→ August 26, 2011
→ By

Arizona eats, August 2011.

I made a side trip to Cave Creek en route back from Anthem on Friday specifically to try Bryan’s Black Mountain BBQ, allegedly the best Q in the Valley … and I have to say I haven’t found anything close to this good in the state. Both the pulled pork and the brisket bore modest smoke rings but were very moist with good smoke flavor, and the crispy edges of the brisket had a strong kick from the dry rub. The pork needed no sauce beyond the thin, slightly spicy, slightly acid sauce it’s served in, which didn’t mask the taste of the meat at all. The brisket did need sauce if only for some salt on the interior portions of the meat; their house sauce is sweet and smoky without any heat, although there’s a hot version available as well. A generous quarter pound of each meat – really, there had to be close to a pound of meat on the plate – plus two sides is $13.25 before tax; the sides were the lone disappointment, as the potato salad was absolutely covered in mayo and the cole slaw had green olives in it that overwhelmed everything else. But I would drive an hour just to get that smoked meat, especially with nothing close to it down our way.

bld in Chandler (Germann & Dobson, just south of the Santan Freeway) stands for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, as they’re open for all three meals. (It’s unrelated to the bld in Los Angeles which I tried in 2008.) My wife and I went at lunchtime but both ordered breakfast, as that menu was much more appealing. Both portions were enormous, more than either of us could finish. I went with the short rib benedict, two halves of an English muffin each topped with a large chunk of braised short rib, a poached egg, and a red wine Hollandaise the color of black raspberry ice cream. The short rib was tender and still bore hints of the braising liquid (red wine-based) but was a little light on seasoning; the poached eggs were perfect, while the hollandaise brought some acidity and brightness to the whole dish, although I couldn’t quite convince myself that something lavender should be savory rather than sweet. The breakfast potatoes on the side were peppery but barely above room temperature. My wife ordered the “green chili pork tostada,” which is really chilaquiles with an enormous portion of braised, shredded pork shoulder, with refried beans, cotija cheese, and fried eggs on top. The pork was tangy, maybe a little too much, and I thought the ratio of meat to everything else was too high, but my wife (who ordered it without the beans) thought it was excellent. bld reminded me of the Hillside Spot, still my favorite place to eat around here, with the advantage of being much closer to the house than the Spot is even if the food isn’t quite as good.

I’ve tried two Vietnamese places in Chandler, Pho Chandler at Arizona Ave and Ocotillo (south of the Santan) and Cyclo on Chandler Blvd east of Dobson (right across from the Valley’s best gelato, Angel Sweet). I ordered roughly the same entree at both places, bún (rice vermicelli) with grilled pork and a fried egg roll, and Pho Chandler was the winner, with more flavorful meats and less fatty pieces as well as more greens underneath the noodles. Pho Chandler also has a pork short ribs appetizer that is a must-order – small pieces of pork still on the bone served in a sweet-spicy sauce with tamarind and Thai basil. The bún at Cyclo included pork and beef, and the beef could not have had less flavor if they’d boiled it without seasoning. One thing I found peculiar at both restaurants was the use of thicker noodles than I’ve had at Vietnamese restaurants elsewhere, mostly in Boston, which changes the texture of the final dish substantially. I’d also give Pho Chandler a nod over Cyclo for friendlier service.

In Scottsdale, I’ve now had lunch at Culinary Dropout, located just across Camelback from Fashion Square Mall, three times when meeting friends in from out of town or who work in the area, and it’s been a home run each time. The orecchiette with short rib meat and butter beans in a tomato sauce is bright and fresh but very filling with a late kick; I’m mildly obsessed with short ribs, by far my favorite cut of cow, and even with all of the other heavier elements in the dish the rib meat remains the clear star, accentuated by the acidity of the tomato sauce. The chicken hash with fried egg and black truffles is a rich and hearty if you’re into mushrooms, but was a little on the light side for lunch. The turkey pastrami on a pretzel roll was good but my least favorite of the three dishes, primarily because the meat is so salty and then comes on a salty roll with good yet also salty hand-cut fries on the side … I love salt and season aggressively when I cook, but this felt like a dish aimed at getting you to order another beer. (I could think of worse outcomes, though.) The place has kind of a funky gastropub look and feel, but the food is strong enough for a business lunch.

Zinburger is owned by the same restaurant group as Culinary Dropout and the eponymous dish there is so good I have now made my own version several times at home. Located across from the Ritz-Carlton in a small mall featuring a Cheesecake Factory – and really, how stupid do you have to be to go eat that garbage with Zinburger about 30-40 meters away? – Zinburger offers DIY burger options, but the version that bears the restaurant’s name is the winner: Zinfandel-braised onions, Manchego cheese, and a thin layer of mayonnaise. I’m not sure how Zinburger does their onions, but my version comes pretty close – I caramelize them in the traditional way, then deglaze the pan with wine and let the onions plump back up a little with the new liquid before serving. They also offer several types of hand-cut fries, including “double truffle fries” and sweet potato, both of which were excellent although I find sweet potato fries a little too sweet. (Sweet potato chips, on the other hand, are awesome.) I regret to inform you that I did not try any of Zinburger’s shakes.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,
→ August 25, 2011
→ By

Inglourious Basterds.

Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds won widespread accolades, including eight Oscar nominations, for its portrayal of an alternate ending to World War II that involves Jews killing Nazis while working in enough allusions to other movies to fill a film studies major’s thesis. As someone insufficiently schooled in the genres Tarantino reveres, however, I didn’t get the full value of the work and found the movie, judged mainly on plot and character, a little less than fulfilling.

