1739dig

FILM

THE MEND

JOHN MAGARY’S ASTONISHING FEATURE-FILM DEBUT

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FICTION

NEXT YEAR’S SHOW

BY MARY SWITALSKI

CHOICE THEATER

NEWS

FALL BACK,

PROTESTS AHEAD OCTOBER IS FOR ACTIVISM

MY SO-CA LLED LIFE & W ICKED PLA CREATOR YWRIGHT W

INNIE HOLZ

RETURNS T MAN O THE STAGE

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VOL 17 + ISSUE 39

SEPTEMBER 30, 2015 - OCTOBER 7, 2015

EDITOR Dan McCarthy NEWS, FEATURES + MEDIA FARM EDITOR Chris Faraone ASSOCIATE MUSIC EDITOR Nina Corcoran ASSOCIATE FILM EDITOR Jake Mulligan CONTRIBUTORS Nate Boroyan, Mitchell Dewar Christopher Ehlers, Renan Fontes, Bill Hayduke, Emily Hopkins, Micaela Kimball, Dave Wedge INTERNS Oliver Bok

DESIGN CREATIVE DIRECTOR Tak Toyoshima DESIGNER Brittany Grabowski COMICS Tim Chamberlain Brian Connolly Pat Falco Patt Kelley INTERN Chesley Chapman

ADVERTISING ACCOUNT EXECUTIVES Jesse Weiss FOR ADVERTISING INFORMATION sales@digpublishing.com

BUSINESS PUBLISHER Jeff Lawrence ASSOCIATE PUBLISHER Marc Shepard OPERATIONS MANAGER John Loftus ADVISOR Joseph B. Darby III DigBoston, 242 East Berkeley St. 5th Floor Boston, MA 02118 Fax 617.849.5990 Phone 617.426.8942 digboston.com

ON THE COVER This week we celebrate the return to the stage of Winnie Holzman for her production of Choice at the Huhtington Theatre.

Read all about it on page 20.

©2015 DIGBOSTON IS PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY DIG PUBLISHING LLC. NO PART OF THIS PUBLICATION CAN BE REPRODUCED WITHOUT WRITTEN CONSENT. DIG PUBLISHING LLC CANNOT BE HELD LIABLE FOR ANY TYPOGRAPHICAL ERRORS. ONE COPY OF DIGBOSTON IS AVAILABLE FREE TO MASSACHUSETTS RESIDENTS AND VISITORS EACH WEEK. ANYONE REMOVING PAPERS IN BULK WILL BE PROSECUTED ON THEFT CHARGES TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW.

DEAR READER This is the end.

For me, anyway. This is my last issue at the helm of DigBoston, everyone’s favorite (and only) weekly alternative media outlet in the Hub, filled as much with a legacy of rabble-rousing as with a brash history of editorial turnover in these turbulent times.

When news came down the pike a little over a week ago that the company was restructuring and I was being let go, all manner of plausible reactions naturally come to mind. Fierce opposition to the bench ruling by the gods. Wild wailing and the gnashing of teeth. Or, just lighting the house on fire and walking away in slow motion. I’m happy to report none of that came to pass.

Which is good. Not only because DigBoston ditched the office back in March and has been assembling the paper remotely (so I’d be homeless as well as unemployed had I carried through with that last one), but because going through one’s working life with some semblance of grace under pressure and confidence without ego is as good a guiding compass as any. Helps minimize temporary lapses in judgement. And, as HL Mencken once noted: “A man who has throttled a bad impulse has at least some consolation in his agonies, but a man who has throttled a good one is in a bad way indeed.”

It’s with that in mind that I depart from the good ship Dig knowing that my two year tenure here has left the paper in better standing than when I was handed it, with numerous high-water marks. Among them: our booming contrarian voice from the get-go within the schadenfreude chorus rallying against a Boston Olympics; our aggressive anti-pot-prohibition writings; revamped local dining, music, and film coverage; and a series of high-profile national scoops, including the time we exposed mass surveillance activities affecting everyone from Boston Calling attendees to the average person getting a ticket from BTD. Not bad for one short lifetime.

Thus, I shuffle on, head held high, with lessons learned, friends made, and an avoidance of all saccharine sentiment and the piling up of moist tissues, soggy with the tears of the newest member of the “Laid Off From DigBoston Club.”

I’ll still accept all beer-related charity offers, though.

So long.

DAN MCCARTHY - EDITOR, DIGBOSTON

OH, CRUEL WORLD Dear “Author” Self-publishing a shitty e-novel that is full of regrettable errors does not make you an author. In order for that to happen, you need to shop around your idea for years, kiss the asses of innumerable agents, get one of them to represent you, have the agent get you a pathetic advance, spend the measly money long before you finish, more or less lose interest, finally finish, get completely screwed by your publisher’s lack of any marketing whatsoever, then sell a couple dozen books after all of that. Only then, my friend, will you really be an author.

ILLUSTRATION BY CHESLEY CHAPMAN

EDITORIAL

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NEWS US

FALL BACK, PROTESTS AHEAD NEWS TO US

October is for activism

BY DIG STAFF @DIGBOSTON

We would say it is that time of year again, but when it comes to people in Boston hollering because they don’t like how municipal gatekeepers are operating, the “movement” is perpetual. Last time we compiled a compendium of upcoming protest activity, our sources foreshadowed the bulk of demonstrations that were to follow for months. It didn’t take Nostradamus to predict that lefties from around the Hub would stick their picket signs inside the spokes and dreams of Boston 2024’s embarrassingly desperate try cycle, but in speaking with our friends on the front lines again, we asked where all of that Olympic energy is now being displaced …

THE ART OF CLASS WAR

About that never-ending battle over wage and wealth disparity … the Service Employees International Union (SEIU) Massachusetts State Council—kind of like the Voltron amalgam of the union’s various Bay State labor forces—is fighting via Raise Up Massachusetts to push a popularly nicknamed “millionaire’s tax” that would “create an additional tax of four percentage points (above the current roughly 5 percent) on annual income above one million dollars.”

Before you fill your SUV with bags of cash and flee the Commonwealth for New Hampshire, consider that even after signatures are gathered in the current round of qualification, it’s a long road to amending the state constitution, which such a tax adjustment would require.

Also consider that this is a sensible move; as per language in the petition: “new revenue generated by this tax could only be spent on quality public education, affordable public colleges and universities, and for repair and maintenance of roads, bridges, and public transportation.”

That’s not all … advocates for a $15 an hour minimum 4

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wage are expected to descend on the State House en masse on October 13 for a day of testimony and action.

Between Raise Up and related coalitions like Wage Action and the growing Fight for $15 front, throngs of people nationwide have built up gobs of bold momentum, which around here has meant uniting worker and religious groups, many of which have deemed the gradual hike up to an $11 hourly wage, approved last year by state lawmakers, to be painfully inadequate.

COLD FRONT

There are few topics in Boston that are more uncomfortable than homelessness. Especially as the weather cools, and especially since politicians at the state and city levels put in major efforts to get people into shelters. Nevertheless, those efforts aren’t always enough, and despite the work of volunteers and bureaucrats and selfless caseworkers, this city still lacks beds and critical services. On that note, and since they aren’t heard from as much as they should be, here’s a word from the Boston Homeless Solidarity Committee, which is having a One Year Late Day of Remembrance and Action on October 8 (starting at Boston City Hall, followed by a march to Beacon Hill) …

We are coming up on a year since Mayor Walsh and the Boston Public Health Commission condemned the bridge leading to Long Island, hastily shuttering the city’s largest homeless shelter and several vital stabilization and recovery programs for those seeking treatment for addiction. Since then, little has been done in the way of meaningful action from the city of Boston to remedy the harm they caused in closing the Island in such a haphazard [manner]. A new men‘s shelter

was erected on Southampton Street, but still does not meet the demand. Woods Mullen has been transitioned into a female-only shelter, and also does not meet the demand for beds and [its] conditions are less than adequate. We are in the midst of an opioid epidemic, which has been deemed a State of Emergency in [Mass] since March of 2014, yet the City of Boston and [the state] haven’t replaced vital treatment programs that had been sited on the Island.

