Jennifer Susannah Devore's Blog, page 9

Switchmas Brings Cheer To Stupid Christmastown

When is $750K a pittance? When it's Hollywood-oriented and gets you a feature-length film, shot over sixty-days and employs no less than the formidable and jauntily avuncular Elliott Gould (M*A*S*H, Ocean's Eleven, Friends). When do you say Mazel Tov? When that film blasts out of the holiday film gate like Seabiscuit on fire and ignites a dynamite line straight to Hanukkah and Christmas movie mainstays.

Switchmas (2012, Von Piglet Productions) is so ding-dang cheerful, so sweet, so good-natured, so family-friendly, so inclusive, so sprightly, so hopeful that one just might puke from its syrupy tinge, if was not such a fun film. Switchmas is Disney-quality, without the Disney-dollars. Should you find your list of holiday flicks in need of an update, would it kill you to add Switchmas? It slots in beautifully with the other tent poles holding firm the genre: Elf, A Christmas Story, A Charlie Brown Christmas, Christmas Vacation et al.

Gould, a.k.a. Ross and Monica's dad, isn't the only point-of-light in the Little Film That Could. David Deluise (Wizards of Waverly Place, Stargate-SG1) portrays Max Finkelstein, an optimistic auteur on the fringes of Hollywood and president of Finkelstein Films: "Making the World You Want To See". Max believes he has everything but "a name" to catapult him to Woody Allenesque fame and respect. (If The Reindeer From Planet 9 can't get him an Oscar, what can?) As Max tells a potential client (art imitates life here), "Believe me! You don't need big money to make a movie with big heart!" When "a name" drops in his lap, in the form of has-been, aging, bubble-gum starlet Jennifer Cameo (played by Julianne Christie), Max gets the filmic opportunity of a lifetime. To optimize it however, he must personally rip out and eat his own son's heart.

 

"Its' the Finkelstein Christmas tree!"

 

"Finkelsteins do not have Christmas trees."

"Why not?"

"You know why! We're Jewish!"

"Well do we have to be?"

"Ira!"

"I mean at Christmas?"

"You know what? Heritage, tradition, culture. Who needs it?"

Resistance is futile. Therein lies the rub. Little Ira J. Finkelstein wants nothing more than to celebrate Christmas. "He's obsessed with The Christmas!" To assuage this desire, Max and Mama Rosie had agreed to take him to Aspen for Christmas, land of twinkle lights, snowy windowsills, hot cocoa and Louis Vuitton luggage. Of course, this was before Miss Cameo was attached to The Reindeer From Planet 9. "If this goes good, we can go to Aspen every year". Instead, even after a heart-melting plea from Ira about promises and mishpucha, Mom and Dad ship him off, to where else? "Florida, for The Christmas". Now, a holiday with the grandparents includes a dream grampy: supportive, doting and effervescent Sam Finkelstein, played to freylech perfection by Elliott Gould.

In classic, Shakespearean-style though, during Ira's layover at the airport, on his way to "stupid Florida", he meets fellow holiday misanthrope Mikey Amato: a poor, Christian boy of newly-divorced parents who -wait for it- wants nothing more than to spend Christmas on a warm beach with some rich grandparents. Poor little shnook, he's on his way to "stupid Christmastown" for a week of gift-giving, parade-going, snowman-building and cocoa-drinking with his gentle, gentile, WASPy cousins, who, fortunately, haven't seen him in quite a while. Boom! A quick switch of some nerd glasses, an old parka, bangs brushed down and the convenient exposure that even Ira's own grandparents haven't seen him in quite a while either, and voilà! You've got The Switchmas. "That's no Finkelstein! It's a different kid! What, is he blind?!"

There's even a pup. Any good holiday film has a dog. This little guy is Killer, a.k.a. Mistletoe: a big-headed, sweet-eyed pit bull who brings to mind The Little Rascals' Petey.

To boot, if you happen to have a grandparent-Jonesing, Switchmas can assuage that, too. Mikey's all too-foreign poolside, beachfront, grandparent-sojourn in The Sunshine State is a non-stop party of chocolate geld, fruity drinks, positive affirmations and socks-and-sandals. To this girl, it sounds equally perfect to my own Christmastown luxuries.

(Can we talk?) Raised in a beautifully festive Christmas household, as in Martha Stewart could learn a thing or two from my Mom, and blessed with a yearly pile of presents that would make Santa blush, the only thing I ever lacked was grandparents. Always feeling I missed out on something grand in this respect, characters like Sam and Ruth Finkelstein bring a broad smile to my gentile pearlies. Moreover, my paternal great-grandparents and grandparents were Jewish, hailing from Vienna and, eventually, New York City (The Bronx and Long Island): Jakob & Irma Gerstl, and Rudi & Rosalyn Gerstle, respectively. Because I never got to know them, I have a special love for vintage handbags, antique jewels, The Golden Girls, Agatha Christie novels and Queen Elizabeth II. (What is in her purse, BTW? Did you notice she even has it next to her on the floor in the 4G Royal Portrait? Dying to know. I bet Werther's Originals, a Waterman pen and a surplus of Irish-linen hankies.)

Best of all, for those of us endlessly searching for the unequaled, '90s TV series Northern Exposure in Netflix' "Recently Added" queue, the fair Cynthia Geary plays Libby Wilson, the beautifully-blonde auntie with the rosy, mountain-air glow who awaits her, fortunately, long-unseen nephew in Christmastown, WA. True, she is meant to look haggard and toiled, the overworked mom of three and neglected wife to an alcoholic, unemployed schmegegy of a dad; but the MUA failed here, folks. Despite the tousled locks and the persistent frown, Geary (Northern Exposure, Smoke Signals) looks as fresh-scrubbed and nature-girl beautiful as she did twenty-plus years ago as Shelly Tambo-Vincour in the wilds of Cicely, AK. (Apropos, Northern Exposure was shot on location in Roslyn, WA; Switchmas was shot in Leavenworth, WA and Seattle.)

As with any good film serving as part-morality play, there are a few direct lessons involved. Unaware of the notable, Jewish contributions to Christmas song and film? Pay close attention to Christmastown's Santa Claus, Murray Lefkowitz. (This means you, Garrison Keillor.)

"A Jewish Santa?"

"Who else would work on Christmas?"

For those fretting about the melding of Hanukkah and Christmas on the proverbial celluloid, remember Christmas is a mélange, a spiritual and pagan amalgam of millennia stewed in winter celebration, thanksgiving and festivity. The Christmas we know today was not celebrated until 4thC C.E., when Emperor Constantine defected from his pagan beliefs and essentially founded Christianity.He declared the 25th as the certifiable day of joy to coincide with the same time during which the ancient Babylonians, Romans, Celts and Norsemen had already been celebrating for eons, knowing full well he would not be able to stop them from said-jubilation and Bacchanalian endeavours.

In the end, I am a wordsmith; words mean something to me and are not to be tossed about hither and thither. Therefore, I refrain from the ignominy of such phrases as government aid, literally starving and, worst of all, instant classic. However, I am finding it sehr difficult to refrain from the latter. Switchmas might just be that, an instant classic. Only time will tell, and JennyPop's annually-updated, recommended, Christmas-viewing list.

Merry Christmas, Ira J. Finkelstein!

