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AN OCTOROON PERFORMING ARTS
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VOL 18 + ISSUE 5
FEBRUARY 4, 2016 - FEBRUARY 11, 2016 EDITORIAL
DEAR READER
EDITOR + PUBLISHER Jeff lawrence
As I write this, the sun is out and it’s an almost 60-degree day in early February. Which means it’s probably going to be snowing by the time you read this. Either way, after last winter’s slog fest of slush mountains measured in feet, not inches, the mild days are making for some interesting scenes around Boston. The most significant one I’ve noticed also happens to be a fairly common one regardless of the temperature, only now it’s on steroids. I’m referring to wearing shorts in winter, of course. Along with an iced coffee from Dunks, it’s not uncommon to see people, primarily men, wearing shorts around town even as the snow is falling. Call it Yankee pride or sheer drunkenness, there seems to be a sense that it’s always warm enough to throw on some cargo shorts along with snow boots and brave the eastern wind. But lately, and by that I mean since last summer, we’ve had a mild enough post-Halloween season that people in shorts are everywhere. While visiting a friend for a quick drink in the Back Bay, I counted no less than four dudes showing skin. Walking through Haymarket Square, there was a gaggle of women donning skirts and open-toed sandals, seemingly oblivious to what town they were in and during what month. Frankly, as a yearround flip-flop guy myself (I have beautiful feet so it works), I find all of this perfect and ideal. Don’t get me wrong, I love the snow, but that’s why we have Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine. Send it up there so we can ski on weekends, but keep this sunshine shit rolling as-is down here. Speaking of heading up to New Hampshire, the fine folks and our dear friends at BINJ will be in Manchester for the upcoming primary. You can follow their coverage all this week and up to the last vote right here at digboston.com. You’ll be able to read all about the local pollster and national figures, as well as all the drunkards and bar flies who gather in town every four years for this political donnybrook. Chris Faraone leads the charge, but look for a stable of writers churning out broken dreams into beautiful copy at the The Shaskeen Pub and they just might buy you a PBR. Flip or flop, everyone wins!
ASSOCIATE MUSIC EDITOR Nina Corcoran ASSOCIATE FILM EDITOR Jake Mulligan ASSOCIATE ARTS EDITOR Christopher Ehlers COPY EDITOR Mitchell Dewar CONTRIBUTORS Nate Boroyan, Renan Fontes, Bill Hayduke, Emily Hopkins, Micaela Kimball, Dave Wedge INTERN Oliver Bok, Mary Kate McGrath
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JEFF LAWRENCE - EDITOR + PUBLISHER, DigBoston
OH, CRUEL WORLD Dear Upstairs Neighbor, I can’t believe you threw your fucking Charlie Brown piece of shit Christmas tree out of your window on January 28th you lazy dickhead. I think I know who you are, the asshole on the third floor who wears sunglasses indoors. Because you can’t wait to get onto the street to show off your guido frames. You look like Snookie, and you fucked up my air conditioner. The way things are looking, your holiday accessory will remain dead and rotted on the path where I walk my bike every day. Because while it might make my life a lot easier, I would cut my leg off with a chainsaw before moving your tree even an inch.
F EB 1 S T - 7 T H MON C EL L A R PA RT Y TUE N EW E N G L A N D N I G H T ILLUSTRATION BY CHESLEY CHAPMAN
NEWS + FEATURES EDITOR Chris Faraone
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NEWS US Globe is currently suing a number of police agencies after several controversial rulings allowed them to withhold reports about cops arrested for alleged drunk driving. This clause would also disincentivize appeals to the supervisor, which in turn might overburden the courts. Another big concern is that the law does not explain what it means for a request to harass or intimidate. This particular clause is quite bizarre because it applies to cases where a court has already ruled that a requester has a right to records. It’s counterintuitive, not to mention dangerous, to allow courts to label legitimate requests as “harassment” or “intimidation.” At best, this language seems like a solution in search of a problem.
GOOD IDEA: Setting reasonable timetables
FOIA-BLES BROKEN RECORDS
Critical Mass records reform bill takes two steps forward and one step back BY ANDREW QUEMERE AND MAYA SHAFFER Last week, the Massachusetts state Senate unveiled their version of a bill to update the Commonwealth’s decrepit public records law, which journalists rely on to cover everything from budgets to government corruption. The bill offers some hope to reporters and transparency advocates who have been pushing for positive reform, but not much. The Massachusetts public records law is considered one of the worst in the country, and hasn’t been meaningfully updated since the 1970s. Last year, a media uproar pushed the topic onto center stage, and now as a result an update seems highly probable. In November, the House passed their own public records bill, which some observers—us included—said would actually make it harder to access public records. In contrast, there seems to be a consensus that the Senate bill would be an improvement over what we have now. But the fight continues. The Senate will debate their bill this week and vote on the measure soon after. After the bill clears the Senate, a conference committee made up of three senators and three representatives will iron out the significant differences between the two versions and advance a final bill to a vote. If passed, the bill will still need the governor’s approval to become a law. The Senate’s bill still has a number of flaws, and its positive aspects could be stripped or watered down by amendments or the committee process. As watchdogs, we decided to focus our microscope on the best and worst changes in hope that legislators take note.
GOOD IDEA: Mandatory attorney’s fees
As pointed out in our last column, the biggest problem with the public records law is the lack of enforcement. Consequently, the most important aspect of the update 4
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will be how it affects the public’s ability to enforce the law itself by suing government agencies that refuse to turn over records. Requesters can already sue agencies, but that’s not realistic for most people. Unlike 47 other states, litigants are never awarded attorney’s fees—even when a judge sides with them—and hiring an attorney for one of these suits can cost tens of thousands of dollars or more. The House bill would make the pursuit of lawsuits practically impossible by setting a 30-day window to file, and while the measure does authorize the payment of attorney’s fees, awarding them would be left to a judge’s discretion. The Senate bill, however, would mandate the recovery of legal fees in many cases, making it a huge improvement over the current law and the House proposal.
BAD IDEA: Exceptions to the rule
The Senate bill, unfortunately, still includes a number of exceptions to the mandatory attorney’s fees rule. They are as follows: If the supervisor of records previously ruled in favor of the agency; if the agency can point to a similar case where the supervisor had ruled for an agency; if the agency can point to a similar case where the courts had ruled for an agency; if the request was made to “intimidate or harass”; or “if the request was not in the public interest and made for a private or commercial interest unrelated to dissemination of information to the public about actual or alleged government activity.” Most concerning are the caveats related to the supervisor of records. The supervisor’s questionable rulings are part of what led to the current push to update the law, so allowing agencies to hide behind them is a serious flaw that would make the cases where lawsuits are most needed—cases where the supervisor has made an error—less likely to be litigated. For instance, the Boston
In theory, the current law grants agencies only 10 days to comply with requests. However, this mandate is typically ignored. The supervisor generally takes months to decide appeals, so the process can drag on for an outrageous amount of time. To correct this, the Senate and House bills both set up timetables for the different steps in the process. Both bills set limits on how long agencies have to produce records. The House bill would grant state agencies an initial 60 days and local agencies 75 days. The Senate bill would give both types of agencies 30 days. Both bills would also allow agencies to petition the supervisor for one extension. The House bill sets no limit on the extension’s length, allowing agencies to delay requests for months or even years. The Senate bill would typically cap extensions at 30 days. Critically, both bills also cap the amount of time that the supervisor has to rule on appeals. The House bill would give the Supervisor 10 days to issue a ruling while the Senate bill gives him 15 days. We’re skeptical that the supervisor will adhere to either requirement, but if he does, it could prevent months-long delays.
BAD IDEA: … Except they’re not that reasonable
While the idea of having timetables is great, the Senate’s bill would extend the amount of time that agencies have to comply with most requests to 30 days. This is the 21st Century, and decades of technological innovation have made the process of storing, retrieving, and copying records more efficient, so giving agencies more time to comply with simple requests seems like an undeserved reward for decades of failure.