TIME FOR SOME ACTION

It’s important for impacted parties to be heard on issues like brutality, and to stand out in the street if necessary calling for accountability. In that theater, Boston will undoubtedly see direct actions in the next few months, especially as any number of student groups foment interest in the cause throughout the fall semester. In addition to demonstrations, however, is a legislative thrust screaming from multiple angles, many of which reflect approaches to dealing with police brutality that could bring needed changes soon. For a complete rundown of related bills pending on Beacon Hill, check masspolicereform.com. While you’re at it, stay tuned there for details on a day of action coming soon, as there is a lot to rally behind …

There are bills pending that would provide legitimate checks in the event that undue force is used or there is an officer-involved death. One act, sponsored

by House Rep. Evandro Carvalho of Boston, would establish special prosecutorial jurisdiction for the state attorney general in such sensitive cases—a FALL BACK continued on pg. 6

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FALL BACK continued from pg. 4 critical function in a place like Boston, where the Suffolk County DA has proven that he is essentially unwilling to prosecute cops—while another bill

by Senator Pat Jehlen of Somerville and House Rep. Mary Keefe of Worcester would “develop uniform protocols directing state police, municipal police departments and all other law enforcement agencies in the commonwealth to collect data concerning their officers’ and employees’ use of force.”

A bill sponsored by Rep. Byron Rushing of Boston also focuses on data, in this case as its collection applies to the “fair treatment of drivers” at traffic stops.

Under Rushing’s rule, drivers would be given the following information after being pulled over: “the reason for the stop; the date, time, and duration of the encounter; the street address or approximate location of the encounter; and the name and badge number of the officer initiating the stop.” As a kicker, “the receipt shall also include information about how to register commendations or complaints regarding the encounter.”

House Rep. Denise Provost of Somerville wants police to seek approval from their town or city’s governing officials before procuring everything from drones to bayonets. As of now, departments can stock up on all their tanks, rifles, and newfangled sound canon technology without informing residents or pols.

All that, plus proposals for police to wear body cameras, for state cops to publish their “guidelines pertaining to the use of deadly force,” and for a police officer licensing process through which rogue cops can be held accountable.

Because in Massachusetts, where the average resident can get their driver’s license yanked statewide for running too many red lights, there are still no socalled Model Minimum State Standards for police ethics and conduct. Go figure.

BLUNT TRUTH

FREEDOM RALLY FREER And now we shall prepare for the legalization ahead

Walking through the maze of friends and vendors and all specimens from planet cannabis at the 26th Annual MassCann Boston Freedom Rally this past weekend, regular Blunt Truth columnist Mike “Cann” Crawford turned to me and noted the spectacular smorgasbords of kaleidoscopic glassware lining table after table around Boston Common.

“Five years ago,” Mike said, “the police would have taken all of that away.”

It’s like I had forgotten. That despite my being there five years ago, and even 10 years ago for that matter. For too long, I was one of the many reporters who put in the requisite call to the Boston Police Department following said annual festivities, asking about how many heads were arrested. In the 2000s, there were plenty of times when that number climbed past 50, and as recently as two years ago, the police presence was enough to dent the experience.

I’m not writing this to thank the cops. While I acknowledge their superb behavior this past weekend on the Common, it’s more important to thank all the supporters and activists who have pushed the movement to this point.

Without the smokers, tokers, patients, and advocates, there wouldn’t be a twoday celebration every year … or decriminalization, or medical marijuana, or dispensaries, or caregivers.

So as we move into spring and march further down the path toward legalization—and this will be a battle, you can count on that—let’s remember those who fought before us. They got us this far, and we owe it to them to finish the job properly.

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PHOTO BY CHRIS FARAONE

BY CHRIS FARAONE @FARA1

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MEDIA FARM

PUBLICK PRAISE

SPJ names Boston “Birthplace of American Journalism”

BY MEDIA FARM @MEDIAFARM Here’s a superlative and honor that is not up for debate: Boston is the Birthplace of American Journalism. If there ever was any question about where the craft started, the Society of Professional Journalists effectively put doubts to bed last week with a presentation downtown. The Dig was proud to be there for the ceremony, in which SPJ members declared this whole metropolis a Historic Site in Journalism. It’s the first time the society has ever given an entire city the honor; typically, they only salute one site at a time. Like us, Mayor Marty Walsh was flattered by the gesture, and even said that he may hang the plaque inside the entrance of City Hall. Until then, here are some of the milestones mentioned (as they are embossed in bronze). Boston is where: -five of the first seven newspapers in North America were published, starting with Publick Occurrences on September 25, 1690; -a woman first edited a major American daily newspaper (The Christian Science Monitor, 1908), and a woman first edited a magazine (Ladies’ Magazine, 1827); -the country’s most important abolitionist newspaper was headquartered (The Liberator, 1831) and the first African-American female journalist worked.

APPARENT HORIZON

BLUE BOSTON

A North-South Rail Link Won’t Do Any Good Underwater When I heard that two former Massachusetts governors — Michael Dukakis and Bill Weld — are both pushing for a North-South Rail Link between North Station and South Station in downtown Boston, my first reaction was, “I guess they didn’t get my memo.”

The “memo” in question was my March 7, 2014 Open Media Boston editorial, in which I criticized a proposed “remediation strategy” by various local think tanks and officials in response to the negative effects of global warming over the next few decades. Said strategy largely involves ignoring the magnitude of the existential crisis facing Boston (and the planet), and sort of squirreling around its edges rather than tackling it head on while there’s still time to do so.

One of my key points was that even level-headed climate scientists are predicting a significant amount of sea level rise by 2100. Couple that with Boston getting slammed by ever more frequent “super storms,” and the net result of these linked disasters makes it a virtual certainty that Boston’s floodplain — which includes much of our present downtown area — will be reclaimed occasionally, and eventually permanently, by the Atlantic Ocean.

Funny thing about tunnels like the proposed North-South Rail Link, and about our famously sketchy Big Dig tunnels … they don’t work if they’re flooded. Much like New York’s subway system didn’t work after Hurricane Sandy.

So proposing any major infrastructure projects — let alone a rail tunnel — on a known floodplain in the age of global warming is a laughably bad idea. Especially when Boston has no real plan to slow the inevitable flooding of low-lying areas.

And stopping the flooding is probably beyond our current technology, or any technology we are likely to develop in the coming decades.

But slowing the effects of rising oceans long enough to move key Boston infrastructure to higher ground by pursuing a “strategic retreat” strategy is possible (using tactics like our own version of Holland’s famous dike system).

Unless global warming’s other negative impacts render our region uninhabitable within the lifetime of the current generation of children. In which case all bets will be off for our fair city anyway.

Assuming we don’t end up facing one of the absolute worst case scenarios, the best course of action that Boston regional planners and politicians can take going forward is to start strategic retreat projects immediately, avoid building anything significant near the harbor, and gradually develop the hills around the city as the new Boston. Starting with transportation hubs on that higher ground.

That’s where the big money needs to go. To the projects that will help our city survive. Not to the rail link should have been built decades ago.

Apparent Horizon is the first column syndicated by the Boston Institute for Nonprofit Journalism. Check out the full version of this column at binjonline.org.

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COPYRIGHT 2015 JASON PRAMAS. LICENSED FOR USE BY THE BOSTON INSTITUTE FOR NONPROFIT JOURNALISM AND MEDIA OUTLETS IN ITS NETWORK.

BY JASON PRAMAS @BINJNETWORK

FICTION

NEXT YEAR’S

SHOW

BY MARY SWITALSKI

“ALL ACCESS? THEY’RE GIVING

those out to the weeklies?” Dickey checks my passes. He wears a nail through his septum and he pulls it out when we amp up for the late shows. Half an hour until doors; bar-backs are slicing limes; roadies are gaff-taping cords to the stage.

“Friend of the band tonight. No, the paper’s sending in some lad for the review. When he shows, shake him down a little. The piece ought to be mine.”

The greenroom is lousy with people. I spot Katy. She runs over, throws her arms around my neck and sizes me up. We haven’t seen each other since last year’s tour. She’s been in Portland with Belle Ripley, the bassist, and I don’t get out to the West Coast much anymore. She’s thinner, the lines around her eyes, deeper.

