March of the Penguins, The Pain and the Itch
Rather than just patronize local restaurants and relax, this weekend we actually took advantage of a bit more urban culture…
- March of the Penguins. Friday night we sauntered over to the Music Box to enjoy the twinkly star lights, live organist, and (most importantly from Liz’s perspective) watch this movie that was completely filled with penguins big and small, sleek and fuzzy. Fascinating stuff, both in how the filmmakers braved a year in Antarctica to obtain such amazing up-close footage and, especially, in the arduous lifecycle of these birds. That penguins survive into the next generation at all is quite astounding…good thing human procreation doesn’t require four-month fasts while standing in frigid blizzard conditions with a meager few hours of light per day! A small part of me wondered what was gained by having this film on the big screen rather than on PBS or DVD, but I suppose I feel better handing over $18.50 to support projects like this–which have the potential to raise awareness–than in support of the latest crappy Hollywood spectacular cash-maker.
- The Pain and the Itch. Saturday we went down a few stops–feeling slightly overdressed in comparison with the late-afternoon Red Line crowd–had dinner at Vinci and then took in this play at the Steppenwolf Theater. Black comedy is an apt description of this one, the dialogue is most definitely funny but the situations lead to the sorts of laughs done in lieu of cringing or crying. The story elements, and particularly the overserious psychobabble of the young parents at the center, certainly provoke some thoughts about the fine line that often stands between earnest attempts at being progressive in domestic social interactions (like child rearing and dealing with the help) and simply replacing one type of dysfunctional family dynamic with another–especially when people aren’t honest with themselves. As to be expected from Steppenwolf, the performances were very good as was the set design, complete with a backyard porch and falling snow. Perhaps best though was the writing: the dialogue was natural and witty, while the plot elements came out in small, well-timed nuggets that whacked the story along at key points and never resorted to surprises to neatly explain away something; I can recall only three major out-of-left-field items: one came with plenty of time left for it to be properly explained, another late in the second half served mainly to draw a new connection among the characters, and the final one at the end served to put a tragicomic exclamation on the play.