GOOD IDEA: The Pizza Principle
The wise philosopher Michelangelo once said, “Forgiveness is divine, but never pay full price for late pizza.” The Senate seems to have adopted a similar attitude in that their bill would not allow agencies to charge fees when they miss deadlines. Other than mandatory attorney’s fees, this simple change is probably the best one in the bill. For the first time, there would be a strong incentive for agencies to provide records in a timely manner, which could mitigate our gripes about the loopholes in the timetables. We’re desperately hoping that this provision makes it into the final bill because it’s one of the most promising ideas the Legislature has put forward thus far.
LOOKING AHEAD
Overall, there are a few things we’re excited about in the Senate bill. It’s a vast improvement to the House bill and generally an improvement to the current law. If the best parts of the Senate bill survive and the worst provisions in the House bill are scrapped, then the Massachusetts public records law might become a little bit less broken.
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TOKIN TRUTH
F MICKEY MARTIN
Activist mocks self-congratulatory industry BY MIKE CRAWFORD @MIKECANNBOSTON
STINGRAY BODY ART | TATTOO BY ALASTAIR
Mickey Martin is the author of the staple cannabis beginner’s manual “Medical Marijuana 101,” and a founder of Compassion Medicinal Edibles and the Massachusetts-based Northeastern Institute of Cannabis (the latter of which he is no longer affiliated with). On his blog, weedactivist.com, as well as on social media and at industry events, Mickey’s known as somebody who doesn’t pull any punches in addressing his contemporaries in the business and reform communities. Specifically, he’s criticized groups like NORML and the Marijuana Policy Project for their white male-dominated leadership boards. I recently had an email exchange with Mickey, a guerilla self-promoter if there ever was one, about his controversial annual award festivities, among other things.
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Why did you start the #FUCKMICKEY Awards? My business partner and longtime comrade came up with the phrase for my inclination to piss everyone off in the industry at one point or another. By making that term my moniker it takes a lot of wind out of the sails of those who actually say, “Fuck Mickey.” Look, I know I am an asshole sometimes. I am OK with that. I can admit my issues. But more so, I am outspoken and at times that makes people upset. Making people upset is never a reason to shy away from a difficult conversation though. I am not here to make friends. I am here to make weed legal for adults to use for any fucking reason they want. What do you hope to achieve with an awards show that is crapping on a large portion of marijuana reform and industry? I would not say it is a “large portion” by any means. It is a parody. The amount of groups and people handing out awards in this industry made me nauseous. Everyone running around patting themselves on the back giving each other gold stars is a bit much IMO. We have so much work to do, and honestly, we continue to lose battles left and right because the haves already have and could give a shit about anyone else. This industry is full of jackasses who continue to make life more difficult for cannabis reform, and they want an award on top of it to boot? For what? Last I checked there were still tens of thousands of good people in jail, losing their kids, losing their jobs, their standing in the community over weed. What is there to celebrate? Is calling people out about helping the community or just doing it for laughs and attention? Like I said, I began writing about the industry and the players in it a long time ago in an effort to self-police some of the bizarre and over the top behaviors being put on display. Because the cannabis industry is in a strange place where companies and people can wander around saying whatever they want and scamming folks because there is no real watchdog organization, and government agencies cannot take them to task without first dealing with the illegality of cannabis itself. There is a void that allows these dicks to try and say and do whatever they want to get over and get ahead. My targeting is fairly limited in scope, as the industry continues to blossom with new dickbags who could care less about weed, and only really care about their egos and lining their pockets. Otherwise this entire deal goes unchecked and we continue to see more people fucked over and the industry continues to take steps back because of the actions of the few. I am not having it. I would say that I have gotten a lot of positive results, and that 90 percent of the people I have written pieces about have thanked me down the road for being the person willing to have the difficult conversation. I am not trying to get people to like me. I just want them to respect me at the end of the day, and for better or worse I believe I have accomplished that goal. I have written thousands of pieces that have helped educate and move the community forward. Maybe my tactics seem a bit volatile from an outsider’s perspective, but it takes volatility to stir up the sediment and complacency. If I can get the community having a conversation then my job is done, and we are all better because of it.
Check digboston.com all week for our coverage of the madness leading up to the New Hampshire primary on February 9th. NEWS TO US
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APPARENT HORIZON
GE BOSTON DEAL, PT2
General Electric’s role in the 2007 Subprime Mortgage Crisis
Two weeks after the first installment of this Missing Manual, we now know that GE will receive up to another $100 million of Boston’s largesse in the form of reopening the Old Northern Avenue Bridge and $25 million in state money for work on roads, pedestrian walkways, and bike lanes near the corporation’s new Seaport District HQ. Pushing the total giveaway to over $270 million in public funds. Gov. Charlie Baker, Mayor Marty Walsh, and boosters like the Boston Globe claim that the investment will be worth it. Yet GE’s record of slashing jobs, despoiling the environment, and evading taxes says otherwise. And their role in the subprime mortgage crisis further repudiates such official optimism. Back in 1999, the Glass-Steagall Act—a critical piece of Depression-era social legislation that put up a firewall between commercial banks and investment houses—was torpedoed by Congress. One of the excuses for the deregulatory push was the claim that so-called “shadow banks”—institutions that perform banking functions outside of the traditional system of federally-regulated banks—were doing great business with less regulation. The now-diminished GE Capital was then one of the largest shadow banks, since as the finance arm of an industrial concern it was not classified as a bank. Thanks to that fact and the happy coincidence that GE Capital owned a small Utah savings and loan operation, it was allowed to “engage in banking under the lighter hand of the Office of Thrift Supervision.” Rather than the more strict banking regulations overseen by the Federal Reserve—which do not allow banks to engage in commerce—according to a 2009 report by ProPublica and the Washington Post. Ironically, the deregulation of the banking system proved to be a key factor in the 2007 subprime mortgage crisis and the resulting 2008 financial crisis. And the much-praised practices of shadow banks like GE Capital were precisely the ones that nearly wiped out the US economy. GE had long used GE Capital, equivalent to the seventh largest banking company in the US until 2008, to fatten its bottom line. According to Maureen Farrell of the Wall Street Journal, “GE got into lending decades ago and grew that arm of its business steadily in the years before the crisis, as it was able to leverage its triple-A credit rating for access to cheap capital. Before the credit crisis, GE relied upon lending for around 50 percent of its earnings.” So in 2004 GE Capital had plenty of ready cash to buy California-based WMC Mortgage Corp.—a company that specialized in foisting subprime housing loans on poor families that couldn’t really afford them, using highly unethical sales tactics—for about half a billion dollars. According to a 2012 report by Michael Hudson of The Center for Public Integrity, even before the purchase, WMC “... was producing $8 billion a year in subprime home loans and boasting profits of $140 million a year.” Then in 2006, US housing prices declined sharply. Subprime borrowers with no reserve cash were unable to refinance their home loans as their adjustablerate mortgage payments increased mercilessly. Subprime lenders then began to automatically slap late-paying borrowers with even higher penalty rates. More and more people defaulted on their loans. Lenders like WMC suddenly went from being cash-rich to being cash-poor. GE Capital was hemorrhaging money by 2007. During the first half of that year WMC lost over $500 million as the mortgage industry “spun into chaos.” By October 2007, the Center for Public Integrity report concludes, “WMC Mortgage was effectively out of business, dead after having pumped out roughly $110 billion in subprime and ‘Alt-A’ loans under GE’s watch.” Meanwhile, GE Capital, like many other financial institutions of the period, had rolled packages of subprime mortgage debt into Residential MortgageBacked Securities (RMBSs)—which it then sold to investors. Including institutional investors like government-sponsored housing lender Freddie Mac. When the WMC subprime mortgages collapsed in 2007, the GE Capital RMBSs based on them followed suit. And the whole house of cards built on bad mortgages to poor people fell down. GE Capital immediately put hundreds of millions of dollars aside to pay off its investors. But not its mortgage holders. WMC-issued mortgages failed at rates of up to 75 percent in some areas. Ruining the lives of tens of thousands of working families in the process. GE had gotten out of the subprime racket just in time to stay solvent into 2008. The most significant federal blowback from the episode came in 2011 when the Federal Housing Finance Agency that regulates Freddie Mac sued General Electric for selling them $549 million in subprime-based RMBSs. According to American Banker, they “charged GE’s former mortgage lending unit with presenting a false picture of the riskiness of residential mortgages behind securities that were sold to Freddie Mac.” GE settled the suit in 2013 for just $6.25 million. >> COMING SOON IN PART 3: THE 2008 FINANCIAL CRISIS AND FEDERAL BAILOUT OF GENERAL ELECTRIC. 8
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COPYRIGHT 2016 JASON PRAMAS. LICENSED FOR USE BY THE BOSTON INSTITUTE FOR NONPROFIT JOURNALISM AND MEDIA OUTLETS IN ITS NETWORK.
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POLTERGEISTS FICTION
BY KATIE WILLIAMS
OUR HOUSE IS EMPTY.
All the houses are empty – beautiful, rectangular and vacant. The lake around which they stand is iced over, bleeding through in dark patches at its center. Ferret and I have learned to spot the houses with caretakers, locals hired to shovel the drive, rotate the lights, sprinkle flakes in the saltwater aquarium to make the angelfish go wild. The house we pick, its walk is buried, its lights snuffed. Rich people! Too many houses to live in all at once. These are June, July, August houses for them. September through May is spent somewhere else, somewhere with good schools. No one home in February but the snow. I even find a window unlocked in the back.
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“Look at that!” I say to Ferret, sliding the window up. “This house is the house.” “I could’ve broken that window anyway,” Ferret says. She stands with her weight on one hip and juts her chin. Some tweaker in New Orleans told her she looked tough that way. Ferret is as pale and tinyboned as a lizard and easy to cry. The tweaker was lying. She doesn’t look tough any which way. I climb up on the sill and squint into the dark kitchen. “I think they have a waffle-iron.” “I liked the last house better,” Ferret mutters behind me. “You liked no hot water in the taps?” I ask. Taps. Who says that? It’s like a phrase my mother would use. “Come here. I’ll help you up.”
I don’t see Ferret haul back and break the window, but I see the shards of glass spilling over the kitchen sink like water. And, when I hop back down into the snow, Ferret has her hand in her mouth, and she’s sucking on it. She must have held her fist wrong when she punched, and now she’s gone and sliced the knuckle. Her blood drips into the snow, sinking deep in the drifts so I can’t even see the red of it. “Give it here,” I say, holding out a hand. Ferret sucks harder and shakes her head. Then, she darts past me and hoists herself through the open window, messing the sill with blood. I follow her inside. I can hear her in one of the bathrooms, opening a tin of band-aids. “Leave me alone, Holly,” she says.
“At least don’t hold your hand in a fist like that,” I call through the door. “Or else it won’t ever close up.” INSIDE THE HOUSE I FIND: a pinball machine an intercom system that lets you talk to all the rooms a swimming pool two bathtubs that make bubbles a couch shaped like a curve dimmer switches on all the lights four bedrooms upstairs with mattresses you sink into much, much more There’s an island in the kitchen, and the fridge gives us three choices of ice (crushed, cubed or spherical). The freezer has stacks of food, so we heat up four Hungry Man Jack Dinners, two a-piece. We eat on the curvy couch, downing the meals with beers from the fridge. Ferret wipes a hand across her mouth like a kid would, staining her patch of band-aids with gravy. After we’re done eating, I flatten the red boxes and rinse out the trays, pressing them carefully in the bottom of the trashcan. There’s the good kind of vodka in the liquor cabinet, and the intercoms play music through all the rooms. Ferret plays Frank Sinatra. I find a double-breasted suit in the walk-in closet upstairs. It’s too big, so I roll the sleeves and trouser cuffs and loop the pants tight to my waist with a belt. Ferret comes out in a flowing green dress long enough to cover the scars on her legs. Her face is all wrong for formal wear, but I feel like I want to compliment her anyway. Tell her she looks beautiful maybe. I know she won’t accept beautiful, nor pretty, nor nice. So, I say, “You look all right.” To which she says, “You look butch.” We dance around the rooms in a makeshift waltz to “In Other Words (Fly Me to the Moon)” and “The Lady is a Tramp” and “If I Were a Bell.” And, when we get tired of dancing, we jump on the beds to the rhythm of “The Tender Trap.” If I jump high enough, my fingers graze the ceiling. I try to stall the time my body is between the ceiling and the mattress, see if I can hang myself in midair. Just for a second. Less than that. What if I could? We sleep in separate beds, just because there are so many to choose from. I wake up in the middle of the night and go downstairs. The pool has a heater. Naturally. I crank it high and slip in. My breasts stare up at me like wobbly eyes. I avoid their gaze and do the backstroke, look up at the gritty tiles pasted on the ceiling. In the water, I flatten my body, square it up, do what I will with it. It’s not like I want to practice a new walk, and have people call me Jim. I’m fine by Holly. But my breasts, I’d have them gone. If I could, I’d have them sliced. And I’d glue new tiles on the ceiling of this swimming pool room. Suddenly, I remember the name of it – natatorium. WHAT MY BODY WOULD BE (IF IT WOULD BE WHAT I WOULD HAVE IT BE): no breasts tough pecs hips like a square jaw like a square tighten up this ass flatten out this stomach much, much less I can hear Ferret cry out, even though my ears are underwater. She gets nightmares, especially if she watches horror movies. Not that she’d ever admit it. She’ll watch anyway and laugh nervously through the whole thing, even cheer when the girls get cut up. I hoist myself out of the pool and climb back up the stairs, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind me. Ferret’s real name is Samantha. I saw it once on her old school I.D. In the picture on the card, Ferret’s bangs are fluffy. She wears a turtleneck sweater with a fine gold chain pulled over the sweater’s neck. The chain has a charm on it, maybe a cross. The picture was too small for me to tell if it was a cross or not.
