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New York, New York, the center of the world, the city that never sleeps. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. And if you can't...well, then, I guess you pack up a U-Haul and move on down the road. (Or is it "Then we take Berlin"?) At any rate, after a seven-year stint here in the Harlem-Morningside environs, Berk and I are leaving Manhattan on Wednesday for (hopefully) greener pastures. My next real destination is still undetermined, pending the vagaries of the job search, but for now I'll be returning to the nest to continue writing the dissertation and otherwise scrounge for remunerative employ. We'll see how it goes from there.

As for NYC, on one hand, I'm really going to miss this town. The sheer energy of Gotham always puts a spring in my step, and I really enjoy that distinct New York sensation of living in the center of the hive, ever-so-slightly in the future. On the other hand, I'd be lying if I didn't concede that this city tends to aggravate my natural Irish melancholy, particularly once you factor in the usual grad school isolation, the happenstance that many of my better friends left some time ago, and the sad fact that, romantically speaking, I got crushed here...twice. But, no hard feelings, New York. Sure, there are lingering ghosts in this city, and if I never live as alone again as I have the past two years, it'll be soon enough. But, I still love Manhattan, and I always will, and I would definitely look forward to doing another stint here at some point, if it turns out to be in the cards.

In any case, the future -- however hazy at the moment -- beckons. So, I'd expect it to be quiet here over the next few days as my brother and I lug my accumulated belongings down the Eastern Seaboard. Until then, hope everyone had a relaxing and appropriately reflective Memorial Day, and I'll be in touch on the other end. And, if you're an NYC reader and I didn't see ya before I left, I expect I'll be back for visits, more often than not. (I mean, this is New York.) Until then, be safe, y'all.

Has Donnie Walsh landed his first big fish? Word is NY has outbid Chicago, and the Phoenix Suns' Mike D'Antoni is our new Knicks coach. Um...gratz? Mike D'Antoni seems like a good coach and an amiable guy, but is an offensive-minded, fast-break specialist really what we need right now? It's really hard to envision Eddy Curry, Zack Randolph, and the gang running the floor for D'Antoni like the Suns did. And while we have many problems, and consistent offense surely ranks among them, defense is really where the Knickerbockers have stunk up the joint of late.

Well, it's an interesting pick, if nothing else. Let's see where it goes.

In more basketball news, it becomes official: To noone's surprise (and to the relief of a grateful city), the Isiah Thomas era is over for the New York Knicks. "'He will have no official title, but he will provide meaningful input,' Walsh said during a conference call. 'Isiah remaining a part of the franchise is important for the organization.'" Hmm. I could see a freefloating Isiah still doing considerable damage to the team, particularly if he screws up the lines of authority and/or undermines whomever our new coach turns out to be. But, I have to concede, he has been a pretty solid drafter (Camby, T-Mac, Damon Stoudamire, Lee, Balkman.) So, if Walsh wants to send him out to look at prospects, have at it...just keep him away from the bench and the locker room. Update: Walsh got the message. Apparently Isiah isn't allowed to talk to the players.

"When the venerable Donnie Walsh arrived on Wednesday as the Knicks’ fourth president in seven years, he supplanted the least-loved incumbent since LBJ. During the four years and change of the Isiah Thomas era, the team lost more than 60 percent of its games, a ratio that got worse after Thomas added the title of head coach in 2006. Over that span, the Knicks have amassed the largest payroll (peaking at more than $160 million with luxury tax) and the third-worst record in the National Basketball Association. Never has so much been spent for so little in the world of sports. They’ve been called the worst team in the history of pro basketball, but they’re really much worse than that. These Knicks are worse than the fire-sale ’41 Phillies or the expansion ’62 Mets or the ’76 Tampa Bay Buccaneers, who were perfect in their winlessness. They’re the worst of the worst because of how they’ve lost, in petulance and complacency -- and with management that bulldozed any critic it could not ignore."

But how do you really feel? New York Mag's Jeff Coplon comes not to praise the Isiah-era Knickerbockers but to bury them, once and for all. The piece, entitled "Absolutely, Positively the Worst Team in the History of Professional Sports," is both exhaustive and withering in detail, and well worth a read, if you're of the rubber-necking persuasion.

Also, in basketball news, it looks like I got a B+ this year in bracketology. Thanks mainly to picking Kansas to win it all (a lucky guess, basically), my bracket scored in the 89th percentile overall.

In more Indiana related news, it seems to be official: Word is the Knicks will announce Donnie Walsh as the new team president later today, meaning, at long last, the beginning of the end for the Isiah era. Given the depths of our current situation, I'm still not sold at all on the notion that Walsh can turn things around for the Knickerbockers by next season. But, since the most involving Knick-related activity around of late has been toying with David Lee's hair, I'd think pretty much anything he does would be a step in the right direction.

The light at the end of the tunnel? Rumor has it that longtime Pacers official Donnie Walsh is set to sign a three-year deal to become Knicks prez, meaning the dreadful Isiah Era is at long last ending here in New York. (Of course, we're still still stuck with terrible Knick owner Jim Dolan, but baby steps, I guess.) To be honest, I'm not a big fan of Walsh or the current state of the Pacers franchise (for which Larry Bird and the Artest melee also share part of the blame), but at this point it's safe to say Walsh will be greeted as a liberator around these parts. Update: Wrong answer, Dolan.

I'm not going to cover all the sordid details of the Spitzer case here -- he's gone, so, politically speaking, there's not much else to say about it (and -- for the moment anyway -- the search for a possible campaign funds connection sounds likes a fishing expedition.) Nevertheless, regarding the news coverage here in the Apple, it -- to no one's surprise, I guess -- has already pushed past prurient to wallow in the tacky. When the feeding frenzy first locked on to "Kristen's" MySpace page (5 million hits in a day), I actually felt sorta bad for the poor girl. (Ok, I know, she's not poor -- she makes $5500/hr. Still.) Prostitution is illegal, true, but she's still basically a troubled kid engaged in a seedy enterprise, and I think it'd be pretty hard for any personal site -- this one included -- to withstand that level of withering, snark-heavy scrutiny from the entire world at large. That being said, from front-page, come-hither portfolios all over NY today to 200 large made on music downloads overnight, I have a feeling the last thing Ms. Dupre needs right now is anyone's pity. Oh well. Milk it, I guess.

Just be clear, I'm not saying the coverage is anywhere near as repellent as the media aftermath to the Virginia Tech killings, and I know sex has sold newspapers since the dawn of the printing press. (I mean, the tabloids caught my attention this morning.) But, c'mon now. In any case, I'm guessing Silla Wall Spitzer is having a truly terrible day.

(By the way, if anyone cares about my own editorial decision to post a pic of Ashley Dupre here, I did so to be fair to Ms. Iseman, of McCain fame. The lesson here seems to be: If you must get caught in a sex scandal (or what the NYT thinks might be a sex scandal), try to keep the seamier-type pics off of the Internets.) Update: Client 9 radio? Um, yeah.

"I am deeply sorry that I did not live up to what was expected of me. To every New Yorker, and to all those who believed in what I tried to stand for, I sincerely apologize. Over the course of my public life, I have insisted — I believe correctly — that people regardless of their position or power take responsibility for their conduct. I can and will ask no less of myself. For this reason, I am resigning from the office of governor." Spitzergate comes to its inevitable close as the Governor resigned this morning, paving the way for Lt. Governor David Paterson to take office in Albany. (Yes that means Clinton -1.)

I know that some Dems have argued that Spitzer shouldn't resign, citing David Vitter in particular, and that something is fishy about the Dubya Justice Department's handling of this case. To be sure, I haven't been relishing the unsightly upsurge in schadenfreude among the GOP, Wall Street, and exactly the type of corporate ne'er-do-wells Spitzer spent a lifetime fighting.

But, let's get real here: Spitzer's actions weren't only brazenly and colossally dumb, they were patently illegal. Now, one can question the purported immorality of the world's oldest profession, and I would be among those who think it's a relatively victimless crime, situations like human trafficking excepted. But given that Spitzer is a guy who's personally put people in jail for prostitution and then condemned them in the press, this would seem to be a no-brainer. He had to go down for this, or he would have put himself above the law. So whether or not Spitzer had well-connected political enemies -- and, of course, he does -- is somewhat beside the point here. The real problem here is that Gov. Spitzer was so unfathomably stupid as to engage in illegal acts that he -- better than virtually anyone else alive -- knew would result in his downfall. And the tragedy is that, given what Spitzer might've accomplished in office otherwise, everyone now pays the price for his apparent inability to restrain his appetites.

How about a good, old-fashioned Democratic sex scandal? In a political shocker today, New York Governor, rising Dem star, and purported ethics champion Eliot Spitzer appears to have an affinity for prostitutes. More to come after Spitzer's press conference, but, really, what was he thinking? Spitzer was no Jimmy Walker -- He's cultivated his squeaky-clean public persona as a moral crusader since day one. That was his whole cachet. And given the enemies he's made, there was no way on God's green earth he was going to be able to keep that sort of thing quiet. It's sheer idiocy on his part. Update: "I am disappointed that I failed to live up to the standard I expected of myself." Spitzer makes a brief statement, and word comes out of a wiretap. Stick a fork in him, he's done.

Update 2: Within an hour of the story's leak, Gov. Spitzer gets unpersoned by Team Clinton, with all traces of his existence removed from Clinton's website. (He endorsed her back in May.) Which makes it as good a time as any to note that, if he resigns this evening as some expect, Sen. Clinton loses a superdelegate. His likely successor, Lt. Gov David Paterson, would be the Empire State's first (and America's third) black governor, as well as New York's first blind one. He is already a Clinton superdelegate (although, according to some reports, potentially a wavering one.) While on the subject, Obama picked up two more supers today regardless. Update 3: It doesn't seem Spitzer is resigning tonight.

"At the sprawling Riverside Park Community apartments at Broadway and 135th Street, Alician D. Barksdale said she had voted for Mr. Obama and her daughter had, too, by absentee ballot. 'Everyone around here voted for him,' she said." City election officials find "major discrepancies" between the reported and actual vote totals here in NYC. In 80 of the city's 6106 election districts -- including the nearby 94th election district right here in Harlem (I'm in the adjacent 93rd) -- Obama was reported to have the grand total of 0 votes. (Clinton now leads the 94th 261-136, which frankly still sounds off for this neighborhood.) "In an even more heavily black district in Brooklyn — where the vote on primary night was recorded as 118 to 0 for Mrs. Clinton — she now barely leads, 118 to 116."

Local party officials here in Sen. Clinton's home state are calling the mistakes a result of human error. "'I’m sure it’s a clerical error of some sort,' Mr. Wright said. 'Being around elections for the last 25 years, no candidate receives zero votes.'" (Hmm. Funny how these poll officials, instead of transposing a few numbers or somesuch, just accidentally wrote down a big fat zero.) In any case, the official count is what really matters in the end anyway, and -- if this trend keeps up -- there's a possibility Sen. Obama might pick up a few more delegates here in the city.

More to the point, in an age where we can squeeze in 5-10 ATMs a city block, and all of them seem to know exactly how much (or how little) money I have, why are we still relying on a half-century-old voting system that allows for these sorts of "human error"? It's the 21st century, people. Update: Although most reports seem to indicate the problem was legitimately human error, Hizzoner claims fraud.

For his next film after Vicky Crista Barcelona, Woody Allen returns to New York City with the perfect Allen analogue, Larry David (and Evan Rachel Wood). Which reminds me, I saw the eminently missable Cassandra's Dream two weekends ago and will post a review sometime soon, although "eminently missable" gets most of the point across.

Heya. Sorry this is going up so late...I spent the evening at the Generation Obama event in Midtown, so my usual prObama take on the debates got even more reinforcement than usual...

First off, it was heartening to watch a surprisingly substantive debate. The Nevada roundtable was too sweet, and the Myrtle Beach slugfest was too sour, but tonight's much-heralded showdown in Los Angeles actually seemed just right. [Transcript.] Both candidates were able to tease out and discuss notable differences in their policies, particularly on health care, immigration reform, and Iraq, while keeping a civil, friendly tone that didn't seem as unnaturally forced as back in Vegas.

With all that being said, and to no one's surprise, I thought Barack Obama came out ahead this evening. (In fact, I agree with Andrew Sullivan -- this might've been his best debate thus far.) He showed a clear and nuanced command of policy. He made a solid case for his strengths, most notably on the question of judgment ("Right on Day 1.") He explained well how he's more electable, particularly against John McCain. He was wry and personable. And -- when it came to the Republicans -- he was often devastating. (That Romney takedown was too rich.)

Hillary Clinton was also good tonight, but she gave more than a few answers that were real groaners. On immigration reform, her attempt to be Obamaesque by invoking the Statue of Liberty was strange and flat. More problematically, her answer on drivers' licenses for illegal immigrants made no sense (She's against licenses for illegals, to protect illegals?) And, worst of all, when given the chance to defuse a zero-sum understanding of the immigrant issue, she instead told a story about an African-American man who blamed Latinos for his job loss, and it was hard not to read an off-putting Bendixen subtext into it.

Most notably, when it came to Iraq in the final third, Clinton was terrible. Rather than just admit she made a mistake in either [a] supporting the war or [b] believing Dubya, she seemed unwilling to concede any possibility of error, and got stuck in an increasingly tortured answer about her position on the AUMF vote. It was unseemly, to say the least, even Dubyaesque. And the more she spun her wheels, the better Obama looked. Update: Apparently, she also butchered the truth about the Levin Amendment.

Still, my general impression is that CNN's Jeff Toobin basically got the larger chess game right: As a TPM commenter well put it: Hillary Clinton is currently in the lead and is trying to run the four corners until the clock runs out. Barack Obama is surging massively right now and didn't want to upset that o-mentum unduly. So neither candidate felt they needed to shake up the current paradigm all that much, which helped keep everything friendly.

Instead, Obama wanted to show undecideds that he has presidential gravitas and can policy-wonk as needed. Clinton wanted to staunch her negatives and get the focus back on her rather than Wild Bill. (Which reminds me, no question about Kazakhstan?) In that sense, both candidates accomplished what they came to do.

Now, it's up to us.

"It is difficult to remember the last national candidate who has charged and jazzed the democratic system as Mr. Obama has. Partly as a result of his candidacy, college campuses have remembered why they are proud of the United States, kids are going door to door, runners are handing out leaflets on weekends, racial lines have been culturally melted and the electoral approach to presidential campaigning has been reborn. And, as more than one commentator has said, America is being reintroduced to the world."

An endorsement closer to home: The New York Observer endorses Barack Obama for president. "[W]hen George W. Bush was driving a bleary, shocked nation into war with bait-and-switch deceptions in 2003, where was our experienced leadership? Meanwhile, in the west, an Illinois state senator -- who has since served three years in the Senate, the same Congressional period that a fellow Midwesterner, Abraham Lincoln, had served when he sought the presidency -- rose to exhibit courage and public judgment on that deceptive adventure, stating, 'I am not opposed to all wars. I’m opposed to dumb wars.'...His relationship to truth and plain speaking and public transparency is the first step toward reviving democracy in the United States of America. Barack Obama of Illinois is the future. New York’s Democrats should embrace him."

"Isiah's rhetoric has always been persuasive. He's been dealt a bad hand. He had to make extreme moves. Every trade he's made, the Knicks have come out ahead on talent. No one, he implies, could've done any more. But to get a handle on what Isiah's done as a GM, I've evaluated every major move he's made during his tenure, from trades to free-agent signings to draft picks to coaching hires. The record seems to be seriously at odds with Isiah's claims." In a two-part series, ESPN's Chad Ford surveys the colossal wreckage made of the New York Knickerbockers, and suggests the way to start digging out.

While poorly executed, surprisingly unengaging, and mostly banal, Matt Reeves' Cloverfield, the much-hyped version of Godzilla-meets-The Blair Witch Project produced by Lost/Alias guru J.J. Abrams, does pose at its heart one truly frightening scenario: What would you do if the moment the next 9/11-level catastrophic event happens here in New York City, you just happen to be stuck at a party downtown with a bunch of godawful douchebags? Seriously, though, I'm not sure how you screw up a ground-eye-view of "Huge Monster Destroying New York" so badly, but Cloverfield is as big a January dog as they come. Not above milking blatant 9/11 imagery for gravitas (which doesn't offend me per se, although I do wish it was in the service of a better story), Cloverfield basically tries to be little more than a monster movie thrill ride for the Youtube generation. (The film is bookended by a trip to Coney Island, and, yeah, I'd say that's about right.) But given that the none of the main characters are all that likable, and given that the film falters on the promise of showing NYC in full disaster mode, I can't say it's a ride worth paying for, Sadly, one or two brief moments notwithstanding, last year's eerie teaser is about as good as it gets.

The setup's all in that teaser, of course, but that doesn't stop Cloverfield, an 85-minute movie, from starting off wicked slow. After a few moments with two young lovers in a Deluxe Apartment in the Sky (Time Warner Center, to be exact), the film begins with a surprise going-away party downtown for Rob (Michael Stahl-David), a young financial type heading for Japan. (Not to obsess over real estate, but this apartment too is as impressive as the monster.) We then spend about 20 minutes wandering around said party, meeting all the young beautiful people who may or may not become Cthulhu food. (Rob, it seems, has many friends, but none of them are plain-looking.) So, let's see, there's Rob's brother Jason (Mike Vogel), his best friend (and our cameraman) Hud (T.J. Miller), Jason's girlfriend Lily (Jessica Lucas), Hud's current crush Marlena (Lizzy Caplan)...but conspicuously absent amid them all (at first) is the fetching young lass we saw in the opening moments with Rob, Beth (Odette Yustman). She shows up late, with -- ZOMG SC4ND4L! -- another man in tow (I think his name was Travis, but it doesn't matter -- he's a plot point that's forgotten anyway), and, soon thereafter, leaves in a huff. (By now you may be thinking, uh, where's the monster in all of this 90210 dreck? Yes, my thoughts exactly.) Anyway, so after enough time has elapsed that Beth could've gotten back home, there's a shaking and a rumbling and...finally...well, you know what happens next.

Now, I could've forgiven Cloverfield its interminably long set-up if we then got a New York City disaster movie for the ages. But, after letting some obvious 9/11-ish images and moments -- the collapsing buildings, clouds of billowing smoke, panicked cell phone calls -- do the heavy lifting, