There are certain books, plays and movies which I avoid because they feel like homework assignments. In this category I place anything involving a main character’s spiritual rebirth through hiking, anything which requires me to understand the stock market, any foreign film centering on the theft of a goat, and anything considered a zany, rapping riff on Shakespeare.
I realize that my prejudices are indefensible, and I enjoy being proved wrong. I also enjoy being proved right, so I can crow, “The reviews described it as a scathing, beyond-brilliant collection of short stories documenting the aridity of modern marriage. Which means that trying to read more than the first paragraph is a PUNISHMENT FROM GOD.”
Last night I was wrong. I hadn’t seen Lorraine Hansberry’s landmark play A Raisin in the Sun for a long time, so I wasn’t all that keen on attending the new Broadway revival starring Denzel Washington. But I’d forgotten that the play isn’t a somber, dutiful portrait of working class lives: it’s incredibly smart, wildly entertaining and surprising. Folks had worried that Denzel W. was too old for the role he’s playing, but this wasn’t a factor. He was terrific, and his scenes with Sophie Okonedo, as his wife, were sexy and funny and completely fresh. Okonedo, who’s English, is enchanting; she somehow manages to be gawky and elegant and touching all at the same time, while using a flawless American accent.
But all the same, here are a few more of my cultural red flags:
Anything which tries to explain String Theory.
Almost anything written by, directed by and starring the same person (Lena Dunham is an exception, because she’s great at all three things.)
Any show where the actors use kitchen utensils and folding chairs to create, say, the sinking of a ship or a journey to the underworld.
