Paul Rudnick

Ariana Grande recently tweeted the following; “dear world, more compassion, niceness, encouragement, less judgement, intolerance, labeling bullshit pls”; she also tweeted, “if you don’t have anything nice to say don’t say it.”

I know that Ariana means well, and who can argue with the need for compassion, but judgement is something else entirely. I’m sure that, on occasion, even Ariana judges, and I’ll bet she’s occasionally tempted to say things that aren’t quite “nice.” In honor of Ariana, here’s a guide, to modern judgement:

1. There are the kneejerk judgements we make instantly, in any situation, but don’t dare share in any forum.
2. There are the judgements we voice aloud, but only to our pets or to our face in the mirror, as in “I look awful, but at least I don’t look as bad as (substitute a celebrity’s most recent mug shot).”
3. There are the judgements we will share over the phone with close friends, preceded by phrases like, “you can never repeat this, I mean it, but…” followed by phrases like, “But you know I love her.”
4. There are judgements we’re willing to text or email, which means they can be forwarded.
5. There are judgements we’re willing to voice anonymously, online, because we’re in that kind of mood.
6. There are judgements we’re willing to make on Twitter or Facebook, where we can be identified. We justify these judgements by only attacking evil politicians or anyone we view as intolerant.
7. There are judgements we pretend aren’t judgements, by adding phrases such as “But that’s just my opinion, and what do I know?”

One of the ultimate problems with “niceness” is that it pretty much eliminates any effective works of art. Making nice is a crippling limitation. “Niceness” also hinders almost any political action. One of Ariana’s hit songs is called “One Less Problem”, in which she dumps her boyfriend, which isn’t a very nice thing to do.

I know just what you’re thinking: be nice.

The wonderful artist Robert de Michiell has passed away, following a long illness. He’s pictured above, with his husband, Broadway General Manager Jeffrey M. Wilson.

I knew Robert because he illustrated all of the original Libby Gelman-Waxner columns in Premiere, and he provided the cover for If You Ask Me, the collected columns published by St.Martins. He also created terrific ads for the commercial run of The Most Fabulous Story Ever Told.

Robert’s output was dazzling, and included everything from New Yorker covers to memorable Fire Island postcards to the posters for Broadway shows. He was a delightful, generous, brave man.

Robert had recently been putting together a glorious collection of his work, and he’d asked Libby to contribute. Here’s what she had to say:

A Heartfelt Appreciation

For so many years, I was America’s most beloved and irresponsible film critic in the glorious pages of Premiere magazine. While my words remained penetrating and vivacious, here was the magazine’s greatest challenge: who could possibly capture my physical beauty, and my frolicsome intelligence, in an appropriate image? A photograph was out of the question, because not only does the camera add ten pounds, but my enemies have been known to use Photoshop as a weapon. The only solution was to call upon a supremely gifted and totally adorable artist: the sublime Robert de Michiell.
When I first heard that Robert had agreed to portray me, I felt just like Barbra Streisand contemplating a warm bagel with every imaginable topping – all I wanted to say was yes, yes, yes, and how did I get so lucky? In fact, one of Robert’s finest illustrations pictures me graciously pursuing Barbra’s tour bus.
Every month I would treasure Robert’s delicious work, as I battled a chiseled Brad Pitt in Fight Club, tried on Uma Thurman’s form-fitting, taxi cab yellow warm-up suit in Kill Bill, and danced with Frodo. His portraits proved that I was young, lovely and above all else, triumphantly blonde. Whenever I see Robert’s work, on posters and magazine covers and gallery walls, I always think: he makes everything in this world joyous, playful and irresistible.
Robert was the only possible choice to create the cover for my collected columns, titled If You Ask Me. I worship this cover, and not just because Robert has me dangling a shopping bag with the logo Lox World. Another spectacular de Michiell? A practically nude, sparkling Libby in Showgirls.
I adore Robert de Michiell, and I trust him. He’s a masterful artist and a completely fabulous human being, if you ask me.