“Devilish Darwin, real as rain,” a line from a song she made up a long time ago. “No, no, don’t scowl,” she says.

“Let’s get a drink in you.”

She grabs a couple of bottles and walks me around, the annual routine, reintroducing me to the band. James, lead vocals and guitar, giving an interview to some kid with a blog. Bob, percussion, fresh from a shower, smearing gel into his black-dyed hair.

Belle Ripley walks in, crosses the room in clear, deep tones. You wonder how so angular a woman can move like fluid. She winds her arms around Katy and sucks on her neck till their knees bend together.

“Glad you could make it, Dar,” she says.

Belle Ripley slaps bass like a storm hits the plains. She thrills Katy like almost no one thrills anybody—you can see it whenever they touch, even after all these years.

“Let’s head out to the bus” Belle winks, and we follow.

She leads us out the front door. There’s a line stretching the block; they recognize her, run up to snap photos. Katy codes the bus door and reaches back for her woman. It takes both of us to pull her in.

Bumleg Dog charted during the big grunge die-off, right around the time I started writing for the paper. They had two top-forty, blues-rock hits that still get airplay, but they built their base through a decade of touring.

Their last studio album dropped two years back and they released a live album in the fall. Both went gold, rare cases in the digital age.

And they’re riding a new bus. Single-barrel bourbon, top-shelf vodka and Johnny Walker line a sink full of ice and brown bottles. Everything shines but the buckskin upholstery. Eric, the keyboardist, is kicked back watching PBS on a plasma screen.

“Mammoth, isn’t it? Twelve berths,” Katy says as we walk the aisle. We’re not even using them all. There’s the band and me — that’s five. Mayalee and Stones are on this year – that’s seven. James’s wife went ahead to Atlantic City with the flu. That leaves four open, though half are full of baggage. So, Dar, if you feel like getting out of town...”

“I have a deadline tomorrow afternoon.”

“Write the review from a hotel room,” Belle says, muffled, bent half into a berth. She finds her black wristbands, Katy slaps her ass and we keep walking back.

“I’m not reviewing the Dog show. I have a fucking restaurant piece due. Sonofabitch Lowell, he hired a new kid and he’s giving him some reviews. He gave him this show.”

“We were looking forward to another ode to the virtuous bass work of the incomparably sexy Belle Ripley,” Katy says, popping the caps off three cold ones, dropping one in front of me and crawling up against Belle with the other two.

“Right. And this kid Vikas, if he sees me in there, he’ll probably shadow me. Pretend he’s not here. I know I will.”

But there is no deadline, no restaurant review. I’ve got nothing lately. I plan to write my own piece on Bumleg Dog anyway, prove to Lowell that it was my story, that Vikas is just the blogger du jour.

“Ever done a vaporizer?” Belle asks. She hands me a sort of blown-glass vagina packed with green and connected by tubing to a glass mouthpiece. “We got this shit on the Alaskan cruise from a very happy fan.”

“This tour’s been insane,” Katy says, rubbing Belle’s thigh, the tattoo on her arm – a B and K back-to-back, ornamented – flexing like a butterfly. “You used to get a joint thrown on stage now and then, or some little memento. Now with these cruise packages and signings, it’s anything. Yesterday, a guy bought a t-shirt and handed me a Tootsie Roll of opium. Saying no isn’t exactly an option at that point. I just take what’s handed me and toss it later.”

“Or pass it along to Stones,” Belle says. “Man, you should have seen New Orleans, spring of ’97.”

“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear about your bayou whores,” Katy says and kisses her cheek.

The bud smells like skunk piss on a pecan pie. Belle fits the weed-packed vagina onto the hot glass probe. I suck; it doesn’t feel like I’m getting anything, but I exhale a genie.

My blood hums. Now the night’s a soul jam.

Click, pop, the bathroom door opens. Out steps a tipsy, twiggy chick in a white denim mini, leather boots laced to the knee. Was she in there the whole time?

“Who’s the boy?” she squeaks.

“My friend Dar. A journalist.” Katy introduces Cherise, a “friend” of Eric.

“Your friend, too, I hope. You can never have too many.” She bends and kisses each of my cheeks, applesized breasts brushing against me. She needs an opinion.

“Should I go with boots, or these,” she asks, swinging heels from a strap across her finger.

“Boots,” Belle answers, pie-eyed and grinning.

“No seats in there,” I agree. “You’ll be on your feet all night, and they’re just as sexy as the spikes.”

“Thank you, baby. See y’all inside,” she says, and slides up the aisle to Eric who scoops her up onto his back and carries her out.

We follow, re-entering the club through the stage door and up the stairs to the balcony. Music I don’t recognize is playing on the PA and a crowd is amassing. I see Vikas below. He looks up, sees me, closes in.

Vikas is in his office clothes, minus tie. I grab him a beer in the greenroom and now he’s in my hip pocket, begging me to show him to the band. But he finds his balls at the bottom of the bottle and goes off with his digital recorder and his steno pad. He pulls a folding chair over to interview the piano man, completely ignoring Cherise who’s straddling Eric, massaging each of his fingers to the tip.

And Katy hangs on Belle, watching her while I watch them both. There are fans backstage who either paid for VIP passes or won them, and not one is a day under thirty-five. A guy with a tic pats James on the back like they’ve been through some kind of program together.

A six-foot tall woman with another half-foot in height of blue-black hair blows air kisses to Katy and Belle, yammers about the Alaskan cruise. She promises she’ll see them again in New York.

“A woman in every port?” I kid Katy.

“She might think so. They get a false sense of intimacy.”

The opener goes on. There’s the heart-call of the bass drum. The VIP’s are leaving. Mayalee starts singing scales, Bob’s twirling sticks and stomping. Stones stubs out a pinner. Katy tells me it’s time for the band’s pre-show meet-up, then leads me, Vikas, Cherise and Big Hair to the balcony over stage left and shuts the door.

“What do you see when you look out there?” Vikas asks.

Men in faded concert tees and men straight from the office, collars open, sleeves rolled up. Bare-shouldered women, tattooed, sun-freckled from the long summer.

“Whole lotta white people.”

“It’s an older crowd than I’ve been covering.”

“Closer to my age than yours, champ.” No wonder it feels, for the first time in a long time, like I’m not crashing the party.

People look up at us, envying our vantage. Guys ogle Cherise and Big-Hair. They notice the attention and start sucking face for the cheers. Cherise pulls away and waves to the crowd below. Everyone needs an audience some time.

“How exactly are you involved with Bumleg Dog?” Vikas asks, pen poised.

“Belle Ripley’s partner, Katy, is an old friend. We dated in college.”

“And after you she gave up on men?” he laughs.

“Grow up, Vikas. She didn’t wake up one day and say, ‘Gee, I sure hate fucking you.’ A lot’s changed in ten – hell, twenty – years. Why are you writing this down?”

“Relax, guy. I ask questions. It’s my job, remember?”

“Your job is reporting on music. My relationship with Katy is irrelevant.”

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NEXT YEAR’S SHOW continued from pg. 11 “Belle Ripley is one hot dyke; they both are.” I give him the hard stare. “Hey, I said relax. I’m cool – my sister is gay. So anyway, when did Katy come to be Belle’s fulltime groupie?”

“She’s a lawyer, dipshit. They met at a bar. Now can we just watch this show?”

“I’m not reviewing the opener. I mean, it’s bad enough…” He pulls back.

“Wait. You don’t even want this piece?”

“It’s a byline. Of course I want it. This just isn’t my scene or my sound. I hate this arena-wannabe shit.”

“So what’s your scene, Vikas? What’s your sound?”

“Basement bars, seated clubs. Experiment, nuance, classical elements re-imagined. Like, to hear a viola, a real harp even, act as motif in, say, ambient house, that’s what I dig. This album-rock is so forceful, all big gestures and machismo, Belle Ripley not excepted. I find it exhausting.

Do you think they do, too? Everyone seemed pretty worn in there, even your friend Katy.”

“You’re an earnest little shit, aren’t you Vik?” “And you’re lit up like Christmas. Invite a guy next time.”