The movie interlaces two plots to assassinate members of the Nazi high command in a Paris theater during the premiere of a Nazi propaganda film called Nation’s Pride. The Basterds of the film’s title are a ragtag group of soldiers, mostly American Jews, led by Appalachian-born Lieutenant Aldo Raine, who informs the crew that their mission is to kill “Natsies” (rhymes with “patsies”) and scalp them. The second plot involves the sole survivor of the massacre of a French Jewish family in the opening scene, a young girl named Shoshana who ends up (improbably) as the owner of a small theater in Paris that is chosen for said premiere. Seeing her opportunity for revenge, she hatches a plot to burn down the theater full of Nazi officers and soldiers, unaware that the Basterds are planning to blow the place up during the same event.

By far the star of the movie is Christoph Waltz, who won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor for his performance as Hans “The Jew Hunter” Landa, an effete Nazi “detective” who prides himself on a particular talent for finding Jews and, as it turns out, traitors. Humanizing the inhuman has become something of a cliché, but Tarantino/Waltz don’t humanize this central Nazi character so much as smear him with a veener of normality, beneath which lies a venal, selfish soldier who takes orders without question until it is in his own personal interests to do otherwise. He bears a superficial charm with his upper-class manners, speaks several languages fluently (always with a proper, urbane accent), and moves seamlessly from one to the next, and engages in small talk even though he knows he is about to commit or order a murder. It takes multiple scenes to reveal the depths of his personality and how that surface layer is merely a cover for a man who will make good for himself any way he can. His pleasure in identifying a situation where he holds all the cards (the “Bingo!” scene) shows how willingly he will change his strategy to suit his own needs while also revealing how much he revels in something as trivial as correctly utilizing an English-American colloquialism. One small flaw in Landa’s design, however, is that we are given only the slightest glimpse of what makes him a good detective, and that comes from his own soliloquy about how he thinks as the fugitive might think – nothing terribly clever or enlightening.

The film’s best scene doesn’t involve Waltz, however, and only resorts to Tarantino’s cartoonish violence at its very end, once the story within the scene has played out. Three of the Basterds are meeting with a German actress/double agent in the basement* of a tavern in a small town outside of Paris, but their rendezvous is compromised by a group of low-ranked German soldiers getting plastered because one just became a father, which leads to the intrusion of a much higher-ranking officer who eavesdropped on the conversation and believes, based on one of the Basterds’ accents when speaking German, that they are frauds. We know it’s not likely to end well, and that any chance of the Basterds’ escape would mean extermination of everyone else in the room, but instead of racing to the obvious conclusion, Tarantino draws it out with natural dialogue, long pauses, and shots of the most volatile of the three Basterds slowly coming to a boil as the conversation with the German officer drags on. It’s tightly shot with no wasted words or unnecessary delays, leaving you as the frog in the pot of cold water as someone gradually turns up the heat.

*Which leads to Brad Pitt’s character warning about fighting in basements. Pretty clever, Q.

Unfortunately, a few minutes later, Tarantino draws out the worst scene in the film to excruciating result, trying to extract comedy from the blindingly obvious as Lt. Raine and two of his Basterds attempt to infiltrate the theater in the guise of Eye-talians, with comically bad accents to match. You know they have no shot to pass any inspection, but where drawing out the scene in the tavern created tension, drawing out the scene in the theater lobby made me want to reach for the fast-forward button.

I’ve also read some criticism of the film for turning its Jewish heroes into sadistic killers along the lines of the Nazis they’re fighting. It’s an interesting point, one I raise here (even though it is not my own – it didn’t really occur to me as I watched the film) for discussion purposes. My immediate reaction to the argument is that the film is so obviously fantasy that the heroes’ bloodlust is merely a physical manifestation of the deep desire for revenge that would be difficult, if not impossible, to display without having the characters channel it into outright violence.

Overall, however, there’s a restraint here I don’t associate with Tarantino, and in this case I think it detracted from the movie as a whole. Of course, there’s no restraint from violence – we see scalpings, stabbings, shootings, and even a strangulation up close – but the story itself is small despite the seemingly grand ambitions of the plot. The commercials for the film indicated a grossly comic romp of daring American misfit soldiers wreaking havoc behind enemy lines, killing Nazis in a glossy revenge fantasy that mixes highbrow dialogue with lowbrow humor and graphic violence. Inglourious Basterds is nothing of the sort, which made it much less funny than I expected while leaving most of the revenge for a single extended scene at the end of the film. It’s an homage to spaghetti westerns and World War II films with references to art films and even fine arts, nearly all of which went right over my head. If you follow the allusions, it is probably a far more enjoyable film. As a devourer of plot and a philistine in all of the fields to which Tarantino alludes, however, I was disappointed and even a little confused.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , ,
→ August 24, 2011
→ By

Up in the Air.

The more I thought about Up in the Air after watching it, the more I realized what a terrible movie it is. It was pleasant enough for the first two-thirds or so, mostly because the three principal actors are all excellent in their roles, but one insanely stupid plot twist just exposed how many other holes there were in the script to that point.

