Recently by Patti Hartigan

I don't know Joanna Connors, but she is a fellow arts journalist -- former theater and film critic for the Cleveland Plain Dealer -- who has just published a deeply wrenching five-part series about the violent event that changed her life. In 1984, she was raped on the stage of a theater while on assignment. Her series explores the paths that brought both her and her assailant to that stage, and it's a tale of tragic loss and ultimate redemption. This is important work by one of our own. If you haven't already read it, please do. One word: mercy. Another word: grace.

 

When I was fresh out of college, I took a job at a non-arts related publication just to beef up the resume. Long story short: I was on the fast track and quickly found myself promoted to managing editor of a monthly magazine (what were they thinking?!!). Anyway, I ended up doing most of the work and getting none of the credit, and as a result, my boss tried to fire me. You know how that goes. After freaking out for a few hours, I had a lawyer friend send a stern warning to the publisher, along with a package of damning documents, a letter of resignation, and a request for a handsome severance. The PTB apologized and asked me to stay, but I left happily and began doing what I really wanted to do, which was to write about the arts. Best career move I ever made.

There wasn't anything particularly brave about that move - I was a kid with a beat-up car, a bunch of roommates, and few responsibilities beyond growing up, paying the rent, and staying out of trouble. But I do know that gut-wrenching feeling of rejection, that gnawing question of what to do next, so I have enormous respect for people who manage to take a bad situation and turn it into something better. We could all use a bit of inspiration from such stories, especially in these fragile times. And that's why I want to tell you about the Actors' Shakespeare Project, an artist-run troupe here in Boston. It's a tale that starts with rejection and ends with redemption.

First, let me join Laura in sending three cheers to Ann Hornaday, who was among my class of NAJP fellows in the program's inaugural year and who has persevered in writing passionately about film all these years since. Bravo!

Congratulations also go out to my former Boston Globe colleague Mark Feeney, who won this year's Pulitzer for criticism. Mark, I'm told, gave a warm and gracious speech, in which he pointed out that all the finalists deserve praise. He shared credit with everyone, even taking the time to thank the librarians and copy editors, who are so important to the process but share little of the glory. One colleague who heard the speech told me that he hadn't felt this inspired since he first walked into the Globe building nearly two decades ago, noting that it reminded him of why he got into this business in the first place. So here's to all the winners and finalists -- and to the whole team of people who make it all possible.

That said, today's piece in the Globe had a most interesting quote from Globe publisher Steven P. Ainsely that bears repeating:

"In a time when so many newspapers are having to weigh difficult decisions about what coverage is important, I'm very proud that the Globe and its newsroom have continued to stress the importance of arts coverage in a community that values it so highly."

Those are encouraging words, and to be fair, for the most part they're true, especially when you consider the hemorrhaging going at papers all over the country. The Globe staff still includes two movie critics, two television critics, a classical music critic, two rock critics, a theater critic, an arts reporter, and a few generalists who fill in as needed. Coverage and staffing, though, is not what it was when I was on the staff, and the section continues to shrink in size. (The Monday and Wednesday sections were just combined with other sections, which cuts space significantly.) Jazz, world music, and, to some extent, dance have fallen by the wayside, and many of the city's smaller, but worthy arts organizations bemoan the loss of coverage. Still, it is encouraging to see the publisher's words in print and on the record. Let's hope they're not just words for Awards Day, and that they continue to ring  true in the unpredictable (and terrifying) future.

It was only a matter of time before someone brought Margaret Mitchell's "Gone with the Wind" to the stage. Well, "Gone with the Wind: The Musical" (even the title sounds like a parody) opens next month in the West End, under the direction of Trevor Nunn. The novel does have the mega musical's requisite historical sweep, and one can only imagine the swell of the orchestra at the end of Act One as Scarlett declares in full voice, "I'll never go hungry again!" Eat your heart out, Victor Hugo.

But after reading about the production in "The Independent," I have to wonder if the British think all Americans are antebellum fanatics. According the Independent piece, "It's estimated that 90 percent of Americans have seen the movie.'' Ninety percent? By whose estimate? The Margaret Mitchell estate? The piece doesn't cite a source for that true fact, and it could very well have come from a press release. But a quick Google search traces it to this Encarta entry, which claims, "By the 1970s, an estimated 90 percent of the American public had seen the film in a theater or on television." No source there, either. I hate to be a stickler for accuracy, but the U.S. Census Bureau estimates for 2006 show that about 13 percent of Americans are under the age of 10 and about 20 percent of all Americans are under the age of 14. So even if every single American above the age of 14 has seen the film -- a proposition that borders on the preposterous -- that would only account for 80 percent. I just have to wonder how anyone could regurgitate this sort of nonsense without a hint of disbelief. Is this just sloppy or are Americans viewed as harboring a romance for the Old South? Fiddle dee dee, indeed.