I can’t help bragging. “I was on the bus with the girls, and it was some cherry shit, boy.”

We can see the whole stage across to the soundboards, the set lists taped to the floor, the guitarists tapping pedals. The opening band sounds like Dick Dale on downers. Dual vocalists split the front of the stage. The hipster, stage-left, plays rhythm, mic on distortion. The dude stage-right’s got a greased-back wave, tuxedo shirt unbuttoned to navel, black jeans, motorcycle boots. He plays left-handed lead, sings like a bull gator in a tunnel.

They jack their axes at one another and the kit-man’s like a marching band. I swear to myself that I’ll remember this, that I’ll talk to them after the show, that I’ll write something, anything, in the morning. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re headlining this time next year,” I say to Vikas.

He disagrees, of course. “Can’t have a double lead.

Whose band is it?” He points to the hipster, stage left. “I say put skinny in the middle and let the girls get a look at him.” The greenroom door opens. Katy is standing in the shaft of light, calling me in.

“Eureka, Vikas. You write that down.”

“They’re breaking up,” she says. It doesn’t process.

We are alone in the greenroom, Katy and I. The openers are done and Bumleg Dog waits downstairs to take the stage. “It’s over. Listen, Dar, this is confidential.

We’ve been talking about it for a few weeks, but the news won’t be released until the tour wraps, four months from now. I had to tell you, but you can’t write –or speak—a word of it.” Deep breath, same old story: disparities in contracts; everybody’s whipped. “Money’s some of it,” she says, “but it’s more a matter of plateau. How hard would it be, at this point, to get to the next level? What does that mean anymore, and is it possible? Does anybody even want to?”

It feels like a doctor has delivered bad news: the mass is malignant. There will be no next year’s show.

“Belle is so against it. She wanted to put out another record. She won’t talk to me about anything beyond the end of the tour. Me, I’ve come around. I mean, we have a house we don’t live in. We have a boat that sits shrink-wrapped in a storage yard. I’m sick of fucking in Holiday Inns.”

How could this be the last time I see a Bumleg Dog show? When will I see Katy and Belle again? The big bus, the groupies, the greenroom – everything’s felt so right all night. “We’ve got to get out there,” I say, seizing her hand.

Bumleg Dog takes the stage and shirts go up in the front row. Security runs over between the stage and the crowd and warns the flashers. The drumsticks clack-aone-two-three-four and they tear open “Coalblack and Blue,” the first track on what I now know will be their last studio album. James is a giant in a silk shirt, dirty red hair hanging from his Kangol, voice worn deep.

Bob hammers a drum solo to open the second number. I once saw a demonstration of the world’s first telegraph, a monstrous wire and brass thing invented to communicate shore-to-ship messages. When the docent pressed a huge lever to corresponding metal —ZZZAPPP— a massive stentorian spark jolted the room. There is 10

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something like that circuit fire in Bob’s snare-pounding, the crowd jumping to his rhythm.

Third song, I turn to see Vikas grilling Katy. Down below, Cherise is rubbing up on Stones at his boards.

“Come on Katy,” I say, “let’s go rescue Stones. And you,” to Vikas, “don’t follow us.” We head to the wing where the soundboards are hidden from the audience by amps. I take out the joint I’ve been carrying in my wallet, light it and pass it to Stones. He’s a lifer; he’ll roll on.

“Thanks, pal,” he says, eyeballing me. “I feel like I know you.”

“I come every year, Stones. It’s Darwin.”

“That’s right, that’s right. Well, Darwin, enjoy this one,” he says and passes it back.

Now it’s heavy blues. Eric sits at the B-3 and sustains one wobbling chord before dropping into downboard trills. Mayalee steps out in a black sequined shawl, throws her arms out and wails Baby, baby, baby, baby don’t go.

Baby, say it ain’t so.

Cherise has her arms wrapped around herself now. In the yellow light spilling from the stage I see for the first time the dark roots in her cottony hair, the lines around her lips filled with powder. I want to hold her, care for her, settle us both down in a square house with a dogwood tree. Instead, I give her the long roach and say, “Go ahead doll, finish it off.”

I feel the music in my backbone and wish I could fuck my way through the whole crowd. I take Katy’s hand again and walk out from behind the amps, weaving in. We stop dead center and I move Katy in front of me so she can see.

The Dog picks up the gait. Belle bombs the amps, resets the beat of every present heart. Katy turns and says, “I’m so wet for her right now. I never watch from the house anymore.”

The song ends; Belle wipes her face on the bandana she dangles from her back pocket. James plucks the unmistakable opening notes of their oldest and biggest hit, and we’re caught in the crush. It doesn’t matter if it’s the first, tenth or hundredth time we’ve seen it, we’re all screaming for our stars.

When the encore begins, we head back upstairs for another cold one. A promoter comes into the greenroom, tells Katy they’d sold out after all. Vikas enters from the balcony and runs his notes by me until the band arrives, silent and sweaty, everyone looking for water and a place to rest.

I offer to get lost for a few minutes. Katy says no, we don’t have to go.

But I remember that I left my jacket out on the bus.

Belle volunteers to take me out. She says she wants to change before the post-show signing, that she doesn’t give a shit if she misses it anyway.

So Belle and I head down the back stairs, out the stage door to the bus and we slip in before anyone recognizes her. I walk to the back to grab my jacket and she tosses me a tin of weed. “Load one up,” she says, “I’ll be right out.” I settle at the table, pack the glass vagina and wait.

She comes out of the bathroom and walks to the back of the bus in her towel.

And then she drops it.

“Got it ready?” She bends over me, switches on the vaporizer and fits the bud on the heat. She stands, abs, ribs, meringue-peak breasts all rising as she inhales.

When she touches my face, I pull back, putting the table between us.

“Put your towel on, Belle.”

“What, this doesn’t look good to you?” And she laughs.

“Stop it. What would Katy say?”

“She’d tell me that she wanted me. She’d put her hands on me, her mouth…” Holding the vaporizer tube in one hand, the other hand running over her breast.

“Is this a joke?”

“Christ, Dar, forget it,” she says, dropping the tube and picking up the towel, walking over to an open berth, pulling out clothes. She yanks up boxers and baggy, belted jeans. “I was feeling good after the show, and I thought…”

“What did you think?”

“That you’re attracted to us. That we’re all just hanging on here. And I was thinking about Katy,” she says, topless, facing me down. I make a move to get past her and out. She grabs my arm. “Dar, wait. Hear me out.” I go

back to the table.

“Look, I’m sorry,” she says. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt Katy.”

“So what is this?”

“Don’t be naïve. Katy has been here for, shit, fifteen years. She’s here when people throw themselves at us.

Sometimes we let them, and she’s here for that, too.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Ask her. She says she’s happy on the road because I’m happy on the road, but I know better. Tonight – not just tonight, the whole day— she knew you’d be here and I saw a change in her. You said you might come up to Atlantic City on the bus with us and I guess I thought…”

“That you’d make her feel better by fucking me?”

“Don’t assume I wanted you to fuck me, Dar. I just wanted you to stay.”

For one quiet moment, I let myself believe it’s true and it’s simple and it’s even partly about me.

“Or maybe screwing around keeps you from thinking about what life will be like four months from now when you’re not in this band anymore.”

“She told you. I figured she would.”

She slouches into the seat across from me, pushes her fingers into her wet hair and pulls it. I reach out and take her hands. I hold them across the table and I tell her she’ll be fine. She’ll find other people to play with, she and Katy will grow closer. She’s still topless, and not to please me.

A moment of comfort. There won’t be another tour. There is no next year’s show. This is not a schoolboy fantasy but it is some kind of love. Smokes comes in, tells Belle that about thirty people are still hanging around for her autograph. She pulls on a tank top.

I leave my jacket behind. Boston be damned: I don’t want to wake up alone tomorrow morning.

Roadies are loading out, the bartenders wiping down, staff sweeping up butts and broken glass. Dickey the bouncer’s leaning toward a bottle of Patron. He whistles to me, and I put one finger up so he waits.

Vikas pulls his coat on. He sniffs around me and says, “Don’t you smell mighty kind! Bus again? You could have asked me. Split a cab?”