George Clooney – who seems to be morphing into Cary Grant as he ages – plays Ryan Bingham, a consultant who flies around the country and fires (or, really, lays off) employees whose bosses are too cowardly to do it themselves. He’s also a straight-up mileage whore who has set a life goal of becoming the seventh flier ever to reach ten million mileages in American Airlines’ AAdvantage program. (The film doubles as an extended infomercial for American, Hilton Hotels, and Hertz.) And Ryan moonlights as a hired motivational speaker, praising a life of independence from both physical possessions and interpersonal relationships. Then, of course, he meets the perfect woman and has to change his entire philosophy, all while toting around an overconfident and highly naïve 23-year-old Cornell grad (love the stereotyping of the Ivy Leaguers – remember, kids, it’s bad to be smart!) while they teach each other Big Important Lessons about life and love and psychology.

Clooney, Anna Kendrick (as the Cornell grad, Natalie), and Vera Farmiga (as Ms. Perfect) are all superb, extremely convincing even when their roles turn out to be paper-thin (Kendrick’s) or internally contradictory (the other two). There’s an effortless chemistry between Clooney and Farmiga that makes his transition from one-night-stand to budding romance not just believable but almost invisible – before you know it, he’s falling for her, even though we’re missing a bunch of steps in the story. You might watch the film just to see these three actors, all nominated for Academy Awards for their performances, do their thing, but I think you’ll want to punch the screen before it’s over.

And the reasons are many. One is that we never learn why Ryan is so afraid of commitments. He came from small-town Wisconsin, but this isn’t the budding urbanite in search of culture beyond his homogenous, provincial upbringing. His sisters are his only family, and he’s mostly abandoned them until one of them gets married, but there’s no obvious reason why – both characters, in bit parts, are sweet and care for him even though they don’t seem to have much in common. Another is that Natalie ends up something of a prop for Ryan to play off rather than a fully-developed character in her own right – she changes as the plot needs her to change.

(This movie was, on some level, ruined for me beforehand by Will Leitch. Will’s become my go-to movie reviewer for after I’ve seen a film, because I find his observations are often so spot-on that they influence my interpretation of the movie. He nailed Up in the Air, especially on the glaring inconsistencies in the script, although I think he went easy on the plot twist, which I’ll get to in a moment. But you’ll notice I’m saying a lot of the things he said, and I’m sure that’s not an accident: He set me up. So now I read him after I’ve seen a movie and want an expert’s opinion, using Roger Ebert as my go-to guy before I choose to see a film.)

That plot twist – big spoiler alert here – is a killer, though. Alex (Farmiga, who by the way looks like what I expected Claire Forlani to look like at this age) is Ryan’s female analogue, another road warrior looking for NSA sex in high-end Hiltons but not much more than that, until the two start meeting up a little more often and then spend more quality time together at a conference, where he asks her to be his date for his sister’s wedding, to which she agrees without much debate. There they have the classic Hollywood falling-in-love weekend, and you might think they’re headed for happily ever after … until he surprises her at her house in Chicago, only to discover she has a husband and two kids, after which she berates him as if it’s his fault that she hid this significant life detail. (“I’m a grown-up.” No, sister, you’re a raging narcissist, and possibly a sociopath as well.) Alex is two completely different characters that have virtually no crossover, and the idea of this independent, too-perfect paramour also being a loving mom who also is willing to abandon her kids for a romantic weekend with the guy with whom she says she only wants casual sex is such a farce that it blew up the whole movie and made me realize how badly I’d been bamboozled by everything that had come before it.

I will give Up in the Air credit for one thing, however: Someone involved in writing the story at least grasped the world of frequent flyer/guest point accumulation. Ryan is absurd in that regard, and his underlying motivation is murky, but the absurdity of the portrayal is the source of its humor. Either you’ve been a heavy traveler and understand using every trick possible to max out your points, or you know someone who has. I’ve never traveled as much as Ryan has – I’ve never been above the first level of “elite” status on any airline – but I do it enough to make me a mileage junkie, with affiliated credit cards and one eye always on promotions that might boost my miles or bump me up in status. That nod to people who fly as part of their jobs was a cute touch – but it added virtually nothing to the strange, unfinished plot about Ryan Bingham’s life choices, and when Sam Elliott makes his Coen-esque cameo as the pilot on the flight where Ryan reaches the ten million mile threshold, it’s like we’ve been airlifted into a separate film entirely. The worthwhile parts of Up in the Air could have been aired on a flight from Chicago to Milwaukee, but I like to get a little farther off the ground than that.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: ,
→ August 24, 2011
→ By

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks.

I mentioned this on Twitter earlier, but The Wire: The Complete Series on DVD is just $73 today on amazon through that link. Disclaimer: I don’t own it, because I’m buying episodes to watch on my iPad (which will cost me more in the long run, actually).

—

Rebecca Skloot’s The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks (currently just $8 in paperback on amazon) is, by far, the best nonfiction book I’ve read since The Ballad of the Whiskey Robber, weaving together a scientific breakthrough, a personal tragedy, and Skloot’s own difficult effort in gathering the information required to write the book into a single compelling narrative that succeeds despite the lack of a definitive resolution or even clear “good” and “bad” sides to the central conflict.

Henrietta Lacks was a poor African-American woman who died very young of cervical cancer in 1951, after receiving radiation treatments at Johns Hopkins that started too late to save her very aggressive form of the disease. A researcher at the school had been trying for some time to grow a long-lasting culture of human cells without success, but the sample he took from Lacks’ cancer turned out to be, as the book’s title implies, immortal, launching a scientific revolution that is partially responsible for many medical miracles we take for granted today – and a commercial revolution from the sale of these “HeLa” cells that has paid her descendents a grand total of zero dollars.

