emily observes the deterioration of the neighborhoods she’s known for decades, and she continues to converse with her old dog, Rufus. Efficient, practical, stubborn, frugal, and a lover of crosswords, church services, and baroque music, the closely observed Emily is a sort of contemporary Mrs. Bridge, and O’Nan’s depiction of her attempts to sustain optimism and energy during the late stage of her life achieves a rare resonance.

On the surface, one wouldn’t call Stewart O’Nan’s latest novel, Emily, Alone, an obvious pageturner. Its heroine is the rather rigid Emily, 80-year-old widowed matriarch of the Maxwell clan that O’Nan explored in his 2002 domestic drama Wish You Were Here, and the narrative largely consists of her daily routine piddling away the hours in her Pittsburgh home. Yet there’s so much yearning in Emily — to like herself more, to forgive her own failings and those of her grown children and grandchildren, to wring something meaningful out of her final years. And O’Nan writes with such specificity and humor. On yet another friend’s memorial service: ”The room was windowless, the air warm and stagnant, and as Jamie read a long, gently comic remembrance of her mother’s love of weddings, Emily thought that she’d been to so many of these that she’d become a critic.”

The novel kicks off at the Eat ‘n Park’s two-for-one breakfast buffet, a weekly tradition for Emily and her always game sister-in-law Arlene. (May we all have an Arlene in our lives when we are old and alone.) Arlene suffers a stroke, whacking her forehead on the salad bar’s sneeze glass. It’s a terrifyingly vivid scene, one that nudges Emily out of her comfort zone. And so, in the period spanning Thanksgiving to her summer family holiday, Emily stretches for a kind of rediscovery. Throughout she is lovable and heartbreaking and real. When this novel ends, in a moment of great hope and vigor, you’ll find yourself missing her terribly. Rated – A

Rosalie Edge (1877-1962) was the first American woman to achieve national renown as a conservationist. Dyana Z. Furmansky draws on Edge’s personal papers and on interviews with family members and associates to portray an implacable, indomitable personality whose activism earned her the names “Joan of Arc” and “hellcat.” A progressive New York socialite and veteran suffragist, Edge did not join the conservation movement until her early fifties. Nonetheless, her legacy of achievements—called “widespread and monumental” by the New Yorker—forms a crucial link between the eras defined by John Muir and Rachel Carson. An early voice against the indiscriminate use of toxins and pesticides, Edge reported evidence about the dangers of DDT fourteen years before Caron’s Silent Spring was published.

“At a time when the future of environmentalism—and the planet—is in question, Furmansky’s book pays tribute to a woman who protected ecosystems during difficult economic times, penning inflammatory pamphlets to incite public outrage, harassing the staid leaders of organizations such as Audubon, and lending her voice to scientists too nervous to publicly question common practices, such as poisoning and trapping wildlife. Edge had fire in the belly—and Furmansky’s book serves as a timely reminder that today’s conservation movement could use a few more firebrands.” —High Country News

REVIEWS:
“Clearly relishing every moment of Edge’s remarkable life, Furmansky vividly enriches environmental history with her inspiring portrait of this indomitable champion of the wild.”—Booklist

“In the years leading up to World War II, Rosalie Edge’s stinging critique of the conservation establishment rocked it to its very core. Furmansky does a wonderful job of capturing the triumphs and defeats of this indomitable spirit whose ideas and actions anticipated the modern environmental movement.”—Mark V. Barrow, Jr., author of A Passion for Birds: American Ornithology after Audubon

“It is high time that the full story be told of Rosalie Barrow Edge, an indomitable and early preservationist of birds—especially of hawks and eagles. Furmansky details Edge’s battles with the Audubon Society as well as with despoilers of national parks in such a way that Rosalie Edge’s role in the history of environmentalism will be restored to its rightful place.”—Polly Welts Kaufman, author of National Parks and the Woman’s Voice: A History

“Virtually lost for fifty years, the story of Rosalie Edge is brought to life in this remarkable, engaging biography. If you call yourself an environmentalist—or simply a citizen of the earth—you have to read this book.”—Alfred Runte, author of National Parks: The American Experience