I'm still ruminating over last week's opening of Conor McPherson's "Shining City" at the Huntington Theatre Company here in Boston. It takes place in a therapist's office in Dublin, where a bereaved patient named John struggles to exorcise his guilt and grief after losing his wife. In a heartbreaking performance by John Judd, the patient is as ordinary and banal as his name, and he stutters and stammers his way through the talking cure. This is a run-of-the-mill middle-aged man who fumbled about in a passionless - and childless - marriage, while searching aimlessly for Something More. But in the end, it is his acceptance of his very ordinariness that sets him free.

This isn't really the stuff of laughter, but there was one moment in the theater that still resonates. In Scene Three, John falteringly confesses his inept attempt to get some action at a house of ill repute. He is so ashamed he can barely even spit out the words. "Brothel,'' he finally says, regurgitating the word as if it bears the bitter aftertaste of his own vomit. And from the audience? Snickers. Guffaws. A scattering of full-throated laughter. The word alone evoked thoughts of that other real-life drama, the tale of Client 9 and the call girl Kristen, also known as the downfall of Gov. Eliot Spitzer. In this case, the collective consciousness of the audience could have stopped the actors cold, but Judd didn't flinch, and the play went on. Awkward and slightly inappropriate, yes, but it was one of those moments that can only happen in a theater, and it reminded me of why we do what we do. Life imitates art, and vice versa.

One more thing: This being St. Patrick's Day (or Evacuation Day, here in the provinces), I have to say that I am gratified that I haven't come across much of the old Celtic Twilight verbiage in reviews of this McPherson play, which is a thoroughly modern psychological exploration of transference and countertransference. A Chicago review of this production, which opened in the Windy City, did liken it to "hearing a tall tale told over a pint and a bag of crisps,'' an old stereotype that has precisely nothing to do with the play. But thankfully, I haven't come across a single mention of "a terrible beauty" or other overused phrases that used to pop up in writing about anything Irish, apropos or not. And that, my friends, is a good thing indeed.

A copy of "Love and Consequences" sold on ebay tonight for $48.99, just about twice the retail price of $24.95. Not bad for a pack of lies. Right now, there are 21 copies of the book for sale on the auction site (and one "uncorrected proof" - now that's an understatement), but there doesn't seem to be a wave of rampant speculation in manufactured memoirs. The bidding, thankfully, is modest and scarce. Meanwhile, nobody seems to be auctioning a copy of Misha Defonseca's debunked tale. And as for James Frey's "A Million Little Pieces,'' you can pick a used copy for less than a buck.

No need for a caveat emptor, either. The folks selling the Margaret Jones/Seltzer's bogus book are banking on the notoriety: Get the book everyone is talking about! Rare! Sure to be a collector's item! One seller guarantees "perfect condition," which would be true, no doubt, if the whole thing weren't completely false.

I don't know about you, but I've trained my eyes to ignore the "personal" recommendations offered on sites like Netflix or Amazon. They just leave me feeling so, so... misunderstood. My friends at Amazon still insist that I buy the latest military history, because I once, in a fit of gift guilt, sent a tome about West Point to a distant relative. And the helpful fellows at Netflix know that I will ♥ "Dora Saves the Mermaids." Don't ask.

 

Anyway, the current Wired has an intriguing piece about the mechanics of recommendation software. It seems Netflix is sponsoring a contest that will award $1 million to the person or team that invents a better movie-trap. The Million Dollar Question is this: How do you write an algorithm that defines taste? The usual suspects -- data miners from prominent universities and tech companies -- have lined up to meet the challenge. This has been going on for more than a year, with infinitesimal improvements in performance and plenty of amiable cooperation among the competing teams.

 

Enter a contestant known simply as "Just a Guy in a Garage,'' a worthy competitor who came out of nowhere and got terrific results. Wired's intrepid reporter, Jordan Ellenberg, tracked "Just a Guy" down, and it turns out he's an unemployed psychologist in England who takes a slightly different approach than the math-heads. Ingenious programming, he implies, is essential, but it isn't good enough unless it takes human behavior into account. He's trying to figure out a way to bring the math and the mind together, and in the process, take home the chunk of change.