In 1951, there were no laws on medical privacy nor were there laws or even good guidelines on informing patients about what might happen to tissues or fluids collected from them during treatment; a doctor or hospital could use extra samples for research and the patient wouldn’t even know about it, let alone require compensation. A lengthy medical case decided in 1990, Moore v. Regents of the University of California, would later establish that the patient has no right to financial remuneration from such usage (unless, of course, he established those rights in advance, such as by patenting any unique genes*), but in Lacks’ era there were no such rules, nor even understanding that these biological samples could have substantial financial value. (The researcher in the Moore case, David Golde, comes off as particularly sleazy in Skloot’s retelling. He took his own life in 2004.)

*This part resonated a little more strongly with me, as my daughter and I do share a unique mutation that causes an inborn error of metabolism called 3MCC, in which the third step in the breakdown of the essential amino acid leucine produces the “wrong” waste product. (The disease isn’t unique, but our mutation had not been seen before. We’re special like that.) I’m largely asymptomatic beyond an inability to build muscle mass, but my daughter has been hospitalized once for a metabolic crisis and has now been a vegetarian for almost three years to avoid excessive protein intake. I’m still trying to get an answer from Children’s Hospital in Boston on their policies in this area.

What’s worse in this case, however, is that Lacks’ family – widower, siblings, and children – were completely unaware that her tissues had been taken, were being used in research, or had generated millions of dollars in value for others. The family, still poor, still mostly uneducated, and without health insurance, learned about HeLa in the 1970s, and it created a mixture of emotions ranging from fear to anger to wonder (including whether their mother could “feel” what was being done to these cells) that opens up windows on to racial inequalities, , medical ethics debates, and the conflict between public good and privacy rights.

Skloot herself worked on this book for nearly a decade, largely because the Lacks family, scarred by past media attention and con artists looking to latch on to their plight, resisted her efforts to interview them for the book. She eventually forged a strong friendship with Henrietta’s daughter Deborah, a fascinating woman whose emotional growth was probably stunted by losing her mother at such a young age yet who abounds with manic energy that drives her (and Skloot) forward on the research path. Deborah never seems to think of the compensation question, but simply wants to learn about her mother and about what has happened to her cells, perhaps to create a connection that was denied to her when her mother died.

The Lacks family gives the book the narrative structure it needs – the rise of HeLa cells from their origins to a major scientific breakthrough would make for a nice pamphlet, but doesn’t have the drama to drive a work of narrative non-fiction. Following the Lacks family’s struggles from losing Henrietta, from media coverage of the HeLa cells, and from their outrage at how their mother’s cells were used without consent, compensation, or even the correct name (she was often referred to as “Helen Lane” in medical journals), makes the book so powerful. The book requires no knowledge of science beyond a high school biology class, as Skloot provides sufficient explanation of cell structure and replication for anyone to follow along, and her presentation of the ethical issues involved is extremely balanced and surprisingly dispassionate for someone who became very close to the human subjects of her research. As easy as it is to react to the Lacks saga by arguing that her family should at least have been paid after the fact, Skloot points out through her story that it’s not even clear who would pay her (the oncologist who harvested the cells didn’t profit personally from them), and that many of the leaps made through the use of HeLa cells for testing, like Jonas Salk’s polio vaccine, relied in no small part on the easy availability of these cells. It’s as complicated as any good story should be, informative, emotionally involving without resorting to sentimentality, and gives you enough of both sides to make you angry and make you question your own outrage as you read.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , ,
→ August 23, 2011
→ By

Inception.

Inception is Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind meets Ocean’s Eleven with a few sequences directed by Michael Bay – in other words, a heist movie that involves sneaking into someone else’s dreams, but with lots of guns and blowing shit up. The first two parts are clever and pretty tightly done, but the movie’s gradual devolution as the heist progresses, combined with a hero/antihero protagonist, cut off the film’s upside for me.

Dom Cobb, played by Leonardo DiCaprio, is an expert “extractor,” a mercenary spy who can infiltrate the dreams of other people and extract critical information. Cobb and his partner in crime, Arthur (an impressive turn by Joseph Gordon-Levitt) employ a dream-within-a-dream trick as their specialty but fail to extract information from Saito, a Japanese executive who then hires them for the biggest job of their careers – an “inception,” or planting a new idea in the target’s mind rather than extracting an existing one. Cobb returns to his father-in-law, who originally trained him in the field, to hire a new dream architect, (Ellen Page, largely wasted as a prop whose “architect” skills come up once in the final heist), and then travels to Kenya to add a chemist (Dileep Rao) who prepares the powerful sedatives used to put the target to sleep, also allowing for a crazy and somewhat pointless chase scene. When the team is assembled and begins attempting to extract the information, however, they encounter two problems: The target has been trained to fight potential extraction, and Cobb himself isn’t fully capable of leading the mission.

Neither my wife nor I found the plot confusing – everything’s pretty clearly explained, but never at such length that you want to go get a cup of coffee till they finish – but the very short cuts in the final third of the movie are incredibly distracting, and a horrible choice of colors made the final battle within the target’s mind impossible to watch. For some reason, that final dream level takes place in what looks like a military facility in a tundra, and everyone – team members and the armed “defenders” who are projections of the target’s subconscous – is dressed in white, usually with hats or hoods up. Other than Ellen Page, whose long hair identified her, everyone else looked alike.