“A product of extensive research, Rosalie Edge, Hawk of Mercy, chronicles the many accomplishments of a remarkable person while it reveals the often-dramatic story of her life and sheds light on her times. What more can be asked of a biography? Furmansky reveals the early history of land preservation in America to be a story of intrigue, betrayal, anger, and, occasionally, victory. At the center stands a hero, Rosalie Edge—tragic, imperious, and obsessed.”—Doug Carlson, author of Roger Tory Peterson: A Biography

“Finally, a full and appreciative biography of one of the most significant environmentalists of the twentieth century. Rosalie Edge was unique, a rare species, and nobody else could have achieved what she did. At a time between the world wars when conservation had become too cautious and conservative, too organized, Edge revived the movement by returning to its roots, to the former role of fearless amateur radicals like herself. In the independent founding spirit of John Muir, she called out nature’s enemies wherever she found them, from industrial polluters to the halls of Congress to the august chambers of the National Audubon Society. Dyana Furmansky, with the authority of her deep research, tells the story in full detail, and thereby places Rosalie Edge where she belongs in the pantheon of great American environmentalists.”—Stephen Fox, author of John Muir and His Legacy: The American Conservation Movement

I keep a one liter plastic Perrier bottle on my living room table. (Hey screenwriters, I bet you never thought of this one!) I call it my Curse Bottle. It doesn’t exactly fit in with the décor but it’s an interesting conversation piece. It holds words; Very, very bad words and statements. I often pick it up by the neck and gently twirl it and I can almost see the words and phrases swirling around inside like marquee banners in a tornado. When I’m angry I unscrew the top and before any of the stored words can escape, I add a new barrage of angry words to the collective and then I quickly screw the cap back on. It’s a Pandora Perrier. God save the person who dares to open it other than me. Screaming Medusas will be unleashed. Your eardrums will burst and you will be driven to your knees with the desire to Hail Mary, Catholic or not. You would never know that I was capable of such words if you knew me but I have been screaming obscenities into Perrier bottles for about two years. I’ve had the most current bottle since the Academy Awards. The previous bottle was accidentally thrown out with the recyclables. I’m sure the other bottles, cans, and discarded Chinese food soup containers give it a wide berth at the local dump. 

I think I exhausted myself screaming into that Perrier bottle on Oscar night. It’s a pointless exercise at this point, but it’s safe to say that the Academy has officially become a joke. It was unofficial at the time of Gwyneth Paltrow’s win, but now it’s certified. I do believe I saw President Obama sign The-Academy-Awards-Are-A-Joke amendment to the Constitution shortly after the Best Actress  thievery was perpetuated.

Dear Academy, I thought the reason why we hand out Oscars is to award THE BEST in a certain defined category, not the BEST CAMPAIGN, not the BEST OH-GEE-PSHAW humble “I‘m-not-going-to-win acting,” and not the best attempt at acting in an actor’s career so far (no matter how inferior their performances are to the other nominees). Not even the BEST-I-KNOW-YOUR-HUSBAND-IS-CHEATING-ON-YOU sympathy vote. The Academy, which has not learned their lesson from Marisa Tomei or Gwyneth Paltrow (and even Jack Lemmon who originated this ridiculousness), continues to thumb their collective noses at, let’s face it, the general public who knows better. We can’t be bought. You can’t reach our wallets. You can’t touch us on the elbow and gently bring us into the fold. You don’t bake us cookies. We can’t be bribed.

Do you HONESTLY think that Sandra Bullock’s performance was better than those of the other nominees? Are you kidding? She couldn’t even conjure up one watery eye when Quinton Aaron, as Michael Oher, told her that he never had a bed. Sandra sat in her bedroom with a semi-sad little face, which was the saddest face in the entire movie. Compare that Academy, to Meryl Streep, as Julia Child as she reacted to the pregnancy of her sister. COME ON, I DARE YOU!  HAVE SOME BALLS! Academy, even the little guy, Jae Head, did a better job in The Blind Side. Before you know it you’ll be handing Jennifer Aniston an Oscar for any future drama she stars in. I can name so many better “comedians” from the past and present who were/are better actors, who never won an academy award. I’m done with this. I’m done with the Academy. You’re a wasteland of ineptitude, and my Perrier bottle knows it.

And while I’m at it, last night I saw The Fantastic Mr. Fox for the first time. It’s FAR superior to Up. Again, it’s just a matter of which movie is being promoted ad nauseam. Mr. Fox is a stronger story, the “acting” is superior, and the skills and patience needed to produce such a fine animated feature are to be worshiped. Bravi, and I’m terribly sorry. I made a clicking sound and a whistle into my Perrier bottle, followed by a long stream of expletives. I shake my bottle at you, Academy.

We got da Blind lady
cello lady
‘bused lady
Station lady
Lookin’ for some sta-tues
Pickin’ up some kudos

Who dat cookin’ better den da Child?
Who dat? WHO DAT?
Who dat’s work was da best pro-filed?
Who dat? WHO DAT?

Okay, apologies to the Saints, but it’s the sinners out there that I worry about. The sinners who really feel that Meryl Streep’s Julia Child was not the best performance of those nominated this year. For the nay-sayers who always look at Sophie as the benchmark, let me remind them that even the critics thought that Meryl Streep had finally out-done herself. Others who say that Streep’s two acting Oscars are enough, need to be reminded that Hepburn, Brennan, Bergman, and Nicholson all have more. Even Sally Field and Hillary Swank have, technically, more leading actress Oscars than Streep. Both of those ladies were nominated twice and won twice. Was Norma Rae better than Karen Silkwood? Was Edna Spalding better than Miranda Priestly, Francesca Johnson, Lindy Chamberlain, or Karen Blixen?

I am both amused and puzzled by the inclusion of “The Blind Side” as best picture, which could have easily been a Hallmark Sunday night movie: sweet, nicely done, but not Oscar worthy. I sincerely hope the unwritten Jack Lemmon rule doesn’t come into play when we reward an actor, after years of comedic work, for a good turn at drama. Shame on the Academy if that’s their justification. Sandra Bullock cannot even take herself seriously at the moment. She even felt that her performance didn’t click. Can Sandra Bullock be the first actor to win an Oscar and a Razzie in the same year? Sandra Bullock is a fabulous comedic actor and it would be a shame to reward her for her lesser talents, just as the Academy has not awarded Streep since Sophie.

Let’s address one more thing about Sandra Bullock. It seems that everywhere I see her referred to as a box office queen. Sandra’s last six movies grossed, worldwide, $680,417,483. Meryl Streep’s last six movies grossed, worldwide, $1,004,755,078. Over one billion dollars, folks. Who da queen?

Gabby Sibidie is a bundle of laughs. I like her but I couldn’t believe my ears when she said that she has only seen two of the movies. I think “Up” was one of them. The likelihood of her watching “Julie & Julia,” or any of the other many movies with nominations, is slim. She said that her most thrilling moment at the awards shows was meeting Carey Mulligan. It’s a shame that the youth in pictures today don’t study the portfolios of the past to improve their craft. Sibidie was good but her future may lie in comedy. Mo’Nique, with the more realistic performance, was the star of “Precious.”

Carey Mulligan (An Education) has a great future but again, to those of the Academy who think hers was the performance of the year, I ask, why?  Whereas Streep became Child, Mulligan failed to be the child. The sophistication of her character above those of the adults in the same picture marred the coming-of-age story. Even David (“Boobaloo”) exhibits an immaturity not inherent in his “Minnie” (Jenny). The Academy missed the real star of “An Education” and that was Peter Sarsgaard. Yeah, yeah, viewers, I know she’ll win the BAFTAs. I said it before, the Brits like their Brits.

Including Helen Mirren (The Last Station) in the Academy vote was sneaky. Imagine if the other four ladies, as well as Julienne Moore (A Single Man), Abbie Cornish (A Bright Star), and Emily Blunt (Young Victoria) were all performing their roles on Broadway. Then you sneak Mirren into an empty theater at the last minute; make it almost impossible for people to see her by opening the doors occasionally (for critics), and then make it too racy for the general public. Then you nominate her for a Tony. FOUL! Yes, Mirren is capable but frankly, Moore, Blunt, and Cornish were much more deserving of a shot. I sincerely doubt that very few of the Academy members will sit through “The Last Station” when they get their copies.

So, Who dat?
Who do you say dey gonna beat da Streep?
Who dat?
Really.
Who dat?

1. Carey Mulligan. I have devoted two blogs to An Education: An Education that’s nearly a dropout, and Carey Mulligan and her Cello Education. In addition to all my problems with the movie I do believe that her role could have been played by several other actors out there. Abbie Cornish could have played Jenny. Saoirse Ronan or AnnaSophia Robb would have looked more youthful and school-girlish. It may have been Carey Mulligan’s breakout performance but it could have just as easily been the breakout performance for Cornish and the others.