I met Ferret in New Orleans, spangeing with a group of street kids who had matching tattoos of the screaming guy from that painting (Munch? Is his name Munch?) floating down a set of railroad tracks. The kids claimed they weren’t a gang, but rather a clan, which is like a gang without the violence, they explained. They’d rechristened themselves with names like Peddle, Lichen, Cam Shaft, Gutter Blender and other inanimate objects. It reminded Gutter, me of the game pieces you walk around the Monopoly Board – iron, shoe, top hat. Ferret never talks about her parents. And, I know that I won’t ever ask about the scars on her legs. Sometimes, she presses her fingers along them, absentmindedly, like she’s playing an instrument with many keys. Once, she told me that her mother works at a department store make-up counter. I bet anything her parents called her Sam. When I get back up to the bedrooms, Ferret’s stopped screaming. Her face is pressed hard into the pillow. “Junk, junk, junk,” she whispers in her sleep. In the morning, we go through all the owners’ shit. There’s a man and a lady; he’s older, she’s eager. FAMILY PICTURES: Lady in a pineapple bathing suit, towel held over her hips and thighs to keep them out of the picture. Both on jet-skis, one a-piece, life jackets unfastened. Man wrapping a fishing fly, with a row of completed flies laid out in front of him. The colors are pretty. Man and lady younger, slicing their wedding cake. Lady concentrating very hard on the cutting. The two together, embarrassing Christmas sweaters. Or, maybe they’re the type who aren’t embarrassed by funny sweaters. After all, I don’t know them. My mother hated sweaters with pictures knitted into the fronts. She called them, Occasion Sweaters. So, for a joke, every holiday, my father would buy her a new one – pine trees, American flags, rabbits, jack o’ lanterns. They were okay parents, if for nothing other than that. I call them sometimes from pay phones and lie about the city I’m in. “I’m in Baton Rouge,” I’ll say – or Laredo, Minneapolis, Chico. Then, I hang up before whoever picked up the receiver can tell me, Come home. Ferret finds a file box in the closet with tax returns, real estate holdings, stock portfolios. In a thick folder marked Medical, I read about fertility drugs, specialists, artificial insemination. Three pregnancies, three stillbirths, three girls, three copies of death (birth) certificates each bearing the name Rochelle, each with a different date, the most recent a year ago. I shuffle through the certificates. Rochelle, Rochelle, Rochelle. It’s like the same girl died over and over again. Ferret finds the lady’s wedding dress, wrapped in a plastic bag printed with the words Swift-y-Clean. “Here comes the bride,” Ferret crows, ripping at the plastic. “Here she comes!” “Naw, Ferret, leave that alone.” I grab at the bag and pull it away from her. “I just wanted to try it on.” She stomps her foot like a kid and then, remembering to look tough, shifts her weight to one hip and juts her chin. “It’s not like you’re going to wear it.” Ferret lunges. I see her coming and step to the side, checking her with my shoulder. She gets her ankles tangled and ends up on the floor. She shakes her hair in her eyes, instead of out of her eyes, and we both pretend she’s not crying. I smooth out the plastic of the bag and hang it back in the closet. The dress has so many buttons it must take a buttonhook to fasten them all up. The owners look larger when they arrive at the house. I guess we’re used to seeing them picture-size. Ferret and I have been staying there for almost a month, only went into town once for milk, bread, and more beer. Otherwise, we’ve been eating out of the freezer and living off of cable television, video games, and swims in the pool, which we heat up to bath-water temperature. It’s Ferret who they see first. She’s in the kitchen in the green dress, making peanut butter sandwiches. Or, maybe NEWS TO US
it’s the broken window they see first, because from the living room, I hear a woman’s voice say, “Neal, look. Glass all over the floor.” And, I feel disappointed for a second, because her voice is shriller than the picture made it seem like it would be. Then, Neal says, “Honey, get behind me.” And then, right after that, “Who are you?” By the time I get there, Ferret’s already messed up everything. She must have tried to punch him, this man, this Neal, because she’s on the floor, and he’s holding her down. His face is red. Hers is mean. She struggles and the dress rides up her legs. She tries to tug it back down. Neal has a ski jacket with too many zippers and glasses with oval lenses too small to look at more than one thing at a time. The lady stands behind him, her fingertips playing across her lips. Both stare down at the ugly scars on Ferret’s legs. “Call the police,” Neal tells his wife. She digs in a tiny black backpack and then stops. “The battery died, remember?” “Mine is in the car. Use mine.” She sees me as she turns to go. Her lips part slightly. “God,” she says. “Neal. She has a boy with her.” Neal looks at me through his tiny lenses. He glances down at his hands, at squirming Ferret. He doesn’t know what to do. “I don’t want trouble,” he tells me. The movies teach them to say that, all the rich white men. I don’t want trouble. Not, I don’t want you to hurt me. Or, Please, I work in an office and don’t know how to fight. But, I don’t want trouble. The sentence leaves it vague, implying that they could be the ones causing trouble. So, they don’t have to admit that all the trouble would be coming from you. I lower my head, raise my shoulder and ram into him. The second before I hit him, the light reflects off his glasses, shining like a flashbulb, and I think irrationally that someone just snapped our picture. My shoulder hits his mouth. I can feel his teeth all the way through his lips and my shirt. They are clenched. I knock him off of Ferret. His head hits the edge of the kitchen counter, and his glasses spin off under the sink. The lady kneels over him and gently touches the place he’s bumped his head. He blinks up at me with eyes that are small and paler than blue. Ferret makes like she’s going to kick him, but I push her away before her foot can swing. “Get our packs,” I tell her, and she glares at me for a second, like maybe she won’t, but then she does. While she’s gone, the three of us just stand there. Or, I stand, she kneels, and he lies on the floor. The lady keeps glancing from her husband to me and back to him again, like she’d better keep an eye on both of us. She has a delicate face that reminds me of some fine detail in one of the houses we’ve broken into – an iron faucet, a polished doorstop, an ivory metronome wound by hand. When she glances at me, I feel that pressure you feel when you’re left alone with somebody you don’t know that well, in a car, at a party, like you’re supposed to be saying something. I don’t say, I’m sorry or thank you or fuck you or anything at all. Finally, I murmur, “Rochelle.” A small line appears between her eyebrows. “Pardon?” she says. And it’s so polite the way she says it. Pardon. I could cry. “Rochelle,” I say again. The line between her eyes deepens, and she opens her pretty mouth as if to say more. But before she can answer, Ferret is back with our packs, and we wheel out and away, dodging the sirens, blending into the snow. Katie Williams spends a lot of time thinking about what goes on in the mind of a Vizsla. You can find more of her writing at katiewilliamsbooks.com.
FEATURE
DEPT. OF COMMERCE
ARTS + ENTERTAINMENT
11
HONEST PINT
OLDE MAGOUNʼS SALOON PRESENTS:
Thur 2/4 8PM (Doors at 6PM)
SOUL FOOD Wednesdays 5-11pm February 3rd-24th
PAN FRIED CAT FISH Cornmeal Crust, Spicy Shrimp Remoulade
SMOTHERED PORK CHOPS
Red Eye Gravy, Pork Belly, Pearl Onions
STEWED OXTAILS Local Root Vegetables, Moxie Pan Gravy
CHICKEN & WAFFLES Fried Chicken, Waffles, Rosemary Maple Syrup
COUNTRY STYLE BABY BACK RIBS
Ginger, Garlic Herbs & Spices, Secret Sauce
CHOICE OF 2 W/ ENTRÉE A LA CARTE SIDES - Down Home Potato Salad - Uncle Danny’s Mac & Cheese - Candied Yams w/ Pecans & Pork Candy - Bumpy’s Skillet Cornbread w/ Honey Butter - Braised String Beans w/ Pork Belly & Onions - Collard Greens w/ Smoked Turkey - Black Eyed Peas & Rice
Before placing order, please inform your food server if anyone in your party has a food allergy *consuming raw or undercook meat poultry seafood shellfish & eggs my increase risk of foodborne illness
@MAGOUNSSALOON OLDEMAGOUNSSALOON
518 Medford St. Somerville
magounssaloon.com|617 - 7 76 - 2 6 0 0 12
2.4.16 - 2.11.16
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DIGBOSTON.COM
Medeski Trio
w/ John Medeski, G. Calvin Weston, David Fiuczynski
OLDE MAGOUN’S SALOON Killer Bourbon, Exceptional Craft Beer and Ridiculously Good Food BY JEFF LAWRENCE @29THOUSAND
Fri 2/5 7PM (Doors 5:30PM)
Johnny A Ilana Katz Katz Sat 2/6 8:30PM (Door at 6PM)
Heart Attack Ack Ack Ack Ack Ack
Afterfab (The Beatles Solo Years) + Bikini Whale Mon 2/8 7PM (Door at 6PM)
Johnny D’s Comedy Showcase Pres.:
One Microphone (Stand-Up)
Tue 2/9 8PM (Door at 5:30PM)
Samantha Fish 17 Holland St., Davis Sq. Somerville (617) 776-2004 Directly on T Red Line at Davis