Other decisions with the visual and sound effects brought far more benefits to the finished product. When the characters are falling in the first dream level, they lose gravity in the second, meaning Arthur first must fight the defenders in zero-G conditions (I cannot imagine how much fun that was for Levitt to film) and then concoct a solution to wake his comrades up without the benefit of an in-dream “kick” (usually a fall). The team also uses music to signal an imminent kick within the multiple layers of the dream, and the use of ever slower music the deeper the dream-level helped build tension while also clarifying the varying speeds of time within each dream.

The film seems to skirt the major problem with its central character – that is, that Cobb is no hero, but actually a selfish ass. He takes his team into a high-risk venture where the main reward is primarily his and the risk to the remaining team members is terrifying. He doesn’t inform his team that he’s having a technical problem that has a significant negative impact on their chances of success. Even within the mission, his personal motivation to reach the goal causes him to stay on course even when the risk of failure is increasing. We have to root for Cobb to succeed because he has two young kids at home who have lost their mother and have no immediate hope of seeing their father, but that alone can’t whitewash the fact that he’s put four other people at great risk to achieve his own personal ends.

Of course, the main question about Inception is how to interpret the ending – once again, spoiler alert – although my wife and I both found it fairly unambiguous; her remark after the film was that she was “waiting for the big twist” that never came. The director, Christopher Nolan, has refused to clarify the ending, stating instead that the important part is not whether the final scene represents reality or a constructed dream, but that Cobb has chosen this scenario as his reality, to leave his fugitive life behind and “return” to his children. He’s also pointed out that parents who see the movie are far more likely to accept the concluding scene as reality than non-parents because of our deep desire to see Cobb and his children reunited, which is undoubtedly true. However, we both felt that the only hint of ambiguity in that final scene was the fact that the camera goes black as Cobb’s totem wobbles but before it falls – and unless you want to argue that it’s a dream where Cobb has altered physics but didn’t show it to us until that very point, I don’t see how the totem wobbles without eventually falling. (I admit it was a visually arresting shot, however.) Had Nolan wanted to make it truly ambiguous, he could have ended the film before the kids turned to see Cobb, which would have made it consistent with his other dream-states in the film. Nolan took care of some superficial stuff to try to create confusion, like keeping the kids in similar clothes (although in different shoes), but somewhere along the line, there was a decision to give the ending a little bit of Hollywoodization so the audience at least gets the cathartic moment of Cobb and his kids reunited, but for us that airbrushing pushed the ending past any question of whether it was real.

I’m shifting my standards slightly here, however, to the detriment of Inception; by the standards of mainstream Hollywood films, Inception was intelligent and thoughtful, well-acted, and sharp-looking. But if you remove the frippery of rampant gunfire and chases and the sentimental ending, there’s a smarter movie underneath that had an action film grafted on to it – a successful commercial decision that kept the film from reaching its full artistic potential.

If you like the concept of entering another’s dreams or thoughts, check out the film I mentioned in the first paragraph, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, one of the two or three best movies I’ve ever seen, where two ex-lovers attempt to forget each other by having their memories of their relationships professionally erased – until one changes his mind during the procedure.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , ,
→ August 22, 2011
→ By

Puerto Rico HD app.

Puerto Rico was, for several years, the top-rated game on Boardgamegeek, and I’d argue it still deserves the top spot, as it’s just two-hundredths of a point behind a more obscure game, Twilight Struggle, that has only one-third as many votes. (That is, there’s something of a self-selection bias here: People who don’t like long, complex games like Twilight Struggle won’t try it, and won’t put low ratings on it, whereas Puerto Rico is popular enough that far more players have tried and rated it.) I’ve recommended a very good if unauthorized online version of Puerto Rico called Tropic Euro, but about two weeks ago the first official Puerto Rico app (currently on sale for $7.99) was released for the iPad, and after some weird non-recurring issues the first time I played, it’s been stable and fairly easy to play.

The gist of Puerto Rico, if you haven’t played the board game, is that you are trying to settle a new island by filling it with plantations, producing crops, and using the proceeds to build up your island, while also accumulating points from shipping crops back to the mainland. In a round, each player chooses one role to play and earns a particular benefit from it; any unused role earns extra money for the player who is next to select it. Roles allow players to add plantations or buildings, occupy them with colonists (they’re useless until occupied – but this is why one friend of ours calls Puerto Rico “the slave game”), sell goods, or ship goods. The rule that states that players must ship all available goods during the shipping phase despite limited space on the cargo ships, with unshipped goods discarded entirely, is the key differentiator in the game – timing shipping is critical, and you can really boost yourself and/or screw an opponent by picking the shipper role at the right moment. The game involves almost no luck or randomness – it’s all player selections.

The app itself squeezing everything into a pretty brisk game, and the screen layout has improved since the earliest screenshots were released; it’s not intuitive, but after a game or two it’s pretty easy to figure out what you need to do. Descriptions of buildings are easily available with one click, and the app offers a hint feature that I’ve found gives solid advice, although it’s a little too skewed toward the Prospector role (one free coin but no action). The music and story animations are cute but I had to turn them off after the first game because they slowed everything down. You can control AI and animation speeds to keep things moving along.