2. Speaking of Abbie Cornish, for the same reasons as above Carey Mulligan could have been Fanny Brawne in Bright Star. The two actors are practically interchangeable.

3. Gabby Sidibe was precious but it would be difficult to vote for her when the supporting performance by Mo’Nique was far better. I would be very surprised if Mo’Nique doesn’t take home a statue this year. I would be shell-shocked and sitting in a rubber room if Mo’Nique and Sidibe take home statues. I also think it’s a bit unfair to have one of the producers (Oprah) own her own TV show where she can campaign ad nauseum, and for free. And if she is the producer of your movie, you can’t say no to her interviews, which makes me cringe. Speaking of campaigns …

4. … I always thought Harvey Weinstein and Harvey Fierstein were the same person. I was wondering when Fierstein got into promoting — er — producing. Somewhere during one of Weinstein’s many campaigns I was straightened out. Harvey Weinstein steamrolled Chicago into our frontal lobes, and now he’s trying the mind meld with Nine. The problem is, Nine stinks. How can any actress be nominated in such a bad movie? I hated the Broadway Nine too. The plot was paper thin. Jane Krakowski nearly got stuck in her giant unraveling sheet and Banderas was nearly incomprehensible. Nice eye candy, but incomprehensible. The movie is glitzier, meaner, harder and just plain rotten.

5. Helen Mirren in The Last Station. If I recall, Meryl Streep was supposed to play Sofya Tolstoy. She was smart to back out. I will be surprised if it rakes in more than it cost to make. Wait, where is this movie anyway? Playing in Siberia? Are they going to pop it on us two minutes before the Oscar vote? Is Mirren naked again? Sigh. She had her time recently, and it’s not her time again. The subject matter is, quite frankly, boring. I rather watch a DVD. This is the only movie of the lot I’ve yet to see.

6. Sandra Bullock. I say to her, congratulations, well done. I liked The Blind Side. She may even get an Oscar nod, but if she wins it for that performance I will go insane. It’s not the Erin Brockovich performance of the year but don’t count her out!

7. That leaves just one performance: Meryl Streep as Julia Child in Julie & Julia. Think about it. Who else could have played Julia Child? Okay, Dan Aykroyd doesn’t count. He would not only look absolutely ridiculous but you would pee in your pants in laughter at the wrong times. The critics gave Meryl Streep unanimous thumbs up. There is no question that she nailed it this time. Ergo, for all of the reasons above, there should be no doubt. It is the right time and the right reason to make this Meryl Streep’s year.

A.O. Scott, New York Times
By now this actress has exhausted every superlative that exists and to suggest that she has outdone herself is only to say that she’s done it again. Her performance goes beyond physical imitation, though she has the rounded shoulders and the fluting voice down perfectly.

Often when gifted actors impersonate real, familiar people, they overshadow the originals, so that, for example, you can’t think of Ray Charles without seeing Jamie Foxx, or Truman Capote without envisioning Philip Seymour Hoffman. But Ms. Streep’s incarnation of Julia Child has the opposite effect, making the real Julia, who died in 2004, more vivid, more alive, than ever.

Kenneth Turan, Los Angeles Times
As felicitous as the choice of Ephron was her decision to cast Streep in the Julia Child role. No one needs to be told at this late date how formidably accomplished an actress Streep is, but she outdoes herself here in a comic-dramatic role that is not only enormously funny but also trickier than it may seem at first.

That’s because with her inimitable voice and unmistakable mannerisms, Child was simultaneously a real person and a kind of caricature, a personality so extreme it’s initially hard to separate the clip we see of Dan Aykroyd’s “Saturday Night Live” impersonation from the real thing.

Streep makes crossing this chasm look simple, easily conveying Child’s phenomenal energy and relishing the contradictions of the character the way Julia herself relishes a particularly delicious sole meunière. This is a performance to cherish and enjoy.

Mary Pols, Time Magazine
Streep’s Child is better than a basket of kittens. The performance is a hoot and a joy. It’s not just a demonstration of tremendous skill; it’s emotional persuasion. In two minutes, I had forgiven her for Mamma Mia!, and when she wasn’t onscreen, I felt bereft, even though I knew a diet of nothing but Streep as Child would be like living on laughing gas, lobster and chocolate.