There’s a lot to write about when it comes to craft beer in and around the Boston area. Whether it’s an old standby like the Sunset Grill and Tap in Allston, a relatively new joint like Russell House Tavern in Harvard Square, or Brookline’s legendary the Publick House, the pickings are far and wide. Add to that places like the unlikely Row 34 in Fort Point or the gritty Anchovies in the South End, and the list goes on and on. With this in mind, I’m going to touch on at least one of my favorite places each month this year, whether to revisit or to write about them for the first time, in hopes of turning on new fans and pissing off the regulars. My first shot across the bow is Olde Magoun’s Saloon. Nestled into the neighborhood nook of Magoun Square in Somerville sits one of my all-time favorite bars to steal away the afternoon in while drinking stunning German offerings alongside local and regional pours and gorging on some of the best homemade offerings anywhere. It appears at first glance to be a dark but inviting local pub, but this rather spacious and warm room is anything but a pub. As you enter, a long, beautiful bar lines the left wall, complete with unassuming detail and comfortable but simple bar chairs that pull you right in. Within easy eyesight are almost 30 draught lines covering the obscure like Andechs Dunkel and Badische Pils from Germany to Wormtown Be Hoppy and Downeast Cider. Of course, that’s what’s currently being poured; there are some standards that remain consistent, but as the month and year progresses, owner Greg Coughlin personally picks a dizzying array of his favorites—soon to be yours—so the choices are never static or stale. Set into the wooden frame behind the view of tap lines is a sick selection of over 20 small-batch bourbons to choose from. The range from Buffalo Trace to Speakeasy makes choosing the right one both mind-numbing and simple; in the end, there are no bad choices available. While these are accompanied by other craft spirits and the good old standbys you’d expect, it’s this special selection that you should focus on, and that’s certainly what I did on my last visit. But there was something even more special I had to try, and it should be a testament to Coughlin’s quality and attention: a double irish whiskey aged in house for at least two months in 20-gallon barrels along with Luxardo Abano. It was lacking a proper name still, so I coined it the Olde Bitter and holy shit was it good! Incredibly mellow and smooth, this is an absolute must-try for anyone even remotely curious. Since my visits here tend to be midafternoon, I’m often caught in between the lunch and dinner options I love and usually end up having some of the amazing chicken wings or an equally delicious albeit extremely filling pretzel. But there is no shortage of incredible plates to choose from without being overwhelmed or disappointed. Chef Howard “Howie” Haywood is an unsung genius when it comes to things like the simple but hearty grilled reuben with bacon-infused dressing or the little Havana smoked pulled pork mind-fuck of a sandwich. The mac and cheese menu is out of this world, to be sure, and they’ve picked up some extra buzz from it as of late, but dig a little deeper through the burger menu and signature sandwiches along with weekly specials. Everything listed is tasty, served perfectly, and almost always pairs perfectly with what’s on tap. One final note on the food: I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the Oktoberfest menu in the fall. It is absolutely hands-down not-even-close the best plated knockwurst, bratwurst, kartoffelsalat, and all-around German fare you will have this side of heaven (and Munich). If I could only get him to make it year-round… So back to the top. This place is first and foremost about the careful choices on tap and craftiness found in each cocktail. The food just makes it that much more of a must-visit saloon. The locals may leer a little if you come back too much, but it’s worth making the trip every time, and eventually you’ll get to stare back with a wide-open grin. This should be everyone’s local. >> OLDE MAGOUN’S SALOON. 518 MEDFORD ST., SOMERVILLE. MAGOUNSSALOON.COM
NEWS TO US
FEATURE
DEPT. OF COMMERCE
ARTS + ENTERTAINMENT
T:12.25 in
© 2016 Goose Island Beer Co., Goose IPA®, India Pale Ale, Chicago, IL, Baldwinsville, NY, & Fort Collins, CO | Enjoy responsibly.
T:9.5 in
13
ARTS ENTERTAINMENT
“HE WHO CONTROLS THE PAST CONTROLS THE FUTURE. HE WHO CONTROLS THE PRESENT CONTROLS THE PAST.” - 1984
14
THU 2.4
FRI 2.5
SAT 2.6
SUN 2.7
TUE 2.9
WED 2.10
Taste Talks Presents Start Something Old
Extreme Beer Festival
Wish You Were There @ Distillery Gallery
Super Bowl 50
1984 @ The Brattle
The Game Worlds of Jason Rohrer
Our good friends at Northside Media keep doing cool shit. L Magazine, Brooklyn Magazine, and Northside Festival put them on the map, but Taste Talks brings that flavor (pun alert!) on the road and highlights some of the best creative thinking around. In this case, it’s driven by food but not limited to Mario Batali’s intellect. This shit is way smarter. Check out Jeremy Ogusky (Clay Crocks) and Chef Ana Sortun (Oleana, Sarma, and Sofra) when the show comes to Boston. The epicurean donnybrook is moderated by Sam Hiersteiner (Lucky Peach, First We Feast), so there’s a little slice of pie for everyone. Mount Gay Rum will be serving up complimentary beverages, and there will be samples from Chef Brendan Pelley from Pelekasis. Pro tip: It’s a free event, but you must register first and it will “sell” out, so don’t show up and expect an open seat.
Now in its 13th year, this annual tribute to long lines and small samples has jumped the shark. This will probably be the last year so if you didn’t get a ticket, you will never ever ever have another chance to attend. Unless, of course, you’re willing to show up super early and find one of the many scalpers who prey on any number of suckers with a wad of cash and a dream of trying a double barrel aged vomit in a cup. Sure, there are a lot of amazing beers out there that qualify or describe themselves as extreme… I’m just kidding, there aren’t. Any brewer willing to slap that tag on their Belgian Quad Stout of disgustingness is not worth throwing a nickel at. Yuck. For fuck’s sake, just drink what you like and like what you drink. (The Harpoon Brewery will be open all day and is just down the street, with no lines and a better experience.)
For those that love the trippy spunout joy of the early days of Pink Floyd’s music, Syd Barrett is and was the maestro of those golden sounds. That period was captured in time and space by the meditative trance of the 1975 album Wish You Were Here; the band was never quite the same once Barrett departed. But he always stayed close; as legend has it, while they were recording, Syd himself meandered into the studio, unrecognizable, and watched as they created this seminal homage to his time and person. The Distillery Gallery looks to capture the ephemeral buzz of that album in a collective show that examines time and experience, as it once was, past tense but present. Organized by Jack Schneider and featuring David Armacost, Melanie Bernier, Jason Kalogiros, Middle Kingdom, Okay Mountain and Rhonda Ratray.
“Football is a great deal like life in that it teaches that work, sacrifice, perseverance, competitive drive, selflessness and respect for authority is the price that each and every one of us must pay to achieve any goal that is worthwhile...To achieve success, whatever the job we have, we must pay a price...Success is like anything worthwhile. It has a price. You have to pay the price to win and you have to pay the price to get to the point where success is possible. Most important, you must pay the price to stay there...Once you agree upon the price you and your family must pay for success, it enables you to ignore the minor hurts, the opponent’s pressure, and the temporary failures.” Vince Lombardi
George Orwell was on to something with this totalitarian vision of our future. In this seminal screen adaptation, directed by Michael Radford and featuring Richard Burton, John Hurt, Suzanna Hamilton, and Cyril Cusack, the flawed world of love and redemption collide with a modern society’s need to have the upper hand and almighty seeing eye. Whether you’re a conspiracy kook looking for another reason to justify those black helicopters hovering over your neighborhood or simply looking to step back in time and see the future, this classic flick is a mustrevisit for any film buff or casual cinephile.
Are video games art? Are the creators of video games artists? As Sarah Palin once said, “You betcha!” In the first museum retrospective of its kind, solely dedicated to the art and mind of a single video game creator, the Davis Museum looks into the amazing work of Jason Rohrer. The exhibit features four build-outs that are meant to communicate the experience and internal workings of the creator through large scale observations and relationships. The show runs through June 26 and will include additional lectures and workshops as well as a Game Night on April 21, where attendees can play against Rohrer live.