“No, I think I’ll hang out, throw back a few shots. But Vikas? Have a good time with the review. It’s all yours.”

“You’re getting too old for these late nights and early mornings, guy.”

“True. But I’m going to ride with the band to Atlantic City tonight anyway.”

“Yeah? I never took you for a gambler,” he says. The big overheads are switching off, one by one. The bar-back pockets her tips, runs a rag the length of the bar one last time and leaves Dickey with the bottle of Patron. Katy crosses to the bar and Dickey reaches under for another shot glass. Eric carries Cherise out the stage door on his back again. Bob waves good-bye. Belle freezes in the night’s last flashes.

“I never have been, my friend, so wish me luck. I’m going to need all of it I can get.”

Mary Switalski spends a lot of time looking at roadmaps and contemplating the vicissitudes of life. You can find more of her writing in back issues of Monday Night, Bird's Thumb, Bethesda Magazine, Copper Nickel, The Pinch and elsewhere, and forthcoming in Newfound.

Certified Beer Sniffers 9 2 H A M P S HIR E S T, CA M B R ID G E, M A | 6 1 7-2 5 0 - 8 4 5 4 | L O R D H O B O.C O M

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About a year ago, Bud Drescher, current (retired) owner of Allie’s Donuts in Rhode Island, started talking with Narragansett Brewing Company, which had reached out to him to gauge interest in a new collaboration.

Drescher’s donut shop has been the stuff of legend and song in the Ocean State since the late ’60s—specifically notable for its classic double chocolate donuts—and since Drescher is a self-admitted “beer nut,” the prospect of working on his first joint-effort line of suds with an outfit like Narragansett was something he wasn’t intending to pass up.

“At first they were thinking about apple cinnamon flavor, and I said, ‘That’s awesome’”, says Drescher. “We talked a few other times after that, and later while in Florida I get another call from [VP of Sales and Marketing at Narragansett] Jim Crooks,” who after speaking with Drescher’s son (and fellow donut master) started getting ideas together for the collaboration.

“We kicked around ideas and realized we were on to something,” says Crooks.

“The different flavors’ potential (like an apple cinnamon donut or a maple frosted brown ale) were there, and our brewmaster—as a big fan of their donut—felt like a double chocolate porter would be a fun style to do.”

“I said I love porters, but don’t know about double chocolate,” Drescher says.

“But I said if [Narragansett’s] brewer thinks it’s a home run to go with it.”

Thus the Allie’s Double Chocolate Porter was born, and the limited-edition collaboration beer, part of the brewery’s “Hi, Neighbor!” series, is just hitting the market this week with distribution planned throughout New England and other cities across the US. However, even with plans for the new brew in motion, Drescher had yet to give the stuff a taste for himself until recently. So he and his wife and son Matt made the journey up to Rochester, NY, to the Narragansett brewing facility to see where the magic happens, as well as get the first sips of the new line firsthand from the source.

“My first reaction was just: Wow, it’s good,” says Drescher. “Real nice chocolatey flavor, malty caramel.

Smooth, goes down nice. I brought a case to my year-end golf tournament. Everyone tried it and loved it. Just a home run.”

Drescher says that the fact that the idea originated organically with Narragansett is an honor in itself, and it’s why, if any more donut-inspired beers are on the horizon, he plans to give first dibs to ’Gansett.

“I was elated [the brewery] even thought of us.

We’re one donut shop in [the] middle of RI, been here for 46 years, and we pride ourselves on making quality products. So for [them] to approach me and ask if I was interested in that, and [them] not even knowing I was a beer nut—I would be looking to collaborate with [them] before anyone else.”

For those that happen to be in the North Kingstown area of Rhode Island this week, Narragansett will be hosting a release party at Oak Hill Tavern in North Kingstown, RI, from 6pm—9pm on Oct 1, with games, giveaways, and (naturally) plenty of Allie’s donuts on hand.

Go ahead, dip one in your pint.

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ARTS ENTERTAINMENT

14

THU 10.1

FRI 10.2

FRI 10.2

SAT 10.3

SUN 10.4

TUES 10.6

Breaking a Monster

UForge Mem Nahadr Showcase

Not Art Graffiti and Mary Galli Artwork Pop-Up

Inaugural TEDx Jamaica Plain

What’s the Story?

DIY Porn

When you were 13, the chances of you being in a breakout band were as plausible as you becoming a fire engine. Which is why the film Breaking a Monster is all the more compelling, as it chronicles the year the band Unlocking the Truth and its post-tweeners hit the rock star status and all the ups and downs associated with the modern music industry.

Bonus: Q&A with director Luke Meyer. Who we think is probably over 13.

Fridays are a great night to hit up a local art gallery and pursue whatever wonderment is contained within. And this Friday is no different, with the added bonus that UForge in JP is hosting Mem Nahadr and her mix of electronica jazz-opera sounds in honor of her new release that fuses soul, funk, classical, EDM, and jazz vis-à-vis a multi-octave vocal range. There are no octaves like multi-octaves.

We just like saying octaves.

Take one temporary Inman Square business incubator location. Add local dillmaster Grillo’s Pickles.

Now, remove Grillo’s, and swap it out with a onenight pop-up featuring the street visual art of Not Art, paintings from Mary Galli, some DJ-spun tunes, and the feeling that a whole lot of artsy fun is going down in a place that used to house giant wood barrels of sour cucumbers. Admit it, it’s intriguing. However, if you find a stray pickle, you may want to leave it there.

You’ve probably heard of the TED talks by now, especially if you have a computer, an internet connection, and a lot of interesting and smart people in your digital orbit. Well, the TEDx spinoffs are independently organized versions of the big TED talks done at the local level, and the first-ever JP TEDx talk, featuring local thinkers, artists, disruptors, and creatives, goes down this Saturday. The fact that it’s happening in a church should in no way suggest God is a tech-head.

Local collage artist extraordinaire Brian Scott Gordon invites you to collaborate with him in his latest show, What’s the Story? Bungled Love to Boundless Composition: A Monumentally Miniature Retrospective (1990-2015).

Complete with a projector that will showcase your thoughts on the show via Twitter and Instagram posts using the hashtag #thecollagestory, Gordon’s densely collaged visuals will be deciphered by your participation.

Porn. Everyone’s secret best friend when the cold winds blow and the heat in one’s loins is stirred beyond reproach. But since you’re more of a do-er than a watcher, you can head to Good Vibrations in Brookline on Tuesday for a DIY seminar on, well, making your own porn— crash course in camera positioning, moaning, angles, and other sins. Yes, it’s more technical than “fuck on film.” Well, a little, anyway. Happy humping.

UMass Boston. Campus Center, 100 Morrissey Blvd., Boston. 7-10pm/all ages/ FREE.

UForge Art Gallery.

767 Center St., Jamaica Plain. 10pm/all ages/$1030. memnahadr.com

Former Grillo’s Pickles Inman Square.

1075 Cambridge St., Cambridge. 6-10pm/ all ages/$5 donation. marygalli.weebly.com/events

First Church of JP. 6 Eliot St., Jamaica Plain. 1-5pm/21+/$25. tedxjamaicaplain.com

Artist Reception at Arts at the Armory. 191 Highland Ave., Suite 1-C, Somerville.13pm/all ages/FREE.

Good Vibrations.

308-A Harvard St., Brookline. 6:30-7:30pm/ 18+/FREE. goodvibes.com

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PHOTO BY BRIAN GORDON

COLLAGE ARTIST BRIAN SCOTT GORDON INVITES YOU TO COME AND FINISH HIS ARTWORK WITH YOUR THOUGHTS.

NEWS TO US

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DEPT. OF COMMERCE

ARTS + ENTERTAINMENT

15

MUSIC

BUILT TO SPILL

Why Doug Martsch (thinks he) can’t vomit words

BY NINA CORCORAN @NINA_CORCORAN

MUSIC

UNDER THE COVERS Yo La Tengo gets bare on its new LP

BY NINA CORCORAN @NINA_CORCORAN Yo La Tengo said it would never record another album like Fakebook. Now the New Jersey indie rock trio have Stuff Like That There.