David Denby, The New Yorker
Like a tall ship in full sail, Streep leans, tilts, and billows. Odd explosions of air—whoops, exclamations—come hurtling through the passageways. She runs out of breath, and then settles, mysteriously, like an old Bible that italicizes ordinary words, on a single syllable. It’s all extremely funny, but Ephron and Streep stop short of camp. They know that there’s no way anyone can make, or would want to make, Julia Child look second-rate.

Peter Travers, Rolling Stone
Meryl Streep — at her brilliant, beguiling best — is the spice that does the trick for the yummy Julie & Julia. Streep digs deep into Julia in ways that go beyond impersonation, though her bon appétit warble is the niftiest since Dan Aykroyd’s SNL spoof.

Owen Gleiberman, EW
It doesn’t take long to get used to the funny, goose-honk perfection of Streep’s impersonation. Only then, in fact, do we really start to connect to the serious, life-loving performance behind it. Julia’s gangly eagerness conceals a will of iron, as well as a generosity of spirit that’s too passionate to be merely funny. She’s a woman who wants to feed everyone, gloriously — herself and her husband, her friends and the world.

Carrie Rickey, Philadelphia Enquirer
Bewigged and booted to resemble the formidable figure who stood 6-foot-2, Streep has jolly fun channeling her inner Child, her piping voice swooping and whooping across the Atlantic and back. In losing herself in the larger-than-life Julia, awkward except when wielding whisk like scepter, Streep physically conveys the transformation and triumph of a lost woman who finds her vocation. She is transcendent.

Dana Stevens, Slate
Streep’s incarnation of Julia Child towers, literally and figuratively, over the movie. She plays the beefy, 6-foot-2-inch Child with lusty comic verve, yet her performance isn’t broad in the least. Every word that emerges in that familiar octave-swooping voice is both hilariously funny and deeply felt. When Julia learns that her sister (a sidesplittingly funny Jane Lynch) is pregnant, Streep makes all Julia’s reactions—resentment, joy, grief, resignation—visible in quick succession.

Stephanie Zacharek, Salon
Ephron does the smart thing in “Julie & Julia” and lets Streep carry the day, with a minimum of embellishment. Streep is too often praised for her ability to master an accent, which is evidence of her discipline. But a good performance has to offer more than just proof of how much work you’ve put into it, and Streep is always at her best when she makes it all look easy, instead of advertising how difficult it is. Her exacting, actressy turn in last year’s “Doubt” is an example of the worst kind of Streep performance. What she does here, in its lightness and outright glee, is the best kind. Streep uses her gift for mimicry to make the link between Julia as pop-culture presence and human being. Just listening to Streep is pure joy: She gets the way Julia’s voice resembled the unself-conscious chortling of an extremely happy bird.

David Edelstein, New York Magazine
For teachers of the method, shaping a character begins with psychological self-plumbing, but some actors find that by getting the externals right (cadence, physical mannerisms, wardrobe), they can cut a direct path to the soul. That’s the case with Meryl Streep as the middle-aged Julia Child in the comedy Julie & Julia: What begins as a great impersonation becomes a marvel of sympathetic imagination. The performance is transcendental. Streep’s voice is deeply musical, starting in the chest and erupting into that burbling falsetto with its trills and diphthongs. The voice is Streep’s way into Child’s pleasure centers, and the body—stiff-shouldered, sloshing around like an ocean liner—follows along in a kind of daffy interpretive dance. Streep isn’t tall, but she’s photographed carefully and projects height; she understands that the six-foot-two Child learned not to be ashamed of her size but to go with it. Her Julia is a force.

Once upon a time in the little town where I lived I dated the high school star. He was the all American type, clean cut, and as honest as they come. He was my age, and my parents liked him, despite his more secular upbringing. So that said, one night in high school we took the liberty of staying out a little later than my curfew. As a result, you would have thought a meteor had hit my little town, on my little block, in our little house. So all I have to say to the parents of Carey Mulligan’s character, Jenny, from the movie An Education, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? Were 16-year-olds more mature in the 1960s London than the 1970s My Town, USA? (Yips #1). I want to preface this blog by saying that the only thing I knew about Carey Mulligan before seeing An Education was that she was British, and the only thing I knew about the movie was that it was a “coming of age” story. (Yips #2). I’ve already talked about Yips #3 in my Carey Mulligan and her Cello Education blog and finally, Yips #4 goes to the predictable and silly stuff movies are made of.