Wink & Nod. 3 Appleton St., Boston. 8pm/21+/FREE (must register online). eventbrite.com/e/tastetalks-presents-startsomething-old-bostontickets-21065167483
Seaport World Trade Center. 200 Seaport Blvd., Boston. 6pm/21+/SOLD OUT. chooch.com
Distillery Gallery. 516 East 2nd St., South Boston. Opening Reception 7pm/ all ages/FREE. distillerygallery.com
Levi’s Stadium. Santa Clara, CA. 6:25pm/ all ages/expensive as fuck. sfbaysuperbowl.com
The Brattle Theatre. 40 Brattle St., Cambridge. 7pm/all ages/$11. brattlefilm. org/2016/02/09/19842/#tickets
Davis Museum @ Wellesley College. 106 Central St., Wellesley. 3pm/all ages/ FREE. wellesley.edu/ davismuseum/whats-on/ upcoming/node/79126
2.4.16 - 2.11.16
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DIGBOSTON.COM
NEWS TO US
FEATURE
DEPT. OF COMMERCE
ARTS + ENTERTAINMENT
15
MUSIC
WAY MORE PARTIES IN LA Pell ups his rap game after leaving New Orleans
MUSIC
BREAK THE CHAINS
Downtown Boys headline the all-gender, all-genre dance party BY NINA CORCORAN @NINA_CORCORAN If you see something, say something... then dance. That’s the underlying motto of Break the Chains. The all-ages, all-gender radical dance party is famous throughout Boston for bringing nationally touring queer and trans performers to a stage where activism and revolution are on everyone’s minds. This Friday, Downtown Boys headline at Make Shift Boston where it’s joined by multi-instrumentalist Bell’s Roar and the event’s usual house band, Kali Stoddard-Imari and Myriam Ortiz. While most come to have fun, the desire to create change after the lights go off is impossible to miss. Break the Chains is dismantling the system one dance party at a time. It all started a little over a year ago when a co-op house in Jamaica Plain agreed to let Evan Greer—the series’ founder, host, and famous queer riotfolker—flood its rooms with musicians. “Back then, the goal was to create a space for queer people to enjoy live music,” she explains. “There’s lots of queer events in Boston and great queer dance events, but not a lot that have a mixture of live music and DJs for people of all genders to dance together while touring acts play.” All genres really does mean all genres. Greer has booked everything from a singing cellist to hip-hop artists to a Spanish folk singer. “People appreciate the mixture,” she says. “We don’t have to bang our heads to punk music all night or shake our butts to pop music. We can do both.” Greer understands on a whole range of personal levels. She’s a transgender musician who’s been touring for 12 years, supports her family, and is busy raising a 5-year-old child. “I recognize how difficult it is for queer musicians to find good-paying gigs,” she explains. Hence the creation of a dance party for LGBTQ musicians to perform to a great audience—and a dance party for queer patrons to feel welcome beside straight allies. The thing about chains is there’s more than one loop. While Greer has proven her skill at throwing events that welcome LGBTQ crowds, she’s also looking to address other issues of equality that surround us. This month’s Break the Chains event, for instance, is wheelchair accessible—and it makes a point of promoting that. “That first party was not wheelchair accessible, and someone called me out on it, actually,” she recalls. “There’s so many people who get marginalized already in the world and further marginalized within our queer community, so my reaction to that initial experience was to make a commitment that every Break the Chains show—forever, for eternity, until the day it dies—would be wheelchair accessible. A safe space must be safe for queer people, for women-identified people, and calling it a safe space without safely getting people inside is ridiculous.” Ableism often gets forgotten when it comes to events, musical or not, around the world. In that, it’s one of the most marginalized identifiers. We all continually play a role in marginalizing others when we fail to acknowledge and then remember the qualities that are framed as setbacks when they needn’t be. In a lot of ways, that’s what Break the Chains is about. Of course, the goal is to get people to come together to celebrate life, equality, and the opportunity to have fun. Its secret goal, however, is to highlight the ease and importance of activism. “It’s awesome to watch a room full of people who were, moments before, sweating on the dance floor from wiggling, then pause and hold a moment of silence for the latest victim of police violence,” says Greer, “or listening to queer black poets or talking about the Black Lives Matter movement and then going back to dancing.” That’s the issue. We often think of these things as separate, but each month’s concert draws them together effortlessly because the people themselves make it happen. Break the Chains doesn’t just bring the political and the entertaining together. It flaunts how snugly they fit together—and makes you wonder why we haven’t been combining them all along. >> DOWNTOWN BOYS, BELL’S ROAR, KALI STODDARD-IMARI, MYRIAM ORTIZ. FRI 2.5. MAKE SHIFT BOSTON, 549 COLUMBUS AVE., BOSTON. 6PM/ALL AGES/$10-20. FACEBOOK.COM/EVENTS/559856964166063 VISIT DIGBOSTON.COM FOR THE EXTENDED INTERVIEW.
MUSIC EVENTS THU 2.4
SAT 2.6
SUN 2.7
MON 2.8
[Royale, 279 Tremont St., Boston. 7pm/all ages/$35. royaleboston.com]
[Middle East Upstairs, 472 Mass. Ave., Cambridge. 7pm/all ages/$15. mideastoffers.com]
[Club Passim, 47 Palmer St., Cambridge. 3pm/all ages/ FREE. sinclaircambridge. com]
[House of Blues, 15 Lansdowne St., Boston. 7pm/all ages/$35.50. houseofblues.com]
POP PUNK PAST JACK’S MANNEQUIN + LEISURE CRUISE
16
2.4.16 - 2.11.16
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SPIT MASTERS BOSTON BEATBOX BATTLE
DIGBOSTON.COM
PASSIM BENEFIT CD & VINYL SALE HONEYSUCKLE + SUMNER & MOSS
TRAP-PED IN THE CLOSET FETTY WAP + POST MALONE
A year ago, Pell didn’t know how to dance. But now? The Los Angeles-via-New Orleans independent rapper is smoother than Pharrell. “I always wanted to do a video where I did some type of real movement,” he says, referring to his “Almighty Dollar” music video. Naturally, he asked for help. One of R&B singer Kehlani’s backup dancers created the dance and sent it to him via email, but he couldn’t learn the moves. Two days before the shoot, he got a crash course in how to dance and managed to figure it all out. “Some parts that I butchered, I tried to make them my own,” he laughs. “It still kinda worked because I did the majority of what she told me to do. At least I wasn’t doing the stanky legg, because then it could’ve gotten ugly.” All jokes aside, Pell is hard to peel your eyes off of. He began cranking out songs in the south, first in 2012 with his Feel Good Summer EP, then came his smash mixtape Floating While Dreaming in 2014, and finally his proper debut full-length, LIMBO, hit shelves in the fall of 2015. While Pell does shy away from discussing his recent rise in the industry, the path he’s beginning to form speaks for him. After all, what he’s done—tour with a hotshot, gain a cult following, get TV on the Radio’s Dave Sitek to produce his record—speaks volumes. As easy as it is to focus on the cleanliness of his music—the hooks and his singing team up for a sound not too distant from that of the ever-nimble Chance the Rapper—and how that separates him from today’s trap and dark vibe trends, instead hone in on his lyrics. Pell’s meticulous in both his storytelling and his word choice, not just the delivery. “It’s hilarious to me that people appreciate my singing,” he laughs. “People used to tell me not to sing on the tracks, that someone else should be brought on to do it, but I trusted my gut. Sometimes singing goes where rapping can’t. If I can’t articulate myself in melody, I lose a chunk of what makes the music special.” Looking for a place to start? Clean your ears and put on “Vanilla Sky,” “Monday Morning,” or “Fresh Produce.” Pell works his way through a series of wordy verses and universal themes, all of which fall prey to his own talent as a performer. Part of that sound is a direct result of Dave Sitek’s role as producer—a surprising collaboration, albeit a fitting one. In the studio, Sitek taught him two tricks: “He stressed how important it is to trust your gut and, even more than that, to be willing to disrupt what’s already there. If you’re in this creative field not to be creative, what are you in it for? Expand your sound. Go against the grain. People like to hear things a certain way, but you have to remember you’re the artist: You change the way people feel.” Pell incites feeling. One listen to LIMBO gets the pulse up and the feet shaking. So yeah, he’s already got the moves. Wait a few more months and he’ll have the chart-topping numbers to match. >> DOWNTOWN BOYS, BELL’S ROAR, KALI STODDARD-IMARI, MYRIAM ORTIZ. FRI 2.5. MAKE SHIFT BOSTON, 549 COLUMBUS AVE., BOSTON. 6PM/ALL AGES/$10-20. FACEBOOK.COM/EVENTS/559856964166063 VISIT DIGBOSTON.COM FOR THE EXTENDED INTERVIEW.