“The more long feedback guitar songs we play at a show, the more people ask, ‘Have you ever thought about making another record like Fakebook?’ and the answer was always, ‘No, we haven’t thought about it,’ in that way where you get more defensive when someone suggests you do something,” Ira Kaplan says over the phone. He chuckles. “As years have gone by, it seemed maybe we should.”

It’s been 25 years since Fakebook, Yo La Tengo’s album of acoustic covers and downtempo numbers, dropped. It was only now, decades later, that guitarist Ira Kaplan, drummer Georgia Hubley, and bassist James McNew were ready to try a second take. After all, when you frequently play your own songs in various reworkings and genres on tour, shifting into the folk mode of your past self becomes less difficult, if at all.

The most notable difference on the new album comes from McNew’s move to upright bass in place of electric.

“When we were talking about doing this record, George and I were saying to James, ‘Well, you know, we’re not expecting you to play upright bass because … you don’t play upright bass. We’re not expecting you to learn,’ and he goes, ‘Well, maybe I should learn!’” Kaplan recalls. “We were shocked. That was totally unexpected, and it’s one of the real exciting things about rehearsing right now, trying out a new song and hearing him on that bass.” Electr-O-Pura cut “The Ballad of Red Buckets” breathes deep with his swap, starting things off with the deep, isolated plunges of his strings. For diehard fans, it’s an exciting trade-off that they can finally hug close with repeat listens.

Reading the liner notes of Stuff Like That There begins to feel like a game, quizzing your knowledge of artists that run the gamut based off the soft, lush covers. That’s the record’s humblebrag: For hosting such a wide range of genres, everything manages to sound distinctly folk, distinctly story-like, distinctly Yo La Tengo. Rightfully so, Kaplan can’t help but be a tiny bit proud: “At this point, we’re just confident that our personality comes out unconsciously.”

It took some time, but the band’s bare covers highlight one of the most charming parts of the live shows—and you can listen to it whenever. >> YO LA TENGO W/ DAVE SCHRAMM. SAT 10.3. THE WILBUR, 246 TREMONT ST., BOSTON. 8PM/ALL AGES/$30. THEWILBUR.COM

MUSIC EVENTS WED 9.30

THU 10.1

[The Middle East Downstairs, 472 Mass. Ave., Cambridge. 8pm/18+/$15. mideastoffers.com]

[Brighton Music Hall, 158 Brighton Ave., Allston.

8pm/18+/$25]

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FRI 10.2

SEVENTIES STYLE GROOVING DESTROYER + JENNIFER CASTLE

[Royale, 279 Tremont St., Boston. 7pm/18+/$20. royaleboston.com ]

SAT 10.3

SUN-SOAKED SURF ROCK BOYTOY + GO!ZILLA

[O’Brien’s, 3 Harvard Ave., Allston. 8pm/21+/$10 obrienspubboston.com]

You never forget the first time you hear Built to Spill.

I was driving through New Jersey (unfortunately) listening to a friend’s mix CD (fortunately) when “Twin Falls” came on (very fortunately).

The first time I read an interview with the man behind it all, Doug Martsch, I laughed out loud with a pitying frown on my face. The man’s a master of tearing down his own work, even if it’s the record critics fawn over—though which albums do they not? His self-deprecation is refreshing, especially given the band has every right to be arrogant.

Though if it were, maybe it wouldn’t have stuck around for 20 years. It’s Built to Spill’s overextended modesty that helps the essential bummer guitar solos pack their punch.

Dig into the songwriting, and Martsch will be the first to tell you he’s no poet. A guitarist, most definitely. Words however are another beast for him. Though he’s written plenty of tattoo-worthy lines (take “Count your blemishes/ You can’t/ They’re all gone” from “Carry the Zero” or “You’ll get the chance to take the world apart” from “Car,” for example), he credits most lyrics to rare strokes of luck. “I’m not a storyteller; that’s not my personality,” he says. “That stuff, to me, doesn’t roll off the way a melody or chord progression does. I think I’m more interested in how it sounds than the words. But it has to be good! I don’t settle.”

It all comes from his journal. “If I hear a phrase that’s remotely interesting, I’ll jot it down—and they’re horrible, too,” he says, biting back laughter through a very straight tone. It’s all philosophical stuff (“But even stupider”) where he thinks he has an insight, only to later realize it’s obvious—or flatout wrong. Most are puns. Others are simple lines that sink in song form. “95 percent of them are like… Wow. Why did you write those down? It’s so stupid and so obvious. A friend of mine looked at it once and thought it was hilarious how bad it was.

They’re all like that, but then comes the 5 percent here and there that’s somewhat salvageable. That’s what I have to do.”

Ask him about it when the band plays a threenight residency at Brighton Music Hall. Chances are he may have it on hand—and double the chances he will cackle reading them out loud to you.

>> BUILT TO SPILL. TUE 9.29-THU 10.1. BRIGHTON MUSIC HALL, 158 BRIGHTON AVE., ALLSTON. 8PM/18+/$25.

CROSSROADSPRESENTS.COM/BRIGHTON-MUSIC-HALL

SUN 10.4

MON 10.5

[The Sinclair, 52 Church St., Cambridge. 8pm/18+/$16. sinclaircambridge.com]

[Paradise Rock Club, 967 Comm. Ave., Boston.

7pm/all ages/$20. crossroadspresents.com ]

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17

FILM

THE END OF MEN

On John Magary’s astonishing feature-film debut, The Mend

BY JAKE MULLIGAN @_JAKEMULLIGAN The bathroom door has been jammed shut for longer than anyone cares to remember. For the two perpetually hungover men occupying the apartment—Mat (Josh Lucas) and Alan (Stephen Plunkett)—that creates a few inconveniences. And by “inconveniences,” we mean “a buildup of urine and vomit in the kitchen sink.”

The home’s matriarch is out of town, and while you’re watching The Mend, you swear you can smell the aroma building in her absence. Unwashed flesh. Stale beer.

Burnt nicotine, cheap weed. The movie smells the way that bars did back when you could smoke in them. It smells outdated.

The pair aren’t roommates; they’re brothers. We meet Mat at his girlfriend Andrea’s house (she’s played by Lucy Owen). He plays with her kid, then he plays with her, then he gets himself thrown out. That we next see him nodding off in a cupcake shop suggests something that the movie never confirms outright: Mat’s got no home to return to. We first meet Alan arguing with his better half, too. That’d be Farrah, played by Mickey Sumner. She’s apparently just swatted his penis away, pre-climax, and— balancing the same lasciviousness we’ve already seen in Mat with what looks to be a well-practiced timidity—Alan is raising an objection to the act. “So you want to stare into my eyes,” Andrea fires back, “and shoot come in them?” The irony being that—because he’s the vaguely domesticated ego to Mat’s slutty id—that’s exactly what Alan wants.

That dialogue is sharp enough to spike you (closer to Feydeau than to most other American independent filmmaking), and first-time writer/director John Magary follows it with a moment of staging to match. Andrea concludes her takedown by throwing the bedroom door open, revealing a large party occurring outside it, seemingly oblivious to the couple’s high-intensity showdown regarding the final resting place of Alan’s ejaculate. As with most parties that alternate between “fun” and “painfully awkward,” the guest list has multiple categories: There are the friends working-class Alan made growing up; a troupe of dancers from the theatrical company Andrea works at; and some neighbors there to say goodbye to both of them, since the couple is leaving on vacation the next day. And then there’s Mat, suddenly on the couch, showing up the way a particularly untoward urge does: without warning.

We end up staying at the party for 20 minutes. After we’ve become acquainted with the guests, we get a series of compositions showing us the subgroups they’ve fallen into: Mat, Alan, and the bros they’re goofing on; Andrea with her friends from work cornered off by the couch; a couple dancers doing some dancing; a few men chatting and giggling, scoping the whole of it and looking for a lay. There’s an emphatic energy to the sequence—it’s one of many that recall Scorsese (later on, we’re in the bar from Mean Streets). Magary’s images often have the same rolling feeling that the master can give us, the feeling that the camera is traveling like a cloud. Or maybe it’s a ghost.