Yips #1: Why is it that in some movies the 16-year-old or any “child” is smarter and more mature than any adult in the film? Jeff Foxworthy reminds us daily that adults aren’t smarter than 5th graders, but why rub it in? Mr. and Mrs. Jenny were so manipulated by their daughter, David the Cassanova, and his pretend aunt that my head was spinning. The mother turns a blind eye when Jenny ignores her curfew. Why? Because she approves of Jenny’s relationship to a man twice her age (marry up) who charmed the apron off of her too. At the very least, Jenny should have apologized to show a little respect for her parents but that didn’t happen. Manipulative kid, stupid mom.

Yips #2: A Coming of Age story? COME ON! As charming as Carey Mulligan is, the closest she got in representing a normal 16-year-old was having her hair in pig tails. The hairstyles changed with her level of suggested sophistication. One day she’s Jenny from the Hood and the next she’s Audrey Hepburn storming Paris. I thought she was acting about 25 when she was first introduced. Just compare Jenny to her two squealing school chums. They acted their age. Jenny’s education, composure, self assuredness, and comfortable handling of her nights out with her boy-toy screamed someone who needed no education. She was just looking for a good time. Yes, Carey Mulligan is charming, but that charming little smile was on her face from the first day of class, and it was only wiped off with a bit of humble pie in the end. I was completely unconvinced.

Yips #3: See previous blog.

Yips #4: Silly stuff. Jenny is standing out in the pouring rain with her cello (by the way she carried it, it was probably an empty case). What is she waiting for? They never tell us! Her father? A bus? She lives around the freakin’ corner! WALK! The cello isn’t that heavy! It’s hollow! I’ve walked home from high school with heavier instruments. So it’s raining and David charms her into his sports car and by the time he drives her around the corner, it’s sunny! Other problems abound. Jenny’s hand on her papers from one angle, Jenny’s hand off her papers from another angle. A banana gets thrown across the room in one direction but is miraculously picked up on the couch in the other room. Someone shaking hands from one camera, not shaking hands from another camera, and then back to shaking hands. Silly stuff like that.

Um, and don’t get me started on the glove compartment. I knew the minute that the glove compartment was introduced that it would be a focal point for future drama. It was like being hit by an unpublished Nancy Drew mystery: The Clue in the Glove Compartment, by Carolyn Keene. The writer had to find some way for the protagonist to have a V-8 moment, so let’s throw some letters in there! Yes, of course! Everyone throws their mail in their glove compartments! Why, that’s where I keep all my bills and circulars! I’m surprised they weren’t in David’s trunk. He keeps everything else in there. Stupid Jenny, it didn’t bother her at all that David and his tag team were robbing and conning people left and right, but she was stunned that he was married? I could swear I heard Jenny saying, “Why that CAD! Why didn’t he tell me before the banana?”

Sigh. Why does every teacher and librarian in the movies wear mousy glasses? When I was 16, my English teacher was a former Radio City Rockette. Every young man in school hoped to be assigned to her class. And, wasn’t that a hint of a moustache on Headmistress Thompson? Jenny is damn lucky Emma Thompson didn’t grab her with her giant angel wings and carry her off (by the look on Meryl Streep’s face, a better time than the banana for sure), but she gave her a second chance, thanks to Miss Stubbs (the mousy one).

Who wrote this screenplay? A man? You didn’t have to go to Oxford looking for a teaching degree. Just ask Antonia Fraser, Amelia Fletcher, Barbara Castle, Indira Gandhi, and Dame Emma Kirkby. Even Telebobbies like Bobby Jindal got into Oxford.

Okay. My rant is over, but don’t despair. An Education is an imperfect movie that’s worth seeing but you can wait for the DVD. Carey Mulligan may get an Oscar nomination in a year the Academy is searching for some good female performances. Her performance was good but not convincing. She’s young and her talent will grow.

P.S. I’m sorry that Sunshine Cleaning got such an early release. I much preferred Emily Blunt’s performance in that movie over Mulligan’s in this, although Blunt’s would probably be considered a supporting role.

