Fried & True (14 page)

August 2004

LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

SOME LIKE IT NOT

You probably haven't seen the film
Connie and Carla
. The critics savaged it so badly that its writer/star Nia Vardalos probably thinks of it as her big fat Greek tragedy.

Well, I'm here to tell you to rent it immediately. It's too late to catch it on the big screen since it disappeared faster than a Madonna movie at Cannes. But the drubbing it got from the critics was not only unfair, it was endemic of the diarrhea of the mouth that critics seem to get when faced with a movie that might appeal to people over a certain age—like anybody who has already been through orthodontia.

If I sound mad, I am. While
Connie and Carla
is spectacularly silly, it also has a sweet little message attached about not so sweet discrimination.

So what happens? The critics, in an effort to show off their incredible knowledge of the whole cross-dressing genre, pick the living daylights out of it as they make unfavorable comparisons to every gender bent costume movie in history.

“as in
Some Like it Hot
blah, blah, blah…”

“Not as clever as
Victor/Victoria
blah, blah, blah…”

“A cross between
Priscilla Queen of the Desert
and
Tootsie
, blah, blah, blah…”

The dolts completely missed the point.
Connie and Carla
is not a knock-off of any of those films. It's a love letter to them.

I'm not giving anything away by telling you that this movie is a laugh-out-loud story of two female musical comedy wannabees, on the run from gangsters, who hide out as Los Angeles drag queens.

Toni Collette partners with Vardalos and she really does look like the quintessential drag queen. Plus, Stephen Spinella (the original Broadway star of
Angels in America
) is terrific as a man cautiously trying to reconnect with his straight sibling
(played by an adorable David Duchovny).

Now I'm not just writing a film review here. It's more like a critics review. If those movie critics had stopped showing off their fancy turn of a phrase for a minute they would have noticed that the script made you think about weighty issues, the Botox craze, discrimination and self respect, even as the gals warbled hilarious (and hilariously costumed) snippets from
Oklahoma, Yentl
, and, forgive them,
Jesus Christ Superstar
.

Watching two straight chicks get a taste of anti-gay discrimination is illuminating for the audience, just as it is for the film's characters. And you get a real good look at a straight man fighting to understand the world experienced by some people who have learned, finally, to like themselves.

I will NOT tell you the name of the musical comedy icon with a wonderful cameo in the film, but you will howl. Critics be damned, rent the movie and have a good laugh with a side of pride.

The same can be said for the Ashley Judd-Kevin Kline film
De-Lovely
. I de-loved it. Although I have to admit that in this case the critics, well, had a case.

They took the film to task for its clunky “is this a hallucination or is there really a Broadway producer talking to an aging Cole Porter about his life story” structure. Yeah, it was pretty stupid, but the fact remains that once they got on with it we had two hours of stunning 1930s and 40s fashions adorning Judd and Kline as they sang Porter's magnificent, sophisticated songs.

As if that wasn't plenty, the love story was real, and the film's depiction of it rang very true. Linda and Cole Porter were devoted to each other despite the fact that throughout their marriage he had same-sex relationships on the side, and, according to rumors, she might have done the same.

In the film, they pulled no punches and presented the complicated relationship with taste and tenderness.

Again, it was a tidy little grown-up movie whisked out of theatres by a gust of film criticism that didn't give audiences the
chance to discover this gem for themselves.

At this point, give me a flawed (although not seriously)
Connie and Carla
or a slightly weird
De-Lovely
instead of a violent, gory, special effect clogged mega-budget adventure flick any day.

The good news is that the Rehoboth Beach Independent Film Festival is coming up shortly, with no end of grown-up movies on the roster. As Cole Porter wrote, Rehoboth, “You're the Top!”

September 2004

LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

ROUTINE MAINTENANCE

A Borscht Belt comedian once said, “Anyone who owns their own home deserves it.” He was being snide. He was referring to me. Like everyone else, we've been spending recent sunny days taking care of all the exterior maintenance that must get done between the last beach day and that sudden cold snap that makes it unpleasant to run around in shorts mowing, mulching and, excuse the expression, spreading your seed.

Over the past few weeks home maintenance drama has reared its ugly head at Schnauzerhaven, and I, for one, am glad I can still laugh. Actually, I'm glad I can still stand up, given the amount of Kudzu and other propagating weeds I've bent over to yank from my shrubbery. Naturally, I bent over only when people I knew drove by. That's not curb appeal.