Libby Gelman-Waxner

These are the topics which cause certain New Yorkers to sigh and rage and hold endless, pointless, deliriously satisfying conversations:

– The price someone paid for an entire building in the Village thirty years ago.

– The price that person got when he or she sold it last week.

– The greatest restaurant ever until the tourists ruined it.

– The hottest club ever until the bridge-and-tunnel people ruined it.

– That incredibly hunky, shirtless construction worker who exhibited himself every day on a building site at 5th Avenue and 41st Street – every gay man in NY somehow knew about this guy. All you had to say was, “I was walking down Fifth Avenue…”

– Which mayor was the worst and why everyone now misses Bloomberg.

– Why the new Whitney is hideous/superb/a compromise. (It’s critical to have formed an opinion without having actually been to it.)

– Which neighborhoods and buildings various celebrities live in.

– Why there are no good bakeries/places to get bagels/all-night diners anymore.

– Why Brooklyn still doesn’t count.

Okay, here’s what I love about the space stations in The Martian: they’re spotless. Even when Matt Damon gets stranded on Mars, his encampment is filled with gleaming white equipment and carefully labeled white plastic bins; it’s like an inter-galactic Container Store. The much larger spacecraft which is sent to rescue Matt is like an orbiting boutique hotel, with modular furniture, picture windows and a spa-like gym, and the astronauts all wear sleek athleisure yoga gear. I kept waiting to see a zero-gravity housekeeper floating by, chasing a spray-bottle of Fantastik.

The Martian is great, but I can’t say that it’s very surprising. It’s another movie about a crew of mildly diverse, stalwart Americans who head out to rescue a handsome, noble white movie star, who boogies to vintage pop tunes. Every few minutes someone ingeniously solves a problem, then something goes wrong, and then it gets fixed – why can’t we just send Matt and mission commander Jessica Chastain to Syria, where they’d solve everything with a few innovative computer programs and some duct tape? Between Matt and Jessica and Jeff Daniels, who plays the weary, idealistic head of NASA, it’s a whole movie about the triumph of the American jawline.

Personally, I don’t get why anyone would ever want to go to Mars. It’s dry and dull and dusty; it’s like spending billions of dollars to fly to an abandoned mall in New Mexico. As a rule, I don’t like to explore any frontier without a Carvel, a Dunkin Donuts and some friendly natives selling their handcrafts. When I think about Mars, I keep seeing dead casinos and no FIOS.

I also saw The Intern and I just have to say it: I worship Nancy Meyers. Nancy is pretty much my ground zero. Nancy gets a lot of flak for making movies packed with gorgeous, restaurant-grade kitchens, sumptuous lofts and pretty people – she brings out the jealous snit in so many film critics, who can’t afford cashmere throws and farmhouse sinks. In The Intern, Anne Hathaway plays the head of a wildly successful Brooklyn start-up which delivers luxuriously packaged outfits and accessories – it’s sort of a Nancy Meyers supply app. Anne has a brownstone, a devoted staff, a furry house-husband and one perfect child. She’s feeling overwhelmed, and she’s advised by Robert De Niro, as a restless, retired executive who applies for a spot in Anne’s senior intern program. Anne and Robert are wonderfully charming together, and they never have to act gruff and wisecracking, like Matt and Jessica.

Some people have trouble with Anne, because she always seems very assured and pleased with herself, which is why she’s perfect in The Intern; I completely believed that she was determined and smart enough to run her own company. Even in her Interstellar spacesuit, Anne was gung-ho and fun – Anne is like someone who aced Harvard, overhauled Google and scored an eight-figure book deal. She’s a brunette Hillary.

Nancy Meyers reminds me of the writer Jennifer Weiner, who’s pointed out that women who write about First World, Platinum Card characters often get snubbed as chick-lit rom-commers. Frankly, I’d rather lead a mission to one of Nancy Meyers’ foyers than the arid deserts of Mars, if you ask me.