You can play the cinephile calling-card game here,

naming the influences as they arrive: the unsparing gaze of Cassavetes. The urban playfulness and emotional sympathy of Truffaut. And on and on, unendingly. But Magary synthesizes those influences into something almost unrecognizable. Scorsese and his many spiritual sons often work to get us inside the heads of their main characters. And by the time that party scene ends, we don’t even know who the main character of The Mend is.

We think back to the subgroups sequence earlier. That’s not really Scorsesean subjectivity, either. It’s something rather new. It’s energized anthropology—a social study with a pulse.

Magary is pillorying us with provocations. There’s a profound camera pan to that effect. Earl, an older man and a friend of the brothers’ father, shows up to the shindig. He starts speaking nostalgically about the “old times” of New York City—working a personal sexual conquest into his narrative while he reminisces, as men are wont to do. He says that it was a lost time—there was more mingling in the city then. It should be mentioned at this point that Earl—along with Alan, and Mat, and Andrea, and Farrah—is white. Farrah comments that this sounds magical. And then the camera does that pan to one of the many non-white attendees of the party, who dutifully checks some privilege: “It’s better now.”

Then silence. Then, Earl—not ignorant, but reticent to concede—observes that it’s “different.” And the movie doesn’t bother itself to sort out the political implications of these ideological conflicts, thankfully. Because that’s our job.

Anyway, the bathroom door. The party ends. Mat falls asleep in the guest room. When he wakes up, Alan and Farrah are gone—meaning he’s got a place to stay. Andrea comes over with her son because her apartment is getting sprayed for bedbugs, and better to stay with Mat than with the boy’s insufferable father. Alan returns home— without Farrah. Anxieties boil. Eventually the brothers are alone. And they keep needing to use the damn bathroom.

And it just won’t open. And so they take a knife and chop

away at that jammed door with all their antiquated passed-down machismo, playing Jack Nicholson for the benefit of their own egos. Magary’s camera cuts to many angles while they play rage monkey, but we’re still not in their heads. We’re left to observe. And it reminds you that one of the greatest pleasures a movie can offer is to let you watch it.

The bulk of this movie takes place between the party and the door-stabbing incident. Since Andrea is staying with the rather helpless Mat, we know that she’s the maternal type. So when Alan returns home wounded, it stands to reason that she begins to care for him. And with small nuances and gestures—a stray hand grazing an arm, an errant gaze held for too long—Magary pits the three forces against one another, watching as they alternate through power dynamics and emotional states.

We could call that a plot description. Yet such a thing sells short the film’s invigorating adventurousness. The Mend has the rare ability to get lost in itself. Maybe we do come to realize, in answer to an earlier question, that the main characters are Mat and Alan. But this is still a movie that’s willing to divert to two side characters—Andrea and her son—for an extended conversation that features profundities about the nature of lying, and also fart jokes.

Thematic interests are less elusive. All the visual motifs stress the image of this unkempt, unshaven man surrounded by technology that seems generations ahead of him. He stares at his phone with his laptop running uselessly behind it; he argues with a TV salesman about HD resolutions then walks home with a boxy set he finds on the side of a street. He sucks on an electronic cigarette and then stares at it as though it were a person asking him a question he can’t answer. And he treats women—people, really, but usually women—terribly. “You should change,” Andrea says to Mat upon first sight of him. She’s talking about his clothes, but she’s not actually talking about his clothes. “You should change.” But if you’ve been watching closely, then you already know he probably can’t.

>> THE MEND. UNRATED. NOW AVAILABLE ON VOD OUTLETS, INCLUDING ITUNES AND AMAZON INSTANT VIDEO.

FILM EVENTS THU 10.1

DIRECTED BY MELANIE LAURENT BREATHE

[Museum of Fine Arts.

465 Huntington Ave., Boston.

7:30pm/NR/$9-11. Screens at other times throughout week—see mfa.org for more.]

18

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FRI 10.2

SAT 10.3

SAT 10.3

WITCHFINDER GENERAL

ADDICTED TO FRESNO

THE STUNT MAN

COOLIDGE AFTER MIDNIGHT PRESENTS VINCENT PRICE IN [Coolidge Corner. 290 Harvard St., Brookline. Also screens 10.3.

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DIRECTOR JAMIE BABBIT IN PERSON FOR LATE SHOWS [Brattle Theatre. 40 Brattle St., Harvard Sq., Cambridge. 1:30, 3:30, 5:30, 7:30, and 9:30pm/ NR/$9-11. Also screens on 10.2 and 10.4—see brattlefilm.org for times.]

BEN RIVERS PRESENTS RICHARD RUSH’S

[Harvard Film Archive.

24 Quincy St., Harvard Sq., Cambridge. 9pm/R/$7-9.

35mm. hcl.harvard.edu/hfa]

SAT 10.3

DIRECTORS JON NEALON AND JENNY RASKIN IN PERSON HERE COME THE VIDEOFREEX!

[ICA Boston. 100 Northern Ave., Boston. 7pm/NR/$5-10.]

SUN 10.4

FEATURING HARRY LANGDON WITH LIVE MUSICAL ACCOMPANIMENT TRAMP TRAMP TRAMP

[Somerville Theatre.

55 Davis Sq., Somerville.

2pm/NR/$12-15. 35mm. somervilletheatreonline.com/ somerville-theatre]

“A MASTERPIECE OF SUSPENSE.” ROGEREBERT.com

“PHENOMENAL! PULSES WITH ENERGY FROM THE VERY BEGINNING.

“Dazzling” A.O. Scott, THE NEW YORK TIMES

“it Does what ‘gravity’ DiD for outer space.”

John Powers, VOguE

Great performances from Andrew Garfield, Michael Shannon and Laura Dern.”

“Be warneD… it will Blow your minD”

TIME OUT

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François grelet, PREMIERE

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“ONE OF THE MOST INTERESTING, ELEGANTLY CRAFTED AND… ELATING FILMS TO COME ALONG IN RECENT MEMORY.”

THE TElEgRAPH

“A RIVETING RABBLE-ROUSER! Michael Shannon explodes onscreen, Laura Dern is superb and this is Andrew Garfield’s best performance since The Social Network.”

“MICHAEL SHANNON MAGNETIZES ALL EYES.”

HHHH!

“

”

CAMBRIDGE EXCLUSIVE ENGAGEMENTS BOSTON AMC Loews Landmark’s Kendall Boston Common 19 Square Cinema START FRIDAY, OCTOBER 2 amctheatres.com (617) 621-1202

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THEATER

SO CHOICE

Playwright and My So-Called Life creator Winnie Holzman talks about Choice, her first stage outing since Wicked

BY CHRISTOPHER EHLERS @_CHRISEHLERS

WEDS Sept. 30th 9PM

OPEN MIC

Wed 10/21 7PM

With Host Zach Cohen & featured artist $IN of The Family Dinner | 8:45 SIGN UP | 9PM MUSIC | 18+ | NO COVER

BOB FORREST + KORISORON

THU Oct. 1st 10PM

Tues 11/3 7PM

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DJ: DJ Ramzi Noble Genres: Hip Hop, Reggae, Dirty South, R&B | $10 | 21+ FRI Oct. 2nd 9:30PM

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Sat 11/14 7PM

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SARAH KAY, CHRIS DUFFY, ELNA BAKER

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MMMMAVEN CLASS OF 2014 Genres: Open Format NO COVER | 21+

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LIL BEE DEE & THE DOO RITES (Rockabilly) Sat 10/3 10PM

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World Music/CrashArts: THE JONES FAMILY SINGERS (Gospel/Funk) Tues 10/6 7PM

FRUITION (Folk-Rock/Americana/Soul/Blues) Wed 10/7 8:30PM

CHRISTIANE KARAM + RAKIYA (World)

17 Holland St., Davis Sq. Somerville (617) 776-2004 Directly on T Red Line at Davis 20

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Where did the idea for Choice come from?

Well, I had the desire, first of all, to write a play that wasn’t a musical. With Wicked, it happened and it was a big, life-changing thing for me, and I think when you have a big change in your life, of any kind, there came a point where I thought, “What do I really want to do?” And one of the answers for me was, “I really want to write a play.” I guess you could say the subject of Choice—meaning, you know, the idea of women having the choice to end a pregnancy, as we use it in our culture—I was starting to have really strong feelings about how that subject is discussed in our culture and the brutality of the way it’s discussed, that you kind of have to pick a side. And I started to think, “I wonder if it’s possible to have a play that asks that?”