This week I also saw the movie, An Education, with the up-and-comer Carey Mulligan. She’s lovely, talented, and probably in the running for an Oscar nomination, but I wanted to bounce her prop room cello off her head for the lack of instrument preparation for her role. Yes, I know I’m about to be picky but I actually pay attention to little musical details in movies and concerts. Here’s my beef:

1) If you are required to play an instrument (especially in close-ups), and you are sitting next to someone playing the same instrument and the same notes, please practice with that person ahead of time to make sure you are fingering the notes identically. Carey was playing Bach (or whomever) and her classmate was playing Beethoven. Meryl Streep would never have let that happen.

2) If you can identify and name a rare cello in a room within five seconds of seeing it, then you are not the naïve and innocent schoolgirl as the movie wants us to believe. You are an exceptionally gifted and knowledgeable connoisseur of fine instruments. Not all instruments plaster Fender or Gibson on their heads or scrolls.

3) If you are a connoisseur of fine instruments you should have picked up that cello and placed it somewhere out of the direct sunlight where it was basking in all its glory in front of a large window. I don’t know what sweat does to a cello but I know that sunbathing is unhealthy for it. Earlier in the film, David (Sarsgaard) removes a valuable map from a widow’s house and says, “We know how to look after it…. We liberated it.” Well, they sure don’t know how to look after a valuable cello.

4) If you are admiring the rarity of the cello, running your fingers down the strings is irrelevant. Plucking for the tone would have been the thrill, like playing a chord on a Steinway, especially for those who have never played a chord on a Steinway. I don’t want to feel its keys I want to hear it sing.

More on An Education forthcoming….

I don’t get it. I don’t get autographs. If by chance I should meet an actor I don’t need a scribble on a piece of paper to prove it, nor do I have the need to sidle up for a photo op. The meeting is sufficient enough to remember, and if it was ultimately unimportant, I will forget. As an adult I don’t ever remember feeling exceptionally different about actors than I do about other professions. However, I truly appreciate many who do exceptional work in their chosen field, and the rest fall into either normalcy or not-my-taste. I appreciate good cooks, honest politicians, helpful librarians, courteous people, and a well-spent 10 bucks in the movie house.

I had my “crushes” growing up. I liked Lee Majors of Big Valley, Michael Cole of The Mod Squad, and, of course, the Beatles. I bought the fan magazines when I could afford them, cut out their pictures and pasted them to my bedroom door. My father permitted it since he was eventually replacing the doors. My brother’s door looked like a psychedelic rock-n-roll homage to The Doors and Jimi Hendrix. I didn’t write away for autographs or join fan clubs.

Meryl Streep has something she probably never expected at her age: A bevy of teenage fans from around the world. How many actors can say that at her age? She’s an absolute rock star. Her young fans “discovered” her in Mamma Mia! Suddenly she became the cool Marion Cunningham (of Happy Days)  of our time; a new-age mother figure for many young girls. I admire Meryl Streep because she handles it so graciously, even when they sob and beg for hugs as if they have never been so moved, or so comforted. I doubt Ms. Streep will ever burst their bubbles because she has an exemplary public persona. The closest she has come to toppling from her pedestal is a recent admission that she sneaks a cigarette now and then. “Horrors!” cried her followers.

Stephen J. Dubner’s experiences with his idol were less than memorable. Dubner wrote a book called Confessions of a Hero-Worshiper. When Dubner was young he developed an intense attachment to the Steelers football player, Franco Harris. After Dubner’s father passed away, his attachment became an obsession to the point that he even signed his school assignments, “Franco Dubner.” Years later, Mr. Dubner, now a successful author, grew out of his obsession only to have it roar back when he spotted Franco Harris. However, his attempts to connect to Mr. Harris were met with failed expectations. The father figure of Franco Harris had abandoned Dubner like his own father did. Mr. Dubner’s allegiance to Franco Harris “had expired.” His reaction was to tear Mr. Harris down and “set about learning all the bad things about him.”

Hopefully Meryl Streep can ride her recent wave of popularity into her dotage. Mr. Dubner wrote, “You can’t really be giving out a whole lot of pieces of yourself when everyone’s asking for them. So you become more careful and more distant.” So far Ms. Streep has handled her new fan group with grace and aplomb. Rock on, Meryl Streep.