Girl Detective

#89 in my book challenge for the year was Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood. It would be easy to review the book in a word: wow. As regular readers might know, though, I am not prone to under-writing. Alias Grace was recommended to me years ago by a trusted friend, and has sat accusingly on my bookshelf since. I found its size daunting, which made it all the more ironic when I read the first hundred pages, stopped to read another book for a deadline, then picked up Alias Grace again, and re-read those hundred pages again just because I could, because I wanted to, because they were that good. I flew through the rest of the book, so rapt with the story that I gave scant attention to the awe-inspiring mastery of Atwood’s prose.

What amused and sometimes discouraged me most read was how Atwood brazenly flouted conventional wisdom on how to write a novel. Phrases from writing instructors echoed in my head: don’t switch verb tense; don’t vary point of view; be wary of flashbacks and dreams. Atwood did all these and more. She is writing proof that rules are meant to be broken by those who can, and a novel need not be experimental and weird to break the rules. Alias Grace is a tremendous story written with astonishing skill, with Atwood’s trademark ambiguities that give so much credit to the reader for interpretation.

A few years ago my husband G. Grod and I subscribed for two seasons to the most well-known local theater. We saw some good shows, but two seasons was enough for me. In the end, all the plays seemed the same; the creative director had homogenized them to the point of blandness. This put me off theater for quite some time. Recently, though, I was seized with an urge for Shakespeare. With a baby due in less than three months, I will not soon have three hour chunks of time to do with as I wish. I was lucky in that I could choose between an all-male production of Measure for Measure at the aforementioned theater, or an all-female production of The Tempest at Theatre Unbound. The latter seemed an obvious choice.

The program for the production noted something else obvious, though it hadn’t occurred to me. Even though theater no longer insists that all its players be male, the number of roles for women is still quite small. Staging an all-female production gives more women the opportunity to play more Shakespeare.

The room was small, and the staging consisted only of a small number of props and some versatile drapes. This was a wise choice, as it let the audience focus on both the play itself and its gender-bending production. It was also a brave one, since The Tempest is a play with so many supernatural elements that it would be easy to justify an extravagant staging.

As with many productions some performances were forgettable, while others were striking. Caliban was played with such ferocious intensity that s/he was painful to watch, while Ariel was played with such humor and physical grace that s/he drew all eyes when on stage. The performance that most made me think, though, was that of Prospero. The actor was skilled, but her manly suit could not mask a motherly mien. To have the meddling father of Prospero embodied in a mother’s physique made me realize that the meddling is creepy no matter which parent is doing it.

Another upside to seeing The Tempest is that it is a short play. It is not one that is usually edited, so that when you see the production you are usually seeing the entire text enacted. I re-read the play for the performance, which was #88 in my book challenge for the year. A good and learned friend recommended the individual Arden editions to me years ago; they have since been my volumes of choice. My husband G. Grod prefers his Penguin omnibus, but I like one play at a time, even with scads of footnotes to a page, even when those footnotes are politely vague:

Act IV, Scene I, line 236. Now is the jerkin under the line…Malone records a suggestion that the jest is less decent than any of these conjectures.

My favorite line from the play has never been a famous one. It is spoken by the drunk:

I am not Stephano, but a cramp. (Act V, Scene I, line 286)

It was a particularly apt one, since the next morning my uterus decided to express outrage over who knows what, and began a series of painful but ultimately non-harmful cramps that landed me in the hospital on monitors for five hours. I’ve been resting and hydrating since, and all cramps have abated. Like the characters in The Tempest, I seem to have weathered this particular storm.

I feel as if I should come up with a standard disclaimer for when I haven’t posted in while. Kind readers, please know I don’t take you for granted. The last few weeks have been filled with pregnancy-related rest (I’m fine and Swimmy’s fine; we just need to rest) and crafting my very first query letter so I can finally send out the manuscript for my novel.

Stunning insight of yesterday: the more pregnant I get, the more rest I need.

Stunning insight of today: the more I rest, the less I get done.

But I continue to read, write, and watch movies and TV. I continue to challenge my brain into activity. Remember, the law of inertia concerns bodies, not minds.

Good Music; Bad Fashion At the urging of a local music critic, I went to see Mary Gauthier and Eliza Gilkyson at the Cedar Cultural Center last month. I’d heard both of them on The Current, but had not listened to either of them in depth. My friend Queenie and I left the kids with the husbands and had a moms night out. I’d forgotten what a civilized venue the Cedar is. It’s open seating, but we arrived within half an hour of the show and still had great seats near the stage. (My strategy for movie seating worked well–buck traffic and go to the sides. Everyone goes up the center.) It was strange being 37 at a concert and still among the younger members of the audience. I saw my future as a middle-aged Minnesotan. It was politically liberal, earnest, and having a good time, but not particularly well-dressed.

Two of the worst glamour don’ts were on the stage, though. Gauthier had on a pair of nice, well-fitting leather pants but her floral jacket had a large skull and Native American headdress on the back. Gilkyson, in her fifties, nonetheless has the arms to be able to go sleeveless without shame, but her tank was over a floaty skirt that was over a pair of tie-dyed pants. Fortunately, both women could sing and play guitar so well that their dubious fashion choices were not distracting for long.

Both had arresting voices, moving songs, and great guitar skills. Each also was accompanied by a different talented guy on guitar. The crowd kept to their seats except to demand encores of both performers. I’m abashed that a small quiet show is now the kind I enjoy, but it was so nice just to sit and listen to some really good singer/songwriter/musicians.