Sat 10/1 7:30PM

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MMMMAVEN

Winnie Holzman is no stranger to cultural phenomena: She created the beloved TV series My So-Called Life, which launched the careers of Claire Danes and Jared Leto, and penned the book for the smash-hit musical Wicked.

In her new play, Choice, which is making its world premiere at the Huntington Theatre Company, a successful journalist investigates a new and divisive social phenomenon that alters her understanding of her past, present, and future. The play is both hilarious and poignant, and offers a fresh exploration of women’s right to choose and the effects that our choices have on our lives.

Following Wicked, you must have gotten a lot of offers for big, splashy musicals.

Yet you’ve chosen to dial it down and do this intimate play.

Not a huge amount, but I did get offers for musicals. There was just nothing on that level that spoke to me. That question was really important for me. I like what you said about intimate; I think I did want a completely different experience. I feel really fortunate that they offered to do it at the Huntington, and the timing has been wonderful for me. Honestly, had it come earlier, I don’t think I was quite ready. I feel like I’m ready now, so it’s a good feeling.

How did you get involved with the Huntington?

I think it was when Sheryl and I first hooked up and started talking, she said, “Huntington Theatre Company would be a perfect place to do the first production,” and it really turned out to be true.

The Huntington does incredible work with fostering and developing new plays, so I’m glad to hear that you feel that way.

Everyone’s been really, really helpful. It’s been super good.

What can you tell us about the film version of Wicked?

Oh, just that it will happen! It’s just in the very beginning stages.

Will you be adapting the screenplay?

Yes, I will. I’m happy to say I will be.

What else do you want us to know about Choice?

It might sound a little dorky just to say it, and I sound very serious when I talk about it, but a lot of it’s funny. I wanted it be a comedy. It’s emotional and it’s funny, too, and that’s what I like when I’m seeing a play. That’s what I was striving for. Hopefully some people will find that entertaining. >> CHOICE. RUNS 10.16-11.15 AT THE HUNTINGTON THEATRE COMPANY AT THE BCA. 527 TREMONT ST., BOSTON. WWW.HUNTINGTONTHEATRE.ORG

ARTS

GOOD RAPPAPORT

THE MASSACHUSETTS INDEPENDENT COMICS EXPO

deCordova award highlights New England visionary

BY RENAN FONTES

october

& SATURDAY 10AM - 6PM SUNDAY 11AM - 5PM

FREE! admission

Once a year, the deCordova Sculpture Park and Museum celebrates the achievement and potential of an artist who has both shown a significant level of creativity and vision in their works and demonstrated potential and growth as an artist within the past year by awarding that artist the Rappaport Prize, an award of $25,000 given to established contemporary artists with strong connections to New England.

Established in 1950 and located 20 miles west of Boston, deCordova Sculpture Park and Museum dedicates itself to fostering the creation and exploration of contemporary sculptures and art though its slate of rotating exhibitions, innovative learning opportunities, a constantly changing 30-acre landscape of large-scale, public, modern, and contemporary sculptures, and sitespecific installations.

This year the prestigious award was presented to one Matt Saunders, currently assistant professor of visual and environmental studies at Harvard University. Saunders received his Bachelor of Arts from Harvard University and his Master of Fine Arts from Yale University. His works have been featured in the Guggenheim Museum in New York, the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, the Museum of Modern Art in New York, the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, and the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York.

Saunders has a global presence as well, having been featured in exhibitions around the world, including the Renaissance Society, Chicago; Tate Liverpool, England; and the 2011 Sharjah Biennial.

Saunders has also been a recipient of the Louis Comfort Tiffany Foundation Award in 2009 and the Prix Jean-François Prat in 2013.

Saunders’ work revolves around moving one form to another. He creates large-scale photographs without a camera through hand-painting photographic negatives onto linen. In his animated films, Saunders continues this trend by merging his drawings and moving images together that elicit a stop motionesque presentation that is almost ghostly in its appearance.

His relationship with deCordova runs deeper than just the Rappaport Prize.

Saunders studied under Jennifer Gross, the current chief curator of deCordova, at Yale. Saunders also made a habit of frequently visiting deCordova during his Harvard days 20 years ago. “It was one of the first places I found for artists in the city, and I naturally flocked there,” he said. “It was transformative for me.”

In 2012, Saunders’ work was exhibited in the 2012 deCordova Biennial as well.

Potential recipients are not made aware during the process of choosing the winner. Candidates are nominated by a small committee and are quietly eliminated until one is left, and that one is called and told of the award.

“Jennifer called me out of the blue to tell me I’d won,” said Saunders, “but it was a good phone call to get.”

Having spent many years in Berlin, Saunders spoke of the ease with which he was able to make his work there. Having reliable equipment in Berlin allowed him the opportunity to make consistent work, a benefit he currently does not have in Massachusetts.

“I found myself going back to Berlin to work, but with the prize money I was able to get ahold of the necessary equipment.”

Saunders will be giving a lecture on the Rappaport Prize on Wednesday, Nov 6, 6:30 pm at Tower Auditorium, Massachusetts College of Art and Design. >> DECORDOVA SCULPTURE PARK AND MUSEUM. 51 SANDY POND RD., LINCOLN. 781-259-8355. DECORDOVA.ORG.

over 150 comic creators & cartooning workshops

at lesley university in

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NOTHING MATTRESS

BY BRIAN CONNOLLY @NOTHINGMATTRESS

THE STRANGERER

BY PAT FALCO ILLFALCO.COM

WHAT'S FOR BREAKFAST

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SAVAGE LOVE

ASSHOLE MOVES

BY DAN SAVAGE @FAKEDANSAVAGE I’ve been dating this guy for almost two months. It’s been pretty good, except the sex isn’t really the best. I have this other male friend who has had a crush on me. Long story short: My friend made a move on me the other night. I told him I couldn’t, and he knew why, but to be honest, I was insanely turned on by his forwardness. He apologized, but a week later we hung out, and I told him that it really intrigued me, and we ended up having crazy cool sex—satisfying in all the ways the guy I’m dating isn’t. I haven’t told the guy I’m seeing about this and I don’t plan to. But I feel guilty. I keep rationalizing that we have never had a talk about exclusivity, and I therefore have no obligation to him. I want to keep fucking my friend, but I also enjoy dating this other guy. Am I an asshole? Am I obligated to disclose that I’m not interested in monogamy with him?

Too Many Intrigues Are you an asshole? That can’t be ruled out, TMI, but I can’t make a determination with the limited data you’ve provided. One asshole move—and cheating on Mr. Two Months was definitely an asshole move—does not an asshole make. We know this because while everyone is guilty of the occasional asshole move, not everyone is an asshole. Assholes are made when asshole moves come one right after the other, and an ever-thickening 22

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layer of asshole moves hardens into total assholery.

Anyway, while you might not have had a conversation with the guy you’re currently dating/cheating on about exclusivity, you wouldn’t feel guilty about what/who you did if you didn’t think Mr. Two Months was operating under the assumption that you two were exclusive. So the cheating was an asshole move and your rationalization, as you seem to be aware, is a pile of self-serving bullshit that’s equal parts transparent and unnecessary. Because as much as you like hanging out with Mr. Two Months, the sex hasn’t been good for you and you haven’t been good to him. Don’t negotiate a nonmonogamous agreement. End it.

I think your answer to BFF last week missed an essential piece of information. She refers to herself as engaging in “drunken” threesomes and hookups. I think she needs to examine her own behavior, not that of her roommate and FWB, and the fact that her relationships seem to be fueled by the effects of her alcohol consumption. I’m guessing her letter was fuzzy for a reason. It was probably written in a drunken haze. Nothing you say will get through to her unless you address her use of alcohol.

Alcohol Not The Solution Full disclosure: I was drinking when I wrote my response to BFF. So just as it’s possible that alcohol played a role in the drama BFF described, it’s possible I neglected to point that fact out because I was a little drunky myself.

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