 

Because this stuff is important, especially if your name is listed:

Directed by

Sue Corcoran

Written by

Douglas Horn

Angie Louise

Sue Corcoran

Cast

David Deluise as Max Finkelstein

Elijah Nelson as Ira J. Finkelstein

Elliott Gould as Sam Finkelstein

Angela DiMarco as Rosie Finkelstein

Justin Howell as Mikey Amato

Cynthia Geary as Libby Wilson

 

Available via DVD, Blu-Ray, Netflix and Amazon Instant Video

 

Follow @JennyPopNet #Christmasfilms #Switchmas

 

North and South Thanksgiving: Massachusetts vs. Virginia

The site of America's first Thanksgiving is up for debate, notably where Virginia is concerned. (Aside: where there are matters of national origin or first American families, Virginia will always concern itself.) Clearly, the universally agreed-upon venue for the first Thanksgiving remains Plymouth, Massachusetts. The famously friendly, plum-and-pumpkin, good cheer feast of deer, fish and clams amongst English colonists, Mass. Gov. Wm. Bradford with neighborhood Wampanoag Indians and their chief Massasoit is the model on which all modern Thanksgiving gatherings are re-imagined. Of course, as oft happens, Virginia says they did it first, if not with far less of that good cheer. Initializing the holiday with a much more boring and somber Thanksgiving, the Old Dominion holds firm to its claim, via Berkeley Plantation in 1619. Specious, but technically arguable, Berkeley's riparian shores along the James River ripple with questionable authenticity.

December 4, 1619, one year prior to the legendary Plymouth Rock, Mayflower landing, Captain John Woodleaf and a few dozen English settlers landed some twenty miles shy of Jamestowne Island, at Berkeley Hundred: an 8,000-acre land grant of the Virginia Company of London awarded to Sir William Throckmorton, Sir George Yeardley, George Thorpe, Richard Berkeley and John Smyth in 1618. After ten weeks at sea, and upon landing on Virginia soil, naturally, Captain Woodleaf and his men, the legend goes, dropped to their knees and Woodleaf thanked God then and there in an impromptu, outdoor service for their safe arrival. (Blink, blink.) The official Charter of Berkeley Hundred states “We ordaine [sic] that the day of our ships arrival at the place assigned for plantation in the land of Virginia shall be yearly and perpetually kept holy as a day of thanksgiving to Almighty God.” So, yeah. It was a first Thanksgiving, of sorts.

Whatever your thoughts about all that, Berkeley Plantation (open for tours), built in 1726 and cup o' sugar-sharing distance to neighboring Westover Plantation (not open for tours, but stunning if you're lucky enough to garner a private showing, comme Moi), remains standing and is a spectacular monument to early-Georgian architecture. Of most historical importance, Berkeley is ancestral home to the Harrison Family. Here sits the home of both Declaration of Independence Signer and Virginia governor, Benjamin Harrison V, as well as two U.S. Presidents: William Henry Harrison (#9) and his grandson, Benjamin Harrison (#23). Notably, Wm. Henry also hits a Berkeley historical marker as the U.S. president with the shortest tenure: a mere thirty-two days. True to his "Tippecanoe and Tyler, Too", frontiersman persona and fearing he might look like a weak leader, Harrison refused to don neither coat nor chapeau on his bitterly cold, winter inauguration day. (Trying to imagine President Harrison with an aide holding an umbrella over his head. Cannot.) One moth later, he died of pneumonia. Wear your coats, kids; but carry your own umbrellas. Queen Elizabeth II does.

Two-hundred and forty-four years after Woodleaf and his crew landed on James River shores, President Abraham Lincoln, in 1863, amidst the horror of the Civil War, proclaimed a national day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens, to be honoured the last Thursday of November. For the next seventy-five years, U.S. presidents followed suit. Then FDR came along and, naturally, made some changes.

President Roosevelt noted there were five Thursdays in November of 1939; he also noted, helped along with some nudging by retailers, this meant Thanksgiving would fall on the 30th, leaving a mere twenty-four shopping days to Christmas. A nation still recovering from The Great Depression needed a little more shopping therapy than that and, lo and behold, his Thanksgiving Proclamation set the penultimate Thursday of the month as Thanksgiving Day. Of course, as folks are wont to do, everybody bitched about this for reasons ranging from calendar reprinting to football game rescheduling to crying political foul, his Republican opponents even calling it Franksgiving. Since then, the day has stuck like Mom's cheesy potatoes to a serving spoon and we dare any sitting president to even think about changing it back to a pre-FDR date.

Regardless of where and when you like your Thanksgiving, North or South, penultimate or ultimate, whether you prefer Sam Adams or Southern Comfort, Nathaniel Hawthorne or Tennessee Williams, Patrick Leahy or Saxby Chambliss, Patriots or Cowboys, Americans can all agree 'tis a fabulous day to feast, imbibe, dress up, share good cheer and, most American of all, watch TV!

If you happen to be in Virginia, you'll find more than a few great venues for your own Thanksgiving, should you choose dining out, instead of going the home-cooking route: Alexandria (a.k.a. Alex, by the locals), Arlington, Georgetown, Williamsburg, Richmond, Ghent, Charlottesville. No matter where you dine, there shall be no debate about this; a traditional, 17th or 18thC.  tavern meal is always a wonderful idea! If you've read my Savannah of Williamsburg novels, you will recall many a tavern scene; if you've not read them ... for what are you waiting?! Enjoy here a sample menu from King's Arms Tavern, along picturesque Duke of Gloucester Street in Colonial Williamsburg. Best book now at any of CW's historic taverns! Can't do it this time? Book early for next year and make it a family plan! (Fellow vegetarians, take note: stick with the peanut soup, cheese sippets, pumpkin pie and copious amounts of Cabernet and authentic, Wampanoag cappuccino. You'll do fine!)

 

A Thanksgiving Feast at Colonial Williamsburg's King's Arms Tavern



First Course


Peanut Soup
garnished with chopped peanuts and sippets (cheese crisps)
King’s Arms Seasonal Greens
with marinated tomatoes, carrots, raspberry vinaigrette


Second Course


Roasted Turkey
with savory herb dressing and giblet gravy
Bourbon-Honey Roasted Yams
with Cranberry-Orange Relish
Pan-Cooked Red Snapper
with finest crabmeat, butter-dill sauce and roasted garlic potatoes
Slow-roasted Prime Rib of Beef
seasoned with colonial spices, red wine reduction, horseradish, roasted garlic potatoes


Third Course


Pumpkin Pie with nutmeg cream
Chocolate Cake with raspberry sauce
Pecan Pie with caramel drizzle
Williamsburg Cinnamon Ice Cream
R. Charlton's American Heritage Coffee

 

Follow @JennyPopNet

 

North or South Thanksgiving? Just Eat, Drink and Watch TV!

The site of America's first Thanksgiving is up for debate, notably where Virginia is concerned. (Aside: where there are matters of national origin or first American families, Virginia will always concern itself.) Whilst the universally agreed-upon venue of the first Thanksgiving remains the famously friendly, 1621 feast amongst   Plymouth, Massachusetts colonists and the trusting, neighborhood Wampanoag Indians, Virginia holds firm to its claim, via Berkeley Plantation in 1619. Specious, but technically arguable, Berkeley's riparian shores along the James River ripple with questionable authenticity.