I think Matt Damon is a terrific actor, and not an awful person, but he keeps getting himself into trouble, most recently with his awkward, misguided remarks about gay actors. He said, essentially, that gay actors should remain closeted, because the personal lives of all actors are better left private and mysterious. Following an internet outcry, he went on Ellen to explain himself and insist that he’d been quoted out of context and misunderstood. He said that when he and Ben Affleck won Oscars for writing Good Will Hunting, some people assumed they were lovers; Matt said that he hated having to “throw his gay friends under the bus”, by announcing his heterosexuality. In a list of life’s agonies, a movie star having to publically confess that he’s straight doesn’t seem all that painful.

Matt has a history of concerned liberalism, but what his remarks demonstrated was not just an offhand case of straight-guy privilege, but movie-star distance. Matt’s been famous and applauded for a long time, which may have influenced his sense of everyday reality. Above all, his remarks are a classic example of the difference between straight people and gay people: I don’t think it occured to Matt that for a gay actor, words like privacy and mystery are code for homophobia.

Matt played Scott Thorson, Liberace’s boyfriend, in Behind the Candelabra. Liberace sued a magazine for insinuating that he was gay, and he died of AIDS while denying he had the disease – which is what can happen when a performer is desperate to keep their privacy and mystery intact.

Last night I went to a movie on West 55th Street, between 5th and 6th Avenues, just as the Pope was appearing at St. Patrick’s Cathedral a few blocks away on Fifth Avenue. I was meeting friends, but I got there early, and a few minutes later, when my friends arrived, they couldn’t get to the theater because the entire block had been barricaded, with fences and stanchions and a garbage truck parked sideways. There were police officers everywhere, making sure no one got through. I chatted with the officers, who were incredibly nice; they’d been working since early morning and would be on duty till 4 AM. Try as I might, I couldn’t schmooze the officers into letting my friends through: the scene was just like the first act finale of Miss Saigon, when a helicopter descends and some people get to leave Vietnam while others are forced to remain on the ground and continue singing.

I considered skipping the movie and heading to St. Patrick’s, to see if the Pope might wave me over and tell me how much he enjoys my work. I would of course, blush and say, “It’s mutual!” and we’d hug. The Pope’s cute translator, Msgr. Mike, would hand me a card with the address of the Papal after-party. We’d all hang out and chat about Trump and the new season of Empire and how hard it is to dry-clean the Pope’s white outfit.

But instead the police finally re-opened the block and my friends and I went to the movies.I texted the Pope, “Later!” and I knew he understood.

Here’s what the evening would’ve looked like, if you substitute me for President Obama.

1. Waiting for medical test results
2. Waiting behind a person who’s decided to discuss a purchase from three months ago with the cashier
3. Waiting for someone who still hasn’t started packing when you’re already late for your flight
4. Waiting for the light to change
5. Waiting for a college acceptance notification
6. Waiting while the salesperson checks to see if they have your desired item “in the back” when you know the salesperson is actually making a personal call about where to meet Andrea later tonight
7. Waiting for the check
8. Waiting for the bathroom
9. Waiting for the bathroom WHEN IT’S AN EMERGENCY
10. Waiting for the subway to start moving again after the lights and air conditioning have gone out
11. Waiting for someone at a restaurant or on a streetcorner and wondering if you’ve been stood up or if the other person has been in a terrible acccident – then you start hoping they were
12. Waiting for a repair person to arrive after the “four hour window” has long passed
13. Waiting on the wrong line
14. Waiting for someone after the show or movie has already started, and you know they’re still primping
15. Waiting for the brownies to have cooled down enough to eat without burning your mouth
16. Waiting for your turn to speak in any conversation

I’m sorry I haven’t posted anything for a bit, but I’ve been working away at a batch of projects and, God help me, I now have a Twitter account – @PaulRudnickNY. I’m pretty sure I’m the very last person on earth to begin tweeting. My observations:

– Rachel Griffiths, my glorious editor at Scholastic, encouraged me to join Twitter. By this I mean she came to my apartment and with the help of the brilliant and invaluable Jeffrey and Jeremy West, set up my account, showed me how to tweet and everyone barely suppressed their laughter at my incompetence. I am in their debt.