 

Here's one possible solution. "Just a Guy" needs to figure out a way to match the customer data to a database of critics' opinions. Think about it. Don't we all have our favorite critics, those writers who almost always nail our exact thoughts about a given film, play, or other performance? If the technical wizards can write a formula to match the user to the critic, they then have a surefire way to improve the accuracy of their predictions. I'd much rather have my movie suggestions tied to the taste of say, Anthony Lane, than to a string of ones and zeros that are as emotionally remote as the solution to the Towers of Hanoi. Algorithms can't think, breathe, or spend a lifetime sitting in dark theaters. That's why we'll always need critics. Now if only I could do the math, I'd be able to retire.

UPDATE, 3/21/08: Three weeks later, and now Letterman is in for the count. See Mr. Late Night count Obama "Uhs" here.

I love a good challenge, so in respectful response to Sasha's suggestion that Barack Obama makes better eye candy than ear candy, I replayed some of Tuesday night's debate, listening intently for ers, ums, and other verbal tics. This is important, folks. Which one is the Er Candidate? Herein the, um, (un)scientific results:

 

The first 60 seconds of the first response

Clinton                                              Obama

 Uh: 10                                                Uh: 7
 Um: 0                                                Um: 1 
 Y'know: 1                                           Y'know: 0

The "I seem to get the first question" lament

Clinton                                              Obama                                    Audience

Uh: 0                                                  Dignified silence                        Boos: 1
Um: 0
Y'know: 1

The Hyperbole Clip

Clinton                                              Obama                       

The Laugh: 2

The Great Reject/Denounce Debate

Clinton                                              Obama

Uh: 7                                                  Uh: 5
Um: 0                                                 Um: 0
Y'know: 2                                            Y'know: 0

 

During these brief segments, it's important to note that Obama flashed three winning smiles, while Clinton gave us two warm and genuine grins. With the margin for error at plus or minus four uhs, ums, and y'knows, it looks like Obama has an edge over Clinton in the Er Factor. But if we're going to apply our critical skills to the race, I prefer the poetry vs. prose method. After all, you can't separate the dancer from the dance. Y'know?

The headline in Charles McGrath's piece in Sunday's Times, "Is PBS Still Necessary," has me worried that an insidious email from the '90s might sprout up again, like a monster in a B movie that refuses to die. You remember the one. The most common version began with the screaming exhortation "SAVE SESAME STREET!" and implored recipients to sign a petition protesting cuts to federal funding for PBS. The well-meaning authors of the missive wrote it in 1995, and it's been circulating periodically ever since. Every arts reporter and critic in the land must have received it dozens of times, if not more. With all due respect to Ernie and Bert, I almost always automatically hit delete when I see the "Sesame Street" plea in the subject line of an incoming mail. On particularly cranky days, I refer the sender to Snopes.  

Chain email aggravation aside, I'm not here to debate the merits of PBS per se. There's nothing particularly new about the arguments in the Times' piece, which complains that PBS programming is either precious or moldy (or both). I'm certainly not going to argue with McGrath's observation that that the "credit announcements" on PBS are "commercials in all but name." Even the fundraisers are commercials, especially for the impressionable younger set. That became painfully obvious when my five-year-old twins informed me that if I donated a mere $300 to our local station, we would receive four -- count 'em, four! -- tickets to "Disney On Ice."

But still. There's one minor little point missing in the discussion that almost never comes up when PBS funding is questioned. Yes, you can get similar - and sometimes superior -- programming on cable now, which has a niche for every interest. But, but, but. Public television is free.  Believe it or not, more than 20 million U.S. households still access television through an old-fashioned antenna. These so-called over-the-air households do not subscribe to cable or satellite services, and in those homes, PBS is the best option for educational programming. In fact, until a few weeks ago, I lived in one of those households. For a number of reasons, we didn't care or need to have hundreds of channels streaming into the not-so-big box in our living room. For my family, it's a choice. (One reason we finally succumbed to the call of cable is that we have a five-year-old Red Sox fanatic on the premises, and most of the games aren't available without cable. But I digress.) Undoubtedly, though, it's not a choice for millions of other over-the-air folks who simply can't afford to shell out big bucks to Comcast every month. That's why the original mandate for public television, outlined by the Carnegie Commission Report of 1967, remains pertinent today. PBS may not be what it used to be in this age of instant access, but it is still provides "a voice for groups in the community that may otherwise be unheard" -- at a price that most folks can afford. And that's important, especially in households with young children.

 Don't we still need to take those folks into account when we write about public television? I wonder if we, as arts journalists, sometimes forget that there is a sizable group out there that doesn't have access to laptops or cable boxes. I know, that's so mid-20^th century, but it wouldn't hurt to keep it in mind, especially if the discussion heats up, and frantic email petitions start flying again.