The big negative is the screen itself; Puerto Rico’s mechanics are simple, but the game’s pieces and setup are complex, and there’s just a lot of stuff on the screen. Your island and plantations are in a column, stacked next to all of the other players’ islands, even though your icon and score are on the opposite side of the screen. You can’t tap on a building to identify it, but have to tap the question mark in the lower right and drag it across the screen to drop it on a building to get its name. The use of lit windows/doors in buildings to indicate when they’re occupied by a colonist is clever, but those lights are a few pixels tall and therefore it’s not immediately obvious whether a building is occupied. (Plantations are much clearer – they get a tiny icon if they’re unoccupied, but the square fills up once it is.)

One other minor negative is that the AIs are fairly easy to beat through a shipping strategy, primarily because (like most AIs) they’re not reactive. (Carcassonne is one of the few apps with an AI that clearly seems to be out to get you – and I consider that a good thing). I try to avoid the shipping strategy most of the time I play the Puerto Rico app because it’s a bigger challenge to try to win through development, and using multiple AI opponents with different strategies mixes things up to the point where I’m often forced to change plans even though the AI players aren’t specifically trying to block me. On the plus side, I’ve never caught any of the better AI options doing anything stupid or suboptimal. But they’re not enough alone to keep me playing for long – I’ll either use the multiplayer feature or I will end up backburnering the app behind ones that offer stronger single-player experiences, like Carcassonne or Samurai.

If you like the board game and expect to utilize the Game Center multiplayer options, I’d recommend the Puerto Rico app. It would also serve as a good introduction to the game for anyone who’s never played the board game version before, since that’s just over $30 and requires a minimum of three players. I’m just not sure this will have staying power for me beyond multiplayer because the AI players just aren’t strong enough, even though I’m nowhere near an advanced player.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , ,
→ August 21, 2011
→ By

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part Two.

I’m mixed on the final installment in the Harry Potter film series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part Two. On the one hand, it was pretty true to the book, including a number of key sequences, plot points, and quotes, without feeling terribly rushed about it. On the other hand, it doesn’t stand well on its own – it is very clearly the second half of a film, not a complete film in its own right – and the pacing that worked fine on the printed page proved very uneven on the screen.

Harry has to jump through specific hoops to get to the final, climactic battle with Voldemort, and J.K. Rowling made sure to get several of his friends in on the action in that melee, although for some reason Ginny was barely present in this half of the movie. Some of those hoops don’t translate terribly well to the screen, or just lacked the necessary contest of the books, but the film jumps back and forth between action scenes and Harry’s more cerebral quests, creating pacing issues but also keeping the film from becoming incomprehensible to anyone unfamiliar with the story. (That is, those are the good guys, those are the bad guys, they’re fighting. Everyone can grasp that much.) The battle sequences often seemed cut off by the need to get Harry back on screen, though, meaning it didn’t have the same intensity as part one, which remains the best of the eight films if we view these two parts separately.

The staccato cuts also mean that none of the actors beyond Daniel Radcliffe (Harry) gets to stretch out much, meaning we get more mugging and less acting from some outstanding performers. Helena Bonham-Carter looks certifiable as Bellatrix Lestrange but is largely left making faces at everyone, while Alan Rickman – as central to the success of the films as anyone outside of the three main characters – might end up hoping for a Judi Dench exemption if he wanted a Best Supporting actor nomination. I wrote in my review of part one that Rupert Grint and Emma Watson had shown substantial growth as actors, but here they’re reduced to bit players, and the development of their relationship earns little screen time and scarcely any explanation.

The movie looks amazing, both in scenery and in special effects, with the initial attack by the Death Eaters on Hogwarts the effects highlight of the series. (That scene was preceded by a necessary yet too-short return for Dame Maggie Smith as Professor McGonagall.) Rowling has always been one of my favorite authors for the depth of her descriptions, and the films have lived up to the prose in sights and sounds, including some of the more difficult settings like the goblin bank Gringott’s.

But that Gringott’s scene encapsulates why I found this second half somewhat unsatisfying. It looked the part. Everyone involved in the scene did his or her job. But there was so much time spent on setup and so little on the climax of the scene that even though you saw them escape (and do quite a bit of damage along the way), the escape doesn’t stick with you as much as the setup does. I can tell you how it looked, and the tension of the scene before the betrayal, but what happened after that didn’t have the same power.

I mentioned half-jokingly the possibility of Alan Rickman getting an Oscar nomination for his role as Severus Snape, one of the meatiest roles outside of the big three across the series. The films themselves were not Oscar-worthy, but knowing the Academy’s penchant for honoring successful series as they close, I did wonder if they’d throw one nomination at someone in the film just to acknowledge the series’ existence. (That is, something beyond a technical award or an award for costumes or design.) Rickman would be my choice, since Daniel Radcliffe would have a difficult time cracking the competitive Best Actor field. Helena Bonham-Carter was convincingly crazy, but she’s barely in the movie and her part was too thin to be award material. Then again, they nominate so many films for Best Picture that perhaps the academy will shoehorn Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part Two into that category as they did with Toy Story 3: we hope you feel like it’s an honor to be nominated, because we have no intention of actually giving you the award.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , , ,
→ August 19, 2011
→ By

Long Beach, Manhattan Beach, & San Diego eats.