December 4, 1619, one year prior to the legendary Plymouth Rock, Mayflower landing, Captain John Woodleaf and a few dozen English settlers landed some twenty miles shy of Jamestowne Island, at Berkeley Hundred: an 8,000-acre land grant of the Virginia Company of London awarded to Sir William Throckmorton, Sir George Yeardley, George Thorpe, Richard Berkeley and John Smyth in 1618. After ten weeks at sea, and upon landing on Virginia soil, naturally, Captain Woodleaf and his men, the legend goes, dropped to their knees and Woodleaf thanked God then and there in an impromptu, outdoor service for their safe arrival. (Blink, blink.) The official Charter of Berkeley Hundred states “We ordaine [sic] that the day of our ships arrival at the place assigned for plantation in the land of Virginia shall be yearly and perpetually kept holy as a day of thanksgiving to Almighty God.” So, yeah. It was a first Thanksgiving, of sorts.

Whatever your thoughts about all that, Berkeley Plantation (open for tours), built in 1726 and cup o' sugar-sharing distance to neighboring Westover Plantation, (not open for tours, but stunning if you can get a private showing, like yours truly) remains standing and is a spectacular monument to early-Georgian architecture. Of most historical importance, Berkeley is ancestral home to the Harrison Family. Here sits the home of both Declaration of Independence Signer and Virginia governor, Benjamin Harrison V, as well as two U.S. Presidents: William Henry Harrison (#9) and Benjamin Harrison (#23). Notably, Wm. Henry also hits a Berkeley historical marker as the U.S. president with the shortest tenure: a mere thirty-two days. True to his "Tippecanoe and Tyler, Too", frontiersman persona and fearing he might look a weak leader, Harrison refused to don neither coat nor chapeau on his bitterly cold, winter inauguration day. (Trying to imagine President Harrison with an aide holding an umbrella over his head. Cannot.) One moth later, he died of pneumonia. Wear your coats, kids; but carry your own umbrellas. Queen Elizabeth II does.

Of course, regardless of where you like your Thanksgiving, North or South, whether you prefer Samuel Adams or Southern Comfort, Nathaniel Hawthorne or Tennessee Williams, Patrick Leahy or Saxby Chambliss (You don't even know who they are, do you?), Patriots or Cowboys (You know who they are, I bet.), Americans can all agree 'tis a fabulous day to feast, imbibe, dress up, share good cheer and, most American of all, watch TV!

If you happen to be in Virginia, you'll find more than a few great venues for your Thanksgiving. There shall be no debate about this; a traditional, 17th or 18thC.  tavern meal is always a wonderful idea! If you've read my Savannah of Williamsburg novels, you will recall many a tavern scene; if you've not read them ... for what are you waiting?! Enjoy here a sample menu from King's Arms Tavern, along picturesque Duke of Gloucester Street in Colonial Williamsburg. Best book now at any of CW's historic taverns! (Fellow vegetarians, take note: stick with the peanut soup, cheese sippets and copious amounts of Cabernet and cappuccino. You'll do fine!)

A Thanksgiving Feast at Colonial Williamsburg's King's Arms Tavern



First Course


Peanut Soup
garnished with chopped peanuts and sippets (cheese crisps)
King’s Arms Seasonal Greens
with marinated tomatoes, carrots, raspberry vinaigrette


Second Course


Roasted Turkey
with savory herb dressing and giblet gravy
Bourbon-Honey Roasted Yams
with Cranberry-Orange Relish
Pan-Cooked Red Snapper
with finest crabmeat, butter-dill sauce and roasted garlic potatoes
Slow-roasted Prime Rib of Beef
seasoned with colonial spices, red wine reduction, horseradish, roasted garlic potatoes


Third Course


Pumpkin Pie with nutmeg cream
Chocolate Cake with raspberry sauce
Pecan Pie with caramel drizzle
Williamsburg Cinnamon Ice Cream
R. Charlton's American Heritage Coffee

 

Follow @JennyPopNet

 

The Simpsons' Treehouse of Horror: Lovecraft, Existentialism and Free Donuts

 

The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents.

- "The Call of Cthulhu", H.P. Lovecraft

Dieticians might be shocked; fast-food might be far better for our health than previously thought. Krusty Burgers, to be specific, may very well save mankind, or at the very least, save us from a mass, alien enslavement of the human race. Yet, let's save that for later.

Whilst each Halloween blissfully brings FOX's Animation Domination Treehouse of Horror, this spine-chilling time of the year also brings bliss in analog format: Bongo Entertainment's own Treehouse of Horror. (For the uninitiated, Bongo Entertainment is the comic book publishing and distribution arm of the Matt Groening empire, spawned in 1991 by the ravenous needs of Simpsons fans the world over.)

Narrating three spooky, Simpsons tales, similar to the televised format, Treehouse of Horror the comic book delivers a sometimes darker, more sinister version of the bright and cheery, if not ever-twisted Springfield we visit via the beloved Boob Tube. Neither a companion piece nor an official complement, the comic book may be a different beast altogether (artists, writers, creep level), but like any Simpsons offering, it is replete with academic frames-of-reference, historical nods and cerebral asides. Never one to spoon-feed the consumer mushy peas for the mind, the Groening network presumes you know a thing or two about a thing or two; and if you don't, that's your referential loss. Treehouse of Horror #19 is no exception.

Though each of the three tales is a stand-alone, there exists a clear theme throughout this year's issue: World Domination. Via public school lunches or ancient, dormant overlords, be ye warned: thy cushy, quirky, sunshine-yellow life is available only for a limited time. Inspired by a 1928 short story titled The Call of Cthulhu by American horror-writer H.P. Lovecraft, the final yarn of the Treehouse triad best connects the philosophy of 1920s existentialism with our ageless Simpsons. Lovecraft's story tells of a slumbering sea monster -part-octopus/part-dragon/part-mustachioed gentleman- at the ready for an Earth-shattering awakening, enabled by any accidental and naive repetition of a bygone curse: Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. (Thank you, Bart and Milhouse.) Coming off the heels of WWI and riding the sunrise of the Great Depression, the concept of a deadly, sleeping, unseen giant must have been a useful literary tool in Lovecraft's paranoid day.

Fitting for Halloween, the holiday's pagan roots stretching the tissue-thin layer of protection betwixt this world and that of the spirits, Treehouse of Horror is always a full-colour, hilarious reminder of the evil that forever lurks. When the pretty, lace veil of perceived reality is finally lifted, the cavernous, black hole that is the charred face of true reality screeches her call of annihilation like a banshee in an abandoned, Irish castle. The jarring, depressing, futility of modern life exposed in Lovecraft's stories is confirmed by the realization of a secret, malevolent, alternate universe. Lovecraft called it "cosmic horror", this diseased and hopeless contemplation that humankind is worthless, insignificant and mindless, that the universe at large is innately hostile towards and conspiring against the very existence of the woeful human.

Writing in the first quarter of the 20thC., Howard Phillips Lovecraft was cosmically attached at the skull, like a conjoined litter of depressives, to fellow brooding, turn-of-the-century thinkers like Nietzsche, Kafka, Sartre and Woody Allen. (Okay, Woody's quite a bit later, but you get it. Fretful, pensive to distraction and dizzied by death and dying.) What is man's place in this mad, absurd, pointless world? Why bother? What does it all matter, when clearly we are slated for a brief, impotent sojourn on Earth, only to be ultimately condemned  to death, deterioration, desiccation and dust.