WED 2.10
HEAVY ROTATION RECORDS 16TH ANNUAL EPIC EVENT HONEYSUCKLE + THE TRAP MUSIC ORCHESTRA + MORE
[The Sinclair, 52 Church St., Cambridge. 7:30pm/all ages/$5-10. sinclaircambridge.com]
WED 2.10
ELECTRO-POP GOODNESS BEACON + NATASHA KMETO
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ARTS + ENTERTAINMENT
17
FILM
ROAD RAGE
On the Coolidge’s program of vehicular horror films BY JAKE MULLIGAN @_JAKEMULLIGAN The hybrid of the road movie and the horror movie finds its purest visual representation in the opening frames of Steven Spielberg’s Duel, where we watch from the windshield’s point of view as a Plymouth Valiant leave its nondescript suburban comfort zone. There’s a series of dissolving shots that bring us along: first pulling out of the garage, then going down a residential side street, then onto a main road in Los Angeles County, then onto Interstate 5, and from there onto Route 14, which takes us right into the desert. It’s there that the Valiant and its easily emasculated passenger (Dennis Weaver) attempt to pass the wrong Peterbilt 281 tanker, provoking the truck’s unseen driver to instigate a to-the-death bout of vehicular combat. The road movie, and its accompanying literary tradition, often depicts the selfdiscovery and inner exploration made possible by travel. These road-horror hybrids, on the other side, pervert that template. They consider the downsides of traveling beyond your garage door. And “murderous drivers” is often the primary one. Spielberg’s 1971 breakout was hardly the first film to set terrors on the highways and byways of our nation—this genre has antecedents in roadside noir films like They Drive by Night, Detour, and The Hitch-Hiker, not to mention other predecessors, which would include multiple episodes of The Twilight Zone. But if the road-horror subgenre has a defining work, then Duel is probably the one. The film, which was based on a Richard Matheson story originally published in Playboy, immediately establishes a number of the mode’s recurring motifs: shrouded, faceless villains (they’re typically either autonomous cars or anonymous sociopaths), milquetoast male protagonists (there are few John Waynes in these movies, only lacking Joes), and an interest in shifting moral codes (those Joes usually end up feeling like sociopaths themselves). Thus Duel’s inclusion in “Highways to Hell”—a five-film program of road-horror movies, all playing the Coolidge Corner Theatre at midnight throughout this month—was only natural. Southbound (screening on 2.12 and 2.13), an anthology film featuring horror shorts with roadside settings, provided the impetus for the program. But Duel is the subgenre’s godfather. Duel—screening in a double feature with Death Valley 2.19 and 2.20—also establishes the genre’s storytelling template: These are tests of physical, mental, and vehicular mettle. Spielberg’s study of masculinity in crisis follows David Mann (the name isn’t subtle, nor are the early scenes of David being dominated by his wife) as he’s rammed off innumerable roadsides by the Peterbilt, whose hulking grill seems to take delight in pushing
its lesser target toward the eponymous deathmatch. Spielberg, who finds his own delight in showing off his keen sense for physical space, makes it into a master class of cinematic perspective. An early sequence, with a quiet exhilaration, allows us to watch from Mann’s point of view as he overtakes the hulking beast—then the truck barrels past him through an alternate lane, which we see only through Mann’s driver’s side window. Each succeeding sequence depends on the fact that Mann can’t see the truck coming, whether it’s parked up ahead or hiding lanes behind. Windows and windshields turn into prison walls. Spielberg takes us out onto the open road and then emphasizes all that remains hidden. There’s the hand of Hitchcock in Duel’s “everyman vs killer” narrative, and through Spielberg there’s also his compartmentalizing eye. As for his face, you can see it in Road Games (screening 2.13), an Australian trucker thriller that showcases the master’s visage by way of a magazine cover. Quid (Stacy Keach) is the Hitchcockian “wrong man” in this scenario, an American driver who has his identity stolen by a serial killer traversing the Australian countryside in a green van. Women are being garrotted from one motel to the next, but director Richard Franklin keeps the tone closer to comedy than to Psycho—the title is no misnomer, given the sense of aesthetic play the film creates. Car chases prove to be one of the chief pleasures of this midnight program, and there may be none to top one where Quid overtakes a piggish Sunday driver hauling a hastily constructed boat. The editing cuts between the involved parts—the boat, its anchor, the chain that connects them—with the sure rhythm of a Buster Keaton gag, and it has a punchline to match. Franklin, like Spielberg, also has fun by keeping us one step ahead of his hero and one step behind his villain: Another standout scene has
Quid searching for the source of pleasured moans being emitted from the nearby woods. The camera follows his gaze, until he believes he has identified his target. Then the frame goes one step further than he does, revealing to us alone that he’s got the wrong man himself. Hitchcock also figures greatly into The Hitcher (which begins the program, with screenings on 2.5 and 2.6), though the connection was most apparent in the film’s making. A Los Angeles Times report on the production of the 1986 feature emphasized how each of the involved filmmakers cited Hitch as their primary influence. That would include the director, Robert Harmon, who made his name with road-horror (The Hitcher was his first film, and he got the job by way of an unreleased short film, “China Lake,” that also fits into the subgenre). His debut rides alongside Jim Halsey (C. Thomas Howell) as he passes through West Texas during a road trip (though this film was shot in the Mojave, for the record, just across from Duel). It’s there that he picks up the eponymous rider (Rutger Hauer), whose distinguished snarl (it’s an entrancing contradiction) quickly details what happened to the last driver who picked him up (“I cut off his legs, and his arms, and his head”). From there the hitcher tortures the boy, sparing his life and very few others, all the while goading him into an eventual showdown (“Duel with a person,” is how one producer described it). That climactic duel, shot to emphasize the infertile landscape and vast space between the two men, tells the story: Hitchcock may be the claimed influence, but Sergio Leone and spaghetti westerns provide The Hitcher with its texture. Like Lee Van Cleef in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, Hauer’s John Ryder has an almost mystical quality—he appears to have the supernatural ability to conjure himself at the edges of any given composition. This seems to be another standard of the subgenre: Here, as in the others, the film directly engages with the fact that we can’t see beyond the frame. And when Ryder does materialize, he does so to play Road Runner to Halsey’s Coyote, pushing him to his breaking point and then speeding off with a laugh. Even when he’s not around, perspective itself proves to be a bogeyman in his absence: The film’s biggest chase scene manages to hide an entire helicopter under a sloping hill, revealing it only as it passes on top of Halsey’s beater car. There’s something out there in the desert, be it an incorruptible demon, a moral self-reckoning, or a careening helicopter, and these men don’t see it coming until it’s much too late.
