Broken promise

My friend P-girl and I went to see Rufus Wainwright in concert this weekend. He did a fine job and his voice sounded brilliant, but it was a much more subdued Rufie this time around compared to his concert two years ago. That time he was a flamboyant party host swathed in a colorful scarf and snappy repartee. This year, he was the reserved gentleman inviting us into his drawing room for a spot of tea.

He traded his starring spot to open for Ben Folds, who turned up the juice as any newly appointed headliner should. I'd never seen Ben in concert before. Both he and Rufus prooved there's something very sexy about a skinny boy having his way with a piano. One of the highlights of the show was their heartfelt duet of Wham's "Careless Whisper." Then Ben led the audience as a choir for one number that got all the people as shiny and happy as could be.

On the cinematic tip, the weekend included Jim Jarmusch's new film Broken Flowers starring Bill Murray, which I viewed with C-girl. I'd read it was JJ's most commercial film, a comment which makes him cringe. I guess you could say it was his most commercial film, but that's not saying a hell of a lot.

I think it is a movie that will grow on me during post-partum impressions. Once my mind can edit out the boring parts and buff a nice patina out of the good moments, like Bill's uncomfortable interaction with a Lolita by the same name, a carefully tended performance by Jessica Lange, Bill's priceless expressions and the damp, quiet sadness of the film.

C-girl and I were trying to figure out what JJ was trying to say with all his slow-burn scenes of sadness, long takes of driving, driving, driving and CD listening (very Ghost Dog), and, most unsettling, the unfinished feeling and lack of resolution. C-girl supposed it was a comment on life as an imperfect tangle of a journey with many uneventful stretches between the knots. Sho'nuff makes sense to me.