Meh. Lighten up, already! Existentialism, smexistentialism. Springfield still has Kwik-E-Mart squishees, Krusty burgers and Lard Boy donuts. Plus, it's Hallowe'en! How bad does mankind really have it in this cruelly short, dismally-fated, rat race? Well, don't ask Friedrich Nietzsche, ask Ned Flanders.

 

Tale No. 1: "Monster Mash-up"

Free beer and donuts vs. true love? Easy peasy call, right? Homer is lured into a haunted house by the Bacchanalian siren and finds himself accosted by a host of local characters, all morphed into classic monsters of lit and film. Krusty Hellraiser, Barney, Moe & Duffman zombies, Comic Book Guy From the Black Lagoon, and Reverend Lovejoy as Satan, of course. As a ghost-Marge entices Homer to join her in the grave, he must decide if true love or donuts and beer shall comfort his mortal soul. Plus, there are the cavity probes. You know you like it.

And this door doesn't hold anything better! Nothing but a post-apocalyptic cityscape's bleak nothingness of rubble and ruins. And zombies probably. -Homer

Tale No.2: "Alienated"

School cafeteria lunches never tasted so good! With lunch lady Doris and her usual gruel M.I.A., students are dining on substitute vittles. With the new chow, kiddies become smarter, more efficient and develop a serious case of what Ned Flanders calls 'sass mouth'. Yet, will the fast-food tables turn? Will Professor Frink and little Lisa uncover the mystery of the missing cafeteria meat food?  Will Krusty Burger and its foodesque, lethargy-invoking, quasi-edible slurry save the world; or will Krusty simply teach the aliens how to serve man?

Rod and Todd have taken to answering me by using the word 'whatever'. Also, I think they're mutilating cattle. -Ned Flanders

Tale No. 3: "Cthulhu? Gesundheit!"

Be careful what you wish for, Milhouse. Borrowing heavily from the Cthulhu mythos, or the Lovecraftian milieu (Fun to say, right? Try working it in at Thanksgiving.), Bart and Milhouse are assigned to catalogue the long-forgotten tomes of Springfield Elementary School's basement-library. There they find an ancient spell book of the dead: Necronomicon. (Good name for a Comic-Con goth panel.) By speaking one simple tongue-twister, Cthulhu and his ilk can be called from the depths of the sea, like a genie from his bottle, to do the bidding of his new master. Will the Kraken-like sea creature enslave and devour the human race, or will Santa's Little Helper be a good doggie and save the day?

Bart, where does A Tale of Two Cities go?     -Milhouse

How about in the trash? Any book that can't make up its mind where it wants to be set can't possibly be any good! -Bart

 

Pay attention, humans! Cthulhu has been awakened! Photo: Dennis van Zuijlekom

Happy Halloween, Earthlings!

Ooh! An actual beer and donuts joint?! Well … I guess I have a little time to stop! -Homer

 

 

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Nordstrom and Gwen Say, "Happy Friday! Put Your Party Shoes On!"

It is Friday! Like sage Confucius, the Grande Silver Dame Nordstrom say "Put your party shoes on!". Well said! In like spirit, I proffer you an excerpt from my latest novel, The Darlings of Orange County. If the selection below nudges you toward a day of shoe shopping at your local Nordstrom, wunderbar! If it nudges you to buy the whole book and, thus, support my shoe needs, all the mehr wunderbar! Enjoy!

Thankfully, the annoying world of Becca was contained within her phone and, regretting she had started such a perfect day with such a call, Veronica threw her device and Becca into her purse, took off her sunglasses and tossed them in on top of the phone and continued toward a large glass door with a simple, vertical, brass bar handle. As she pulled it open, a blast of glorious air-conditioning bathed her whole body. She lifted her chin and let the initial blast coat her chest and neck, allowing the air to penetrate and swirl all through her hair. The door closed automatically behind her as she entered the building she tried hard to eschew Becca and her No Reading-rule. She couldn't help but get drawn back, though and she pondered the world of non-readers.
Who was she kidding? Modern man wasn't pulling up Reuters news clips about Italy's latest political fight or NPR bites on water sanitation in India; they were pulling up Fantasy Football scores, Jackass-wannabe videos, amateur porn and Twitter sext messages, and their numbers were drowning the planet in whole-learning idiocy. Being a published author may not hold cache for much longer on a planet of growing mindlessness, vapidity and apathy. Where were the great thinkers? Where were the great philosophers, the great humanitarians? It sickened her and she did the only thing possible that could assuage a deep, gothic and penetrating mind like her own. "Hello, Nordstrom!"
They were perfect: red plaid wool and black suede, lace-up booties with a five-inch shaft and a one-inch platform. They were L.A.M.B. by Gwen Stefani and they had a name: the Rose Bootie. They were nearly six hundred dollars and because of this distinction they stood alone at the pinnacle of a L.A.M.B. display in Salon Shoes at Nordstrom, South Coast Plaza. They couldn't actually glisten or emanate purity and goodness in brilliant strobes of light because they were suede and wool. Nevertheless, in Veronica's head, she saw the strobes of purity and goodness. She knew L.A.M.B. was synonymous with purity and goodness. It was a perfect collection headed by a perfect designer. With the exception of some really ugly 1980s-inspired designs of a few years ago, Gwen Stefani could do no wrong and Veronica would forever remain her most devoted disciple.
They had her size in the Rose Booties; she'd checked first thing. Most Nordstrom stores carried only one pair of each size, of each shoe. That's just genius marketing. Get 'em before some other chick does. The young salesman (Nordstrom shoe guys are almost always young, beautiful and impeccably dressed.) had eagerly helped her try on a pair and told her, ever so politely and just once, for Nordstrom was all about the soft sell, they were "sexy" and "set off the calf perfectly". She knew what that meant. Not the calf, but her calf. Her calf looked excellent in tattered, Polo flip-flops; she didn't even need a mirror to tell her they looked stripper-excellent in these booties. (Say what you want about strippers, but they're forever a mile marker of some sort to women everywhere.) She did look in the mirror, though, and he was right. They were sexy. She was sexy. He asked for her name, to hold the shoes, of course.
"Veronica?" she said in her standard, non-accent accent of the So Cal girl, whereby everything sounded like a peppy question. She eyed the booties with far more lust and enthusiasm than she could have ever summoned up for the salesman with the blue eyes and black curls, her lids falling nearly shut as she tried to turn her head away from them and back to the salesman. Then, like a stubborn cow pulled back to the herd with a rope, she reluctantly turned to him and her eyes shot open and sparkled with her default excitement for pretty much everything under the sun and said, "I'll be right back!"
" It's me, Veronica. Is he back?" she curtly asked Becca.
"Oh. Hi, Veronica. Um, let me see," she paused then spoke again. "Um, I don't see him anywhere. He may have gone for a coffee or something."
"Damn it, Becca. Why are you answering his phone? He can't answer his own phone?"
"Well, um, he's really busy and I'm just handing him the really important … I mean," Becca stammered.
"I know exactly what you mean. The really important calls? Listen up, Becca. You tell him I'm driving up there tomorrow. Tell him he'd better have a badge for me at Will Call. One for Ryan, too. See you in the morning, Becca."
Naturally, within minutes her cell rang. Too late. Now, he could wait. She'd talk to Glenn tomorrow. Besides, she and Ryan were always up for a drive to L.A. They'd stop at the Book Expo, harass her agent for a bit, then keep going up to Monterey and spend the night.
She didn't return to Salon Shoes. It was clear there was either no good news, at the very least, or no news at all about her book sales at the Expo and, that said, she'd make herself wait on the booties. L.A.M.B. was a treat, a pricey carrot for work well done. She agreed to treat herself only if the tradeshow went well and as of now she had no idea. Treats were always sweeter when well-earned. They'd put the boots back on the shelf at the end of the day, but at least they'd be safe from other women's skanky feet for a little while. She had to get herself another agent. Glenn was proving to be a worthless hassle.
She instead browsed through the rest of the store. Nordstrom made everything better, even without an extravagant purchase. Her mother had introduced her to Nordstrom at a very early age. She had, in fact, introduced her to all things South Coast Plaza at a very early age. As Veronica's childhood friend, Dr. Mandy Fong, once said of both their mothers, "It's like a mother cat and her kitten. First, the mother cat catches the mouse, kills the mouse and gives it to her kitten to eat. Next, the mother cat catches the mouse, lets the kitten play with the mouse a bit, then takes back the mouse, kills it and gives it to the kitten to eat. Finally, the mother cat catches the mouse and passes it off completely as she proudly watches the kitten play with, kill, and then eat the mouse all by herself. So it is true with Nordstrom mothers and their kittens.