DUEL
ROAD GAMES
THE HITCHER
>> HIGHWAYS TO HELL. COOLIDGE CORNER THEATRE. 290 HARVARD AVE., BROOKLINE. FRIDAYS AND SATURDAYS AT 11:59PM, FROM 2.5—2.20. ROAD GAMES AND THE HITCHER SHOWN VIA 35MM, DUEL AND DEATH VALLEY VIA 16MM. $11.25 PER SHOWING.
FILM EVENTS FRI 2.5
NARRATED BY TILDA SWINTON DREAMS REWIRED
[Brattle Theatre. 40 Brattle St., Harvard Sq., Cambridge. 5:30, 7:30 and 9:30pm/ NR/$9-11. Plays through 2.7. brattlefilm.org]
18
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‘INNOCENCE ABROAD’ CONTINUES WITH DAVID LEAN’S SUMMERTIME
[Harvard Film Archive. 24 Quincy St., Harvard Sq., Cambridge. 7pm/NR/$7-9. 35mm. hcl.harvard.edu/hfa]
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[Museum of Fine Arts. 465 Huntington Ave., Boston. 2:30pm/NR/$9-11. Also screens on 2.10. 35mm.]
AT THE ICA THE OSCAR-NOMINATED SHORT FILMS 2016: LIVE ACTION
[The Institute of Contemporary Art. 100 Northern Ave., Boston. 2pm/NR/$5-10. Also screens on 2.14 and 2.27.]
MON 2.8
THE DOCYARD PRESENTS KINGDOM OF SHADOWS
[Brattle Theatre. 40 Brattle St., Harvard Sq., Cambridge. 7pm/PG-13/$9-11. brattlefilm.org]
CHANTAL AKERMAN’S FINAL FILM NO HOME MOVIE
[Harvard Film Archive. 24 Quincy St., Harvard Sq., Cambridge. 7pm/NR/$7-9. hcl.harvard.edu/hfa]
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WHAT’S OLD IS NEW AGAIN Branden Jacobs-Jenkins’ An Octoroon arrives in Boston BY CHRISTOPHER EHLERS @_CHRISEHLERS
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Playwright Branden Jacobs-Jenkins has, on more than one occasion, spoken about our societal inability to effectively talk about race. “We were given language and hardly know how to use it,” he told Vogue in 2014. What is it about race that makes us clench up? Is it that we are unequipped to discuss it? Are we afraid of saying the wrong thing? Are we too paralyzed by its daunting scope? None of these, by the way, seem to apply to Jacobs-Jenkins, who has written a trio of radically different, entirely unforgettable plays about race. Boston was first exposed to Jacobs-Jenkins in 2011 when Company One presented Neighbors, a play about a group of minstrel performers that move next door to a mixed-race family. This past fall, SpeakEasy staged Appropriate, a remarkable play about a white family that convenes at the home of their recently deceased patriarch, where they discover that he was a member of the KKK. Now through Feb 27, Company One and ArtsEmerson have banded together to bring us the New England premiere of An Octoroon, a modern retelling of sorts of Dion Boucicault’s late-1800s antebellum melodrama, The Octoroon. Company One has been following Jacobs-Jenkins’ ascent ever since its production of Neighbors, said Company One co-founder Summer L. Williams, who directed Neighbors and is also directing An Octoroon. “We were always like, ‘What are you doing now? What’s happening next?’” said Williams. “I found myself really interested and invested in what was going to happen with this story and how it was going to happen.” Jacobs-Jenkins has employed drastically different techniques to look at race: In Neighbors, he used minstrelsy to shocking effect; with Appropriate, he managed to write a play about race that didn’t have a single black character, while also pulling from the grandfathers of American drama—O’Neill, Williams, Shepard, and Miller, among others. With An Octoroon, he is not only breathing new life into a once widely popular (though now forgotten) play, but he has taken the conventions of theater and turned them upside down. Several parts are played by actors in blackface, redface, and whiteface. A pair of slaves speak in modern 21st-century slang. Occasionally, Br’er Rabbit hops by, “doing Br’er Rabbit things.” Jacobs-Jenkins has indicated in the script, in order of preference, the actors’ ethnicities. In a prologue, a character named BJJ (a “black playwright”) addresses the audience. There is nothing conventional about An Octoroon: It is a melodrama with a heightened sense of reality, which Williams thinks is necessary to allow the audience to “steep in many emotions and thoughts at once.” An Octoroon is a fireball of a play that elicits feelings that are often polar opposites of one another: It is at once chilling, hysterical, disturbing, and entertaining. At one point, the slaves are sold at auction. Minnie, one of the slaves, fetches a higher price than her rival, Grace. “Who ghetto now, bitch!?” says Minnie. The horror of watching human beings being treated like property is eclipsed by a sassy slave speaking in modern slang. It makes us think about why we feel free to laugh at contemporary stereotypes but have clear boundaries around things like blackface. “Branden Jacobs-Jenkins makes you think about history and context and the role you play within that,” said Williams. “I think that’s why a lot of his work is so impactful. We’re laughing and enjoying a particular moment and then we’re just like, ‘Oh, wait a second, why am I laughing at this?’” I asked Williams what she thinks the play says—or asks—about race. “All of the things that you might think, say, ask, revile, and love,” she said. “It’s all very messy.” >> AN OCTOROON. RUNS THROUGH 2.27 AT JACKIE LIEBERGOTT BLACK BOX THEATRE AT EMERSON/PARAMOUNT CENTER, 559 WASHINGTON ST., BOSTON. COMPANYONE.ORG
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SAVAGE LOVE
THE WILBUR THEATRE
WHAT'S FOR BREAKFAST BY PATT KELLEY WHATS4BREAKFAST.COM
BY DAN SAVAGE @FAKEDANSAVAGE | MAIL@SAVAGELOVE.NET A large crowd braved a snowstorm to come out to Savage Love Live at Boston’s Wilbur Theatre last week. Questions were submitted on index cards, which allowed questioners to remain anonymous and forced them to be succinct. I got to as many of them as I could over two long, raucous, boozy hours. Here are some of the questions I didn’t have time for in Boston… I accidentally told my dad about your podcast when teaching him how to use iTunes. I called home a couple of weeks later, and Dad told me he’s been listening and Mom yells, “I’m not gonna pee on you!” It could’ve been worse. Mom could’ve yelled: “We can’t talk right now! I’m peeing on your father!” My husband and I (30s, M/F, two kids) found out our best friends of 20 years were secretly poly. And we didn’t know! Well, we all fucked. Now our relationship/friendship is fucked, too. How do we move on from this mess? People who are poly say they want more love, sex, and joy in their lives—but some poly people seem want more chaos, drama, and hurt in their lives. Unless you know a couple well, or unless you’ve noticed the trail of destruction they’ve left in their wake, there’s just no way to tell what they’re really after until after you’ve slept with them. Anyway, how do you move on? You send a note, you apologize for your part in the chaos, drama, and hurt, and you express a desire to mend the friendship. Hopefully you’ll hear from them. Like most gay men in their early 30s, I enjoy chatting and sending pics of my nether regions via dating apps. My conflict is that I am a public school teacher. While I believe I have a right to a sex life, what if someone I send a pic to disagrees? Do you think I should stop? We need to pick a day for everyone on earth to intentionally release a pic of their nether regions online. It should be an annual holiday—just to get it over with and to prevent moralizing scolds from going after people whose pics go unintentionally astray. But schoolteachers have been fired for sexting. So… whether you stop or not depends on the degree of risk you’re comfortable with and the faith you have in the discretion of the folks you’re meeting on apps. Thanks to everyone who came out to the Wilbur! I had a blast!
THE STRANGERER BY PAT FALCO ILLFALCO.COM
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BOWERY BOSTON
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