Embarrassing as it was, that was nothing compared to the garage door incident. On my way to work one morning I backed out of the garage and ran over a plastic flower pot. No big deal. I'd sweep it up later. It was just debris from the dead geraniums from our front stoop, now replaced by the soon to be dead Mums.

But as I backed down the driveway, pushing the remote control to close the garage, the door stopped a foot from the garage floor. That would be a Schnauzer escape route for sure. Damn. The broken pot had rolled directly in front of the little electronic eye on the garage door.

I brought the door back up and got out of the car in my tidy little morning meeting suit, and swept up the pile of dirt and plastic pot shards.

The same kind of luck that had me crouching in the shrubs only when friends drove by now had me returning to the car at the exact moment our sprinkler system activated and shot me and the interior of my car with the kind of spray normally used
to separate fornicating dogs. I own my own home. I deserved it.

Actually, when we first had that sprinkler system installed, its timer-regulated debut performance coincided with my letting the dogs out. One of the sprinkler heads came up directly under a squatting Schnauzer who clearly got a surprise and a complimentary enema. But I digress.

Here's a thought: Why do we spend more time shopping for supplies for home maintenance than actually doing the projects? Come on, you know you do it. Gotta get those outdoor furniture covers. And the Styrofoam spigot covers to prevent frost in the water lines. And don't forget the waterproofing for the deck. This past Sunday we lollygagged up and down the aisles at Lowe's, pondering the merits of a long pole with a nozzle on it and then spending considerable time selecting the perfect lawn fertilizer—so much time in fact that we ran out of time to clean the gutters or treat the crabgrass. Is this something that's a choice or are we born this way?

But by far my favorite home maintenance moment recently was the discovery that I could be a contestant on that terrifying, chilling, hit TV show. Not
Fear Factor
, not
Lost
, not even
Live with Regis and Kelly
—but the HGTV show
House Detective
, where the home inspector tells you all the hideous things festering in your basement. It started when I went to our spare closet to liberate my winter clothes. What were these strange white stains on the black pants? The splotches of grey powder on the brown sweater? Mildew! And I don't even live on a boat anymore.

Not only did this situation necessitate my having to buy back my clothes in bulk from the dry cleaner, but the interior of the closet and walls in the room had to be washed down with a bleach solution. Now there's a lovely way to spend a pretty fall day. I really have to thank my spouse for taking on that chore, although I'm reasonably sure she just didn't want to see me wearing Playtex Living Gloves and cursing like a washer woman.

Of course, once the surface mildew was banished we had
to deal with the real problem: (cue the scary music) The Crawl Space. How I ever came to own a home with something called a crawl space is beyond me. I am not a member of the Addams Family. Just the thought of the space and the things that could crawl in it make me nuts. I picture a certain scene from
Raiders of the Lost Ark
.

In this case, curious George, I mean Bonnie, gleefully volunteered to crawl on her belly under the house to see exactly what was growing, oozing, fulminating, or otherwise turning to penicillin in the muddy petrie dish under our spare room. Is there a fungus among us? Is my life partner under the house with some nascent life form? As Bonnie shimmied away from view, I stood by, reading aloud from the newspaper: “three bedroom, two bath CONDO….”

“The moisture barrier seems okay,” Bonnie yells.

What the hell is that? To me, a moisture barrier is a Totes umbrella.

“I don't see any black mold,” comes a faraway voice. Is that good? Is green mold better? Does it have anything to do with the stuff that's in plastic containers at the back of my fridge?

Eventually my mate emerged, smudged and mud-caked, saying we needed a professional opinion. Which, we got, thanks to a recommendation from a trustworthy realtor.

Here's the upshot. We've got a moisture problem under the house thanks to a badly graded property and not enough vents. No black mold, though. So we don't have to bulldoze. “It's not bad. I've seen lots worse around here,” said the contractor.

So we're going to disinfect under the house, install a mess of vents with undulating fans, hook ‘em up to electric and blow out the crawlspace on regular intervals. My guess is we'll be dry as a bone in no time but the house will periodically sound like a 747 taking off. Oh, and installing the vents will cost slightly more than an Olivia Cruise. But then I own my own home. I deserve it.