MB Post in Manhattan Beach is set in a former post office and, despite a trying-way-too-hard hipster vibe, the food is excellent. It’s a tapas bar in practice, although they use the tired “little plates” euphemism, bringing together Spanish, American, and southeast Asian influences; every dish we ordered was enough for two to share but would have been stretched for three, except for the Brussels sprouts (with hazelnuts and Emmentaler) which was roughly a week’s supply. The first winner was the warm pretzel with hot horseradish-mustard, a sinus-clearing (that’s good) dipping sauce that probably should be served at every decent burger joint in the country. The confit pork belly with Swiss chard and corn agnolotti, one of the nightly specials, was soft enough to spread on toast and very generous with the chard, although I found the agnolotti almost dessert-sweet. The menu includes a number of vegetable dishes that highlight the star ingredient (as opposed to just satisfying the demand for vegetarian options), like the marinated cucumbers with peppadew peppers and crunchy roasted and fried chickpeas and the aforementioned Brussels sprouts – and the giant “fee fi fo fum fries” are stellar, brown and salty and not greasy with a mayo-based dipping sauce. The menu changes daily, though, so the vietnamese caramel pork or the yellowtail sashimi with yuzu may not be there if you head over. It’s one of the best and most fun upscale meals I’ve had in a while.

Over in Long Beach, I tried the tiny, family-run (I presume) Korean place Sura, sparsely furnished but featuring the dish I was after, bibimbap. (They also have short ribs and bulgogi, which are the only other authentic Korean dishes I really know.) The bibimbap was good by my ignorant standards, with fresh ingredients and the egg brought tableside for me to crack directly into the hot bowl. Service was a little weird – the meal came with four small plates of “sides,” mostly pickled and/or fermented vegetables, which I tried, but since I hadn’t cleared them my server said, “oh, you haven’t even touched them.” I guess I missed the pre-meal contract obligating me to clean every plate. But I’d go again for the food.

Moving on to San Diego … I finally got to Neighborhood, which many of you recommended last year when I was taking the family there while I covered a Padres series. I love their philosophy, but wasn’t sold on the execution. The Local Animal sandwich is a good microcosm of the problem – what’s not to like about two kinds of pork (sausage and braised pork, presumably shoulder), caramelized onions, and gruyere on a crusty roll? Well, the fact that it’s not a sandwich, for one, but has the remaining ingredients, including a mustard/molasses glaze, sitting on top of bread that can’t be picked up or closed. And the piling of flavors just left the whole thing muddled, sweet and slightly tangy but with the pork, which should be the star of the show, left somewhere in the second or third row. The fries, which come with garlic mayo (they claim to have no ketchup on the premises), were extremely hot and so greasy that a package of Viagra wouldn’t have helped them. Neighborhood does have an outstanding beer selection; I went with the Alesmith Speedway Stout, which at 12% had its intended effect rather quickly.

I also met up with a couple of readers for lunch at the Burger Lounge location in Hillcrest on University. It’s a solid-average burger, made from high-quality local beef (their site claims it’s all from one farm where cows are grass-fed and are “well treated”), but without many choices for toppings (just two cheeses, white cheddar, which I don’t like, and American, which is just nauseous). The fries were solid-average as well, crispier a garlic-herb mixture sprinkled on top. And they have ketchup. I do actually like ketchup on my fries, crazy American that I am.

I can still vouch for breakfast at The Mission in North Park – rosemary bread, rosemary potatoes, perfectly cooked eggs, and a great atmosphere – but a return visit to the downtown Cafe 222 after many years was disappointing – their pumpkin pie waffle was just a mushy mess and tasted of stale spices, not pumpkin or pumpkin pie.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,
→ August 18, 2011
→ By

Half of a Yellow Sun.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s haunting second novel, Half of a Yellow Sun, winner of the Orange Prize for Fiction in 2007, tells the story of five people, two couples and the young houseboy who works for one of the men, in Nigeria during the 1960s, a time period when the country’s ethnic divisions led them into civil war, famine, and genocide, a cycle of events that keeps repeating itself on that continent right up to the present-day threat of famine in Somalia. The novel’s tragedies are both large and small, but Adichie weaves her narrative threads cleanly and creates tension and uncertainty even though the disastrous results of the war are a matter of record.

Adichie, born seven years after the war ended, lost both of her grandfathers in that conflict, known as the Nigerian-Biafran war after the Igbo state that tried to secede from Nigeria, but her grandmothers survived it and were primary resources for Adichie, who seems to have put an enormous amount of research into the novel. (She even provides a page-long list of nonfiction books about Nigeria’s history up to and through the Biafran conflict.) The British, who created and even named Nigeria by uniting disparate ethnic groups under a single colonial authority, come in for quite a bit of blame for creating the powder keg that made ethnic conflict inevitable between the minority Igbo, who held positions of political and commercial authority before the war, and the majority Hausa, who resented the Igbo’s status and come off in the book as the African equivalent of the Germans under Hitler.

The brilliance of Half of a Yellow Sun lies in its constant focus on the individual characters; Adichie never steps back to give long-winded explanations of the political situation in Nigeria, instead informing the reader through the characters’ experiences. Each of the five central characters, all of whom are Igbo, gets his or her own plot line, although all five are interconnected, including two fraternal twin sisters, their lovers (one a revolutionary professor, the other an English expat), and the houseboy, Ugwu. All five begin the novel in comfort and relative wealth in the western part o Nigeria, then flee to the new Igbo state of Biafra, where the war and blockade drive the people into increasing levels of poverty and degradation, culminating in the food shortage that led the Biafran government to surrender and accept reabsorption into Nigeria. During the crisis, there are romantic betrayals, losses of friends, a schism between the sisters, forced conscriptions, corruption, and worse, enough to fill an 800-page Russian novel, and similarly rich with metaphors for the larger conflict.