Excerpt from The Darlings of Orange County by Jennifer S. Devore. All rights reserved. Property of KIMedia, LLC. Excerpt may be shared digitally for entertainment,  non-commercial purposes only and may not be reprinted in analog format or sold in any format, digital, analog or otherwise.

Shoes pictures above: (L) Chinese Laundry "Celestial" pump; (R) Dolce Vita "Kaydn" pump. Available at Nordstrom.com. 

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Pumpkin Spice Latte, I've Got ... Hallowe'en Costume, Not So Much

Screams like a banshee for PSL and pilgrim shoes. Photo: JSDevore

Even the walruses have gone. Summer here in ~sigh~ perennially sunny San Diego is a fait accompli and so commences the greatest, worthiest, am besten time of year: autumn!! Automne, Herbst, Fall, Høst, Autunno ... whatever you may call it, call it verily the loveliest of seasons: time for Pumpkin Spice Latti, tall boots, wool fedoras, fingerless gloves, empty beaches, ghostly harbors, Poe, Agatha Christie, Midsomer Murders, and so much of that which demands a fireplace-warmed and foggy eve in Bar Harbor, Salem, Seattle or Monterey. 'Tis also the time for prepping one's Hallowe'en costume!

Yes, many of you know well, I have a costuming addiction. From tossing on togs for a bike ride (Last week, I pretended I was in Amsterdam, so I donned my plaid, Banana Republic newsboy cap, Heidi skirt and Juicy Couture, cotton halter top to peddle to a fave coffeehouse. Serious cyclists always strike me as so tense and uncomfortable as they whizz past; I much prefer cruisin' in my Miss Marple shoes and bobby sox.) to deciding what to wear to a fantasy football party (Yes, I went to a footballesque gathering ... sort of proto-autumnal. Plus, there were Bloody Marys.) to selecting just the right vestments for an airport pick-up (depends on the airport), I just plain ol' enjoy the art of the ensemble. Naturally, this culminates each year with the Hallowe'en selection ... this year, I'm flat busted for ideas.

Maybe it's because I've been overdoing the holiday for x-number of years; I've been everything. (Hey, that would be a cool, seasonal, Weird Al-style version of Johnny Cash's I've Been Everywhere.) Short of making a bulleted list, which I do love to make, I was all the generics, as a child: black cat, bunny rabbit, witch, pumpkin (as an infant) etc. Later on, costumes ranged from saloon girls to Civil War nurses, 17thC. cavaliers to pirates, Raggedy Ann to Medieval princesses and varied historical and/or Disney figures. As of late, I've tended toward the ladies of Tim Burton: Mrs. Lovett, Mirana the White Queen and such. Now, I'm tapped out, mostly.

I toyed with Sally from Tim Burton's The Nightmare Before Christmas; although, I don't know about dying my hair that red for one night, and I find red wigs to always look like bad yarn. Wednesday Addams is a natural, but almost too much so. Friends would say, "Why no costume this year?" Plus, all my dolls are in storage (Yes, I have a sizable doll collection, mostly Barbies.) and I need a baroque doll (which I do have, yet can't get to easily) so I can pop off her head. You know, as in Wednesday's Marie Antoinette doll?

I even pondered Princess Leia in the Gold Bikini: too slutty. (Plus, I can't see that costume anymore without picturing Ross Geller's mom. "Okay, here we go. I'm Jabba's prisoner ... Come on, sweetie. You're like, freaking me out here.") Apropos, I do like the idea of Han Solo (in theory as well as cosplay); I think I can pull it together, minus the holster and Mauser blaster. Of course, if one is going to go SW, one has a moral responsibility. Also, one does not want to fuck with the Rebel Legion and their costuming standards. Really. I can't just sew some red ribbons down my trousers; they have to be Corellian bloodstripes: 1" x 1/4" with 1/8" in between stripes. My holster, blaster and belt have to be correct and I'd better find the proper droid caller to affix or I am in deep bantha poodoo.

I've also considered Jim Morrison; I have the curls, the Concho belt, the chambray shirt and the sunglasses, but no leather pants. I think some years, Napoleon; I have the breeches, boots and could fashion a jacket, but no hat. Additionally, I've always loved the French gendarme uniform; yet, I'd have to mug a cocktail waitress at Paris in Vegas for the gear. I don't know what to do.

"Hey, Jen. Why didn't you dress up this year?"

 

Any ideas?

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Double-Helix Muppet Ballroom: Happy Birthday, Jim Henson!

 

"All the French I know, I learned from my perfume bottles."  -Miss Piggy

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All I know about being a girl I learned from Miss Piggy. Sure, mix in some stuff I learned from Mom, Scarlett O'Hara, Jane Austen, Wonder Woman, Veronica and Sally Ride. Yet, Piggy passed on to me tenacious lessons of immovable, stalking-love, perfecting the hair-flip, sprinkling one's conversations with French and always being ready for the camera. She also imbued the beauty of a well-timed karate chop. Hiiiiiya!

Though, it was not just Miss Piggy who helped me become the half-woman/half-TV character I am today; every loyal subject of Jim Henson and Muppetdom guided me through infancy, childhood and into a very cheerful and dorky adolescence, wherein my Muppet DNA ran so fiercely and powerfully through my cells that I was immune to the fear, peer pressure and derision experienced by mere, common teenagers. No fear on Sesame Street or The Muppet Show, no fear in "real life". Right?) The Henson clan held my felt hand and steered me straight on course for a ridiculously happy, borderline reality-impaired, adulthood.

~insert Kermit's The Muppet Show opening cheer, skinny green arms akimbo~

Beaker and Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, clearly the brains behind the worldwide DNA infusion (Can you see it? A double-helix of Muppet DNA, all made of felt and spinning, laughing, dancing and dipping glamorously to ballroom music? Yeah, I can see it.), exposed the explosive dangers of the lab to me and, accordingly, I kept away from a hard science major in college. Ditto for the Swedish Chef; I fear the kitchen, and knives, to this day: not to mention human hands. Gonzo urged me to love even poultry; I have been a vegetarian for too many years to count now. Gonzo also enlightened the world that labels are unnecessary. Gonzo was, and still is, a creature of unknown lineage and he rocked it. Lew Zealand illustrated that fish don't need water, just hugs and pets. Beauregard was sweet and chipper, though just a janitor, and with his plaid flannel shirt was Grunge way before Kurt Cobain was. Scooter knew how to focus on a task and how to manage a production with nothing more than a clipboard and a headset, all while sporting that dynamite lime-green satin jacket. Fozzie the Bear. Well, what can one say about Fozzie? Fozzie proved there is no line between comedy and irritation. If a joke doesn't work, extrapolate another from that failed one and keep on trucking until the giant hook comes for you. (Damn, that thing is hard to dodge.)

Every Muppet was born with a quality worthy of academic study. There isn't a bad apple in the barrel and Jim Henson knew that. Even Oscar the Grouch isn't bad; he's just crafted that way. Every creature is worthy, worthier sometimes, than humans of anthropomorphism. Rats love margaritas and moonlight buffets on Caribbean cruises just like everyone else. Cockroaches, shrimp, peas and cauliflower are people, too, and deserve respect. This is where the deepest and best lessons lie. Like any superhero, there is an everymanimal quality with which all mortals can identify. Like Charlie Brown, Spongebob, Bobby Hill, Winnie-the-Pooh or Anderson Cooper, there is a positive, optimistic charm that flows endlessly and makes us say, "Hey, man. No worries. It's all good." Pigs in Space and Veterinary Hospital exhibited humor and gravity, or lack thereof in the former, can go hand-in-hand. They also taught me to listen to bold, narrative voices coming from the skylights. (Was there ever a hotter pig than Link, btw?)

If Piggy, and Mom, taught me a girl can never have too much jewelry and a karate chop is okay if you've been offended, and Gonzo showed me love knows no species and chickens deserve pearls and not to be eaten, and Fozzie proved spirit, grit and determination can get you through even the toughest of crowds, Kermit was the real Sensei. What Kermit endowed in me cannot be spoken, written or shared. Like Yoda, Linus, Mulder, Serious Jerry or Daddy, Kermit imparted wisdom that just, is. Honor, truth, patience, kindness, tenacity and love.

Daddy loves to tell of the day Sesame Street first aired. I was two years old and he would become a child psychologist years later. He plopped me down in front of the television and watched with me as we learned a new letter and a new number with the help of a funny, furry, puppet-type thing that morning. He thought it was the greatest thing since pants. From that day onward, 123 Sesame St. was a daily destination and, like a good American child, I soon craved any and all merchandise associated with anything Jim Henson touched. I still have my Grover hand-Muppet and because of Super Grover, I would never be so afraid of the monster at the end of this book, that I would not continue to the end of the book. Wocka, wocka, wocka!

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Talk Like a Pirate Day? Rock Like a Pirate Day!

 

'Tis "Talk Like a Pyrate Day". Considering how many pyrates I know, 'tis like any other day. So, why not "Rock Like a Pyrate Day"? Be a matey, share the official theme song of Savannah of Williamsburg: The Trials of Blackbeard and His Pirates! Be ye a musician? Create your own tuneage and share it with the whole crew here at Savannah of Williamsburg.

"Me Cup Is Broke"

lyrics by Jennifer Susannah Devore

Blow me sails full! Blow on! Blow on!
Pour me ale full! Flow on! Flow on!
Me treasure be waitin', me lady tried 'scapin',
Me gold chest it swells, soon we'll all go to Hell!
Ye Caribbean Sea so hot it drains me wit!
DREAD! Me cup is broke and who will fix it?!

 

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Revolution, Resurrection and Pumpkin Head Lattes: "Sleepy Hollow" Rises Again

Like many a standard of American literature, Washington Irving's 1819 short-story, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, has seen more facelifts and resurrections than Hillary Clinton's political career: varied adaptations on the usual theme, always entertaining and sketchy, nightmare fare for some. Irving's Sleepy Hollow is uniquely American, but its roots reach far under the lightning-charred, tulip trees of time back to Germany's Middle Ages and the wicked warnings of the folkloric Wild Huntsman, der Wilde Jäger: a headless ghoul who galloped through the forests of Northern Europe at preternatural speeds, seeking bad little children who failed to eat their wegetables, greedy men of ill-repute and stray women of low moral fiber. Be good or der Wilde Jäger vill get you, meinen Kinder!

Fox TV is the latest raconteur to tell the tale of Sleepy Hollow, the town "that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie." (This is the second Sleepy endeavor for FOX; the first being 1999's Night of the Headless Horseman, a CGI animation.) The most flexible thus far in its use of artistic license, this latest narration of the ageless myth benefits from the cleverness and vision of  Fringe creators Robert Orci and Alex Kurtzman. Fundamentally, they follow the basic, chilling spine of the tale and keep pivotal characters in play. Pleasingly, for one never knows what presumptions Hollywood will take, the powers that be kept Irving's tale exactly where it was intended: Westchester County, New York, in a little hamlet along the Hudson River which "abounds with local tales, haunted spots and twilight superstitions". Once known as North Tarrytown, the good townfolk of this wee burg finally voted in 1996 to have the town's name officially changed to Sleepy Hollow.

Accordingly, Washington Irving himself is entombed in the south end of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. This is not to be confused, though oft is, with the adjacent Old Dutch Church and its colonial-era graveyard where Irving's tale is actually set. With no marked boundaries bewtixt the two, they are generally thought of as one. Irving's own grave sits on a small hill overlooking Old Dutch and its nightly goings-on. If Autumn, Halloween, New England graveyards and Pumpkin Spice Lattes bring you a toothy grin, the imagery of fluttering leaves, glowing porch lights, colonial burying grounds and Dutch colonial houses in the Hudson Valley will provide, at the very least, a much appreciated gallop through Hallowe'en Town, U.S.A..

Ichabod Crane, Irving's everyman-antihero, has gone through many a change since his literary birth in 1819, though most iterations adhere to the tenets of what it means to be Ichabod Crane: nebbish, hand-wringing, superstitious, studious and shy. Based on a mesh of two men Irving met during his life, a Sackets Harbor army captain actually named Ichabod Crane and a Kinderhook, NY schoolteacher named Jesse Merwin, the fictional Ichabod Crane has himself become somewhat of an eponym in his neuroses. Animation or live-action, most versions of the fidgety, living scarecrow have been true to form: skittish schoolteacher or hystrionic headmaster. From Walt Disney's The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad (1949) to Wishbone's Halloween Hound: The Legend of Creepy Collars (1998) to Jeff Goldblum's pitch-perfect portrayal in NBC's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow (1980) the good Mr. Crane has served his calling well, forever fearful of his own shadow, lanky and awkward in carriage, tongue-tied around the beauteous Katrina and gullible to the core.

Even Tim Burton's Sleepy Hollow (1999), arguably one of the best resurrections yet, sees Ichabod as a very proper reincarnation, if not more mathematically attractive than those whom came before Johnny Depp. Though Burton and Depp massaged and molded Ichabod into an Industrial-era, New York City detective, trading in Cotton Mather's dog-eared Witchcraft in New England for a doctor's bag full of newfangled, scientific tools, the scaredy cat is still in there, clinging to the proverbial ceiling. The wild woods of Westchester Co. and haunting beauty, and wealth, of Katrina Van Tassel (Christina Ricci) ruffle his fur justly and deliver unto us the flustered Ichabod we have all come to pity. Now, FOX is tweaking the mold again, and adding a bit more clay; this time he's a beefier, meatier Ichabod Crane.

More Abercrombie & Fitch than Compugear, the newest Ichabod Crane is played adroitly and very well-sculpted by Englishman Tom Mison (Henry IV, Poirot, Lost in Austen). So obviously theatre-trained, Shakespearean- in fact, Mison brings a decidedly non-telly flip-of-the-cape to primetime viewing. His stage and film background emanates from him like an after-sex radiance, giving him the unchallenged spotlight. But for Mison, the rest of the cast would be good. In his presence, they are good enough. Mison's Ichabod is neither scared nor hesitant; he is impatient and determined. The divergences from the traditional Ichabod are vast and numbered; a rugged, take-charge, 250-year old Ichabod with a Colin Farrellesque beard is the least of them.

As much a fish-out-of-water tale as it is a horror story, Sleepy Hollow the series addresses sudden time-travel with a healthy bit of tongue-in-cheek. 'Tis no easy task keeping a 19thC. folktale about 18thC. history pertinent to 21stC. viewers, many of whom might have difficulty differentiating betwixt George Washington and Washington Irving. To remedy this, FOX has added the requisite components. Neither a pathetic, grade-school teacher nor a fussy science geek, Ichabod is redefined as a fetching, Revolutionary War soldier, the very one whom takes the head of a Redcoat amidst "some nameless battle". It is this Redcoat who will soon haunt Ichabod from far beyond the grave and time.

A point of detail, mostly of interest to history and literary sticklers, the Headless Horseman was not a British soldier, but in fact a Hessian jäger: a German-mercenary sharpshooter and horseman hired by the British Crown, like a land-roving, Teutonic pirate. Ichabod's bio, so the new story goes, tells us he was once a professor of history at Oxford until involuntarily enlisted by His Majesty King George III to fight the American rabble in the Colonies. Once on American shores, he found he could no longer serve under or support tyranny: over to the American patriots he defected, serving bravely under Gen. George Washington. Nothing nebbish there. Certainly more Ralph Fiennes than Woody Allen.

To boot, because cop shows set in New York just will not go away, FOX had to add that facet to the series. Blessedly, instead of Manhattan, it is properly mis-en-scène along the Hudson River Valley. Although, if a visit to the lovely Sleepy Hollow you shall see each Monday night is in your tarot cards, keep in mind the series was filmed on location far below Yankee-tax territory in the right-to-work and healthy tax incentive state of North Carolina, Wilmington to be precise.

Whilst Ichabod is not the cop this time around, he does play helpful investigator and expert witness to no-nonsense, African-American, female cop Abbie Mills, played affably by Nicole Beharie (42, Woman Thou Art Loosed, The Good Wife). Make way, folks, for numerous, and predictable, one-liners about emancipation, slavery, female lieutenants and ladies-in-trousers. Add Ichabod's befuddlement about cell phones, electric car-windows, Starbucks, flashlights and asphalt; then sprinkle with Troopers vs. Horseman shootouts using semi-automatic shotguns and a magical axe, and the series can sometimes taste a bit like New York Cheddar: cheesy.

Occasional elements of Charmed and Highlander aside, Sleepy Hollow is a ripping good hour of entertaining television. Mison's Ichabod Crane is the giant spoon that stirs the cauldron, but the cauldron is a mighty fine melange of mystery, dark humour, American history (tweaked just a bit for dramatic effect, of course), 18thC. costuming (if you drool over such things) and the spooky, blue lighting that's been missing from nighttime television since The X-Files went off the air. With Autumn approaching in mere days, FOX might have nailed this one right on the, well, noggin. If broadcast TV has a drama this season that requires a quiet house, flickering pumpkin candles and a glass of port wine in a colonial shrub glass to enhance viewing, Sleepy Hollow is it.

As the Headless Horseman rode off into the sunrise of the Sleepy Hollow premiere, for he must skedaddle back to the sanctuary of his Old Dutch Church grave by each morning's light, he is seen in silhouette resting a Tommy gun over his broad, frock-coated, headless shoulder, having apparently traded in his magical, Hessian broad axe, for the moment anyway. At least until he regains his head and reconnoiters with his fellow Horsemen of the Apocalypse later in the series to commence mankind's final demise, thus proving George Washington's hunch correct, as confided to Ichabod Crane on the battlefield in 1781: the Revolution is not about fighting for America's freedom, but to save every man, woman and child on the planet.

Oh, wait. That's not in the book. I'll bet you a Pumpkin Head Latte that Washington Irving never saw that angle coming.

 

Sleepy Hollow airs Mondays @9/8c on FOX

For some excellent, pre-Revolutionary, historical-fiction featuring Herr Ichabod,visit Jennifer Devore's Amazon Author Page!

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Austenland: Prudish Delight

 

Literature nerds and history dorks have superheroes, too: Edgar Allan Poe, William Shakespeare, Mark Twain, Anne Rice, Lucy Maud Montgomery, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Ken Burns, The Brontë Sisters, Thomas Jefferson, David McCullough, Miss Savannah Squirrel (of course!) and a whole league of historians and novelists. The standout heroine for the geek girly-girl strain of this genre? Miss Jane Austen, indeed!

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As one of this strain, not to mention a long-time member in good standing of the comic genre, I can affirmatively state Miss Austen is our Wonder Woman, Superman, Batman and Scully all wrapped beautifully under a tidy, feathered, grosgrain-trimmed, Regency bonnet. (Yes, Scully is not only a comic book heroine but also has her own action figure; I own both.) Wherein this modern age, sometimes, some feel like a fish out of water, Miss Austen gives us everything we need to cope: literature, vocabulary, historical detail, rigid manners, meticulous décor and blissfully asyndetic conversation. Austen is the It Girl of Britain's Regency era and, where softer, quieter geeks are concerned, she and her characters are models of grace, gentility and marmoreal skin in what is a surely a more tarnished, gauche, crude and frumpy world. Jane's superpower? A soft voice and an extensive vocabulary. One must lean in close to hear her pithy, social banter. You must lean into her; therein lies the power. Where there is power, there is also the threat of downfall. Her silver bullets and Kryptonite? 140 characters and scatalogical humour.

If Austen and her characters (Elizabeth Bennet, Emma Woodhouse, Catherine Morland, Mr. Darcy) form a high society of superheroes, Snooki and her double-digit IQ, vulgar ilk are their nemeses. With the whip of a bonnet sash, a quick flick of an embroidered, Irish handbag and the lightning-fast scribe of a handwritten thank you note, Miss Jane and her Society could rid the culture of Jersey June bugs, Real Housewives, Kardashians and Hooters. Taste always trumps tacky.

If being a bit of a prude is not quite a punishable crime today, it is unquestionably dorky and out of vogue. Jane Austen assuages the modern prude with emergency rations of taste, etiquette and elegance when necessary. She gives us pale, graceful necks sans tan lines, delicate drop earrings, amusing chapeaux, bone china and witty repartee. Jane gives us Gwyneth Paltrow, Kate Winslet and Keira Knightley sipping English breakfast tea and shading their pearlescent bosoms from the harsh, Yorkshire sun with the prettiest of Battenberg lace parasols. It is like The Real Housewives of Atlanta and Honey Boo Boo never slithered under the garage door and into our house.

Jane leaves her admirers gleefully free of red Solo cups, texting, Twitter, fast food, zombies (with the exception of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies by Seth Grahame-Smith), Facebook, reality TV, Vegas, cell phones, Pandora, 24-hour news, TMZ, gaming, CGI, toe rings, Pirates of the Caribbean V, sailor language, Breaking Bad and stupidly oversized iPads held aloft to Tweet pictures taken at the seashore. To be sure, I enjoy some of the above, minus Facebook, zombies and fast food. Whilst I do have a strong prudish streak, I am not a true prude. In fact, I may be the only one to defend Miley Cyrus' plushie sex twerking at the VMAs and, if you've read my latest novel, The Darlings of Orange County, you know full well I have a twerky side. Still, like spiced rum, Nutter Butters and plushie twerking, everything has its time, place and limits. They do not compose healthy, daily sustenance. Where there is overload, there is overkill and often not enough mouthwash in the world. Is not Miss Austen a lovely diversion, an occasional antiseptic, if you will?

Jane's world can be a balm, but it can also be a gilded trap: Austenland. Thus, the case for Jane Hayes, a thirty-something Austen addict played convincingly by freshly-scrubbed, natural beauty Keri Russell (Felicity, Running Wilde, Wonder Woman). Austenland is a scrumptious, directorial debut for Jerusha Hess (Napoleon Dynamite) and a brilliantly cheery romantic-comedy based on the novel of the same name by authoress Shannon Hale (Rapunzel's Revenge, Princess Academy).

If audience engagement is any marker, Austenland is running for the roses. Like New Orleans, Disneyland or the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale, if you are not having a great time, you might be a zombie. Replete with, yes, mostly older women en seul, most everyone guffawed, tittered, giggled and ahhhed throughout all posh ninety-seven minutes. The few men I did see had the relaxed look that comes with watching a non-taxing film in comfy, recliner theater seats with their feet up and their Birkenstocks left on the floor. (Decidedly very non-Austen.) To be sure, the men I did see were also accompanied by their ladies. My own Mr. Darcy knew we had to see Austenland after viewing the trailer at a recent showing of Blue Jasmine. "Well, we have to!" he insisted with a chuckle. "That is so you!"

Spot on, in fact! From Jane Hayes' flashbacks, taking her own tea cup and saucer to a cafe, to her life-sized, cardboard cutout of Mr. Darcy (mine was Johnny Depp), to theme dressing at the airport, Austenland has happy, quiet, dork handwritten all over it.

The casting is polished to perfection: not a bruised apple in the barrel. Jennifer Coolidge (Best in Show, Legally Blonde, 2 Broke Girls) steals the show. Her tacky-but-sweet American with cash is sheer precision. An oversized Barbie in Regency hot-pink, her character of Miss Elizabeth Charming is an absolute hoot. 'Er 'orrible, overdone, Eliza Doolittle accent is as amusing as her hats (which I actually covet) and her enthusiasm for the total-immersion English holiday is contagious, making me very pleased with myself that I wore a Regency-inspired, empire-waist, Japanese mini-dress and pewter drop earrings for the occasion.

Lady Amelia Heartwright, played fetchingly by Georgia King, is a fellow Austenland traveller, filling out the triad of ladies on literary holiday. She is a whimsical, living doll reminiscent of silent-era actresses known as much for their pouty lips, porcelain skin and large eyes as their comedic timing and X-CU expressions. Hopping hither and thither like an exquisite, mischievous rabbit, King keeps the laughter cavorting across the vast estate lawns. Keri Russell plays the lead role as Jane Hayes/Miss Jane Erstwhile with a delicate realism any Austen dork knows all too well: social awkwardness, happy oblivion and a nearly overbearing obsessiveness that only the best of friends and spouses will ever understand or tolerate.

In Austenland, run with the icy business head of Mrs. Wattlesbrook, played deftly by Jane Seymour, the men serve as either eye candy or hired soul mates. Ironically, it takes a dose of holiday fiction for Miss Erstwhile to realize that her blanket assessment, "apparently the only good men are fictional", is wrong ... or is it? For it is in Austenland where Jane finds her Mr. Darcy ... or is it? Maybe it is only once she is free of the Austen spell ... or does the Austen spell indeed prove the very magic she needs? A torrential English rain, a soaked, lovely damsel-in-distress, a handsome gentleman on a grey horse and a linen dress ripped by said-gentleman, exposing a bit of fine, Regency leg, certainly never hurts the start of a romance.

I haven't clapped aloud in a theater in quite a while. Many moons ago, I did so at the end of Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl, the first of the POTC franchise. Similar to POTCI, Austenland not only provides fun storylines and sympathetic characters, but enough visual stimuli to ensure at least a second viewing: costuming, set design, colours, location, landscape, architectural detail and all the fine points one would only notice when they are omitted. Emerging from POTC I in 2003, my own Mr. Darcy excitedly said, "Now that is what going to the movies should be like! Wow! That was awesome!" He said the same thing as we emerged from Austenland last week. "Maybe it's because I know you and Lesli so well," referring to my fellow historical-dorkette, "but that was hilarious!"

True, perchance because he could see my cohort and me in so many situations, he laughed as hard as most of the women in the theater, their laughter also betraying intimate understanding. By the laws of comedy, good writing and production values though, this film is just Plain Jane good stuff for anyone! Certainly, as comedy is relative, knowing the characters adds another layer of humour. I do know these people; it does add another layer.

Many will roll their eyes. "Sounds more superficial than superhero. Where's the superheroine in all this twaddle? What is so powerful about being prudish, posh and persnickety?" The power lies not in the aesthetics of Austenland or any other pretty mis-en-scène; the power lies in the cheerful confidence it takes bring bits of this old-fashioned life, including the quickly disappearing art of social conversation, to our modern one. The power lies in being true to one's inclinations, no matter how unpopular. Take a look around, desperately casual, blasé and mouthy is all the rage; quiet, modest and polished is not. Being a geek girl, I am told ad nauseam, means not taking guff from anyone. As far as I can see, ass-kicking can come via Knives Chao, Power Girl and Lara Croft as easily as it can via Elizabeth Bennet, Laura Ingalls and Anne Shirley.

Power can carry a parasol through a gauntlet of terrifying, sniggering, beach teens; power can use far too many words to share a simple link; power can spend years writing about a colonial squirrel, knowing most will only laugh about it while a mere handful will read the tales; and, power can take an hour to sip her tequila shot like it is a Royal Doulton cup of Darjeeling, despite friendly taunts and peer pressure to chug. Some of us do not chug, ever.

Being true to oneself is today's real superpower. If only I had a pearl drop earring for every time someone asked me with a poorly hidden smirk, "Why are you so dressed up?", "You're not seriously wearing that?" or "I can't deal with your emails. Too many big words.", well, I would have even more pearl drop earrings than I already do. Geeks come in all shapes and sizes. If your shade of pale is lavender-hued, you use a soft voice, too many big words and carry an analog copy of Pride and Prejudice, own it.

Psst ... when you see Austenland, stay put for the end-credits. It all gets a little hot in here!

 

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