– Tweeting is fun and maddening. It’s a social and mathematical challenge. It’s like jumping up and down in a crowd of millions and trying to grab everyone’s attention. Without owning a gun.

– Some people are brilliant and funny on Twitter and others are not. It’s like a cocktail party where you learn who to avoid and who seems entertaining.

– I have a weakness for following celebrities who pay someone, or a team of someones, to tweet for them. You can feel the employees’ anxiety and terror, as they attempt to make the celeb come across as friendly and down-to-earth, while promoting the celeb’s latest projects and ignoring the celeb’s latest arrest for manslaughter.

– Like so much of the internet, Twitter is a variation on passing notes in class. It doesn’t accomplish all that much, but it sure beats Algebra.

Kim Davis, the Kentucky clerk who’s refused to issue marriage licenses to gay couples, claims that God has instructed her to behave this way. Here are some other things God’s whispered to Kim:

“Get married again. Fifth time’s the charm!”

“Every day is Casual Friday in Kentucky!”

“Keep saying that you don’t hate anyone. Then giggle to yourself.”

“Accept huge amounts of cash and legal advice from scary evangelical groups and individuals.Use the money to buy more barettes.”

“Think about also denying drivers licenses to gay people, because what if they drive to their demonic churches and get married?”

“Check to make sure that none of your Beanie Babies are gay. Make the gay Beanie Babies sleep outside.”

Last night at the VMAs, Kanye West announced that he was running for President in 2020. While this was thrilling news, what really excited me was the prospect of First Lady Kim Kardashian. Here’s what we can expect:

– Instead of literacy or fighting childhood obesity, Kim will champion universal brow-shaping.

– Kim will stand proudly beside President West at his Inaugural, with her butt facing the camera.

– Kris Jenner will urge Kim to re-model the White House and add a mother-in-law apartment, granite countertops in the Oval Office, and she’ll push for turning the Lincoln Bedroom into a shoe closet.

– Kim’s official portrait will be a nude, although she’ll be holding a bottle of her latest fragrance.

– Kim’s sisters Khloe and Kourtney will open a boutique in the Rose Garden, selling leggings, fun tops and invitations to official dinners.

– Kim will demand that during Kanye’s presidency, the other branches of government will be spelled the Supreme Kort and Kongress.

1. The morality of a Caitlyn Jenner Halloween costume.

2. Is Joe Biden serious about running for president? Why?

3. Taylor Swift is now routinely bringing celebrities onstage during her concert tour, including Julia Roberts, Joan Baez and Alanis Morissette. Where are Ruth Ginsburg, Sheryl Sandberg and Flo from the insurance ads?

4. The wonderful and essential website D-Listed posted a real-life TV ad by a San Antonio mortician named Dick Tips. Is the name Dick Tips better or worse than Deez Nuts?

5. Can Youtube stars with millions of followers become legitimate movie or TV stars? Isn’t this something only the Youtube stars’ parents should worry about?

Towards the end of Tony Kushner’s magnificent Angels In America, a character predicts a brighter future, claiming, “the world only spins forwards.” I’ve always loved that moment, even though the world keeps providing evidence to the contrary.

There’s currently a particularly dimwitted freshman at Duke, who’s refused to read Alison Bechdel’s classic graphic memoir Fun Home (the book is part of a voluntary reading list.) Brian Grasso has said that, “I still hold that personally it would be dishonoring to God for me to read it and view it.” Naturally, Grasso claims that any objections to his idiocy are the result of discrimination. He says, “The purpose of the university is for people to come and hear different perspectives, and I thought I was consistent with that in my decision not to read the book.”

Arguing with Grasso is pointless, although he might at least acknowledge that if he doesn’t read books he might disagree with, how will he ever experience his beloved “different perspectives”?

Grasso is also nervous because he’s been told that the book contains sexual imagery. I’m assuming that Grasso has never seen any TV shows, movies, billboards or other people. My fondest hope is that someday, Grasso will be found trembling and twitching, unable to form words, with Fun Home open by his side.