Of those five characters, two share starring roles: Olanna, the beautiful sister who falls for the revolutionary professor Odeniwgo; and Ugwu, Odenigwo’s houseboy. Ugwu goes from poverty to luxury and back to poverty over the course of the book and gives us a perspective on the war largely untainted by historical ethnic hatreds while also providing an outlet for Adichie to demonstrate the war’s effect on the youngest generation (and to provide us with some sliver of hope for Nigeria’s future). Olanna’s reluctance to marry and her role in the betrayals within both relationships test her patience and force her to examine the depth of her love for Odenigwo and for her fraternal twin sister, the “ugly” Kainene. Olanna is victimized, then victimizes another character, but is she fully responsible for her actions or merely paying the pain forward?

Adichie’s choice to structure the novel in four parts, alternating between the prewar period and the period of the war itself, also creates some artificial tension by withholding key plot points until the jump back to the earlier time in section three. But there’s also value in the structure because of the way she reveals some causes of the ethnic conflict, then shows some of the conflict, and returns to the causes before completing the story. Everything that happens within Half of a Yellow Sun has a cause, and often someone to blame along with it, with the British and the Hausa earning their fair shares. The author has even commented on how she believes many of the fundamental causes of the war still exist today; despite Nigeria’s massive natural resources, nearly half the population lives below the poverty line, and ethnic divisions continue to foment conflict in the southeastern part of the country. One of the five characters is no longer present as the book concludes, a metaphor for the unhealing wound left on the country by the war and by the pernicious effects of British arrogance and racism.

I’m a big fan of postcolonial literature in general, and particularly liked Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart and its sequel No Longer at Ease, both of which explore the effects of British colonial rule on Nigerians but do so in slimmer works with less intricate plots. Adichie’s great achievement here is exploring that same theme while giving us multiple compelling characters across rich plot lines while presenting the stark realities of the darkest moment in this artificial country’s brief history. From a literary/critical perspective, it’s the best novel I’ve read this year.

Next up: I’m a bit behind on my writeups, but I have already finished the phenomenal nonfiction book The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks (currently half off at amazon) and have moved on to Empires of Food: Feast, Famine, and the Rise and Fall of Civilizations.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , ,
→ August 14, 2011
→ By

Exit Through the Gift Shop.

I’m nobody’s idea of an art expert, or even an art fan, but I was mostly enthralled by the documentary Exit Through the Gift Shop, even before I was fully aware of the controversy over whether the film is real or an elaborate hoax perpetrated by the guerrilla street artist Banksy, who appears in the film.

Taken at face value, the film covers French expatriate Thierry Guetta, a father of three and owner of a vintage clothing store in L.A. who happens to be related to French street artist Invader, whose specialty is mosaic pieces depicting icons from the game Space Invaders. Thierry films street artists obsessively, accumulating thousands of hours of footage of interviews and of artists creating and deploying their work (as well as many more hours of his everyday life, including footage of his wife and kids at various ages). Thierry’s obsession turns into a documentary project, but when his attempt to make a film turns out to be unwatchable, Banksy – who appears in Thierry’s life after the Frenchman has tried and failed to reach him many times – takes over the task of creating the film, leaving Thierry free to become a (mediocre) street artist in his own right. The film’s climax centers on Thierry’s quixotic effort to mount a giant exhibition in L.A. despite his lack of any real body of work or reputation, relying instead on the powers of promotion to create a buzz where none should exist.

That final third of the film is entertaining and provides it with structure and even a little narrative greed, but it was far less interesting to me than the first two thirds, which focused on various street artists (Shepard Fairey and Banksy in particular) and on the rise of the movement in general. It also hints at the debate over whether such “graffiti” is art, defacement, or something in between. As someone almost fully unfamiliar with the movement other than knowing who Banksy is and having seen Fairey’s “OBEY” images, I found the film enlightening despite no apparent educational aim.

The real question, of course, is whether the film is a hoax or not. Roger Ebert believes it isn’t, and an ongoing lawsuit over Guetta’s use of a copyrighted image of Run-DMC is tangible evidence in that direction. Guetta’s art installation did occur, and if it was all an elaborate stunt, it hoodwinked the local media along the way.

Circumstantial evidence that the film is all a prank abounds, however. The apparent lack of any means of supporting his family while Guetta jets around the world filming street artists and the patience of his wife for his ridiculous efforts both strained credibility: she’s either a saint or a moron. My wife would have divorced me after a tenth of what Debora Guetta tolerated. The various comments at the end of the film and the descriptions in the epilogue all seemed tongue-in-cheek, as if the joke is on us (despite the art dealer’s apparent reluctance to say so). There’s also the question of who actually created the art shown in Thierry’s show, as he’s never shown doing anything more than wielding a can of spray paint, and doing so without the confidence or clarity of purpose that other street artists in the film show. Could Banksy and Fairey have produced all of this derivative art to parody themselves and the street art scene’s devolution into a critically acclaimed and commercially successful medium? Of course they could have … but if so, why have they still not revealed that it was all a put-on?

Exit Through the Gift Shop is available for rental on amazon through that link or for instant streaming on Netflix. It’s worth watching just for the superficial primer on late 1990s/early 2000s street art, one which made me want to learn more about the movement, but the mystery of whether this cartoonish Frenchman really did subvert the movement he claimed to admire gives the viewer a different lens through which to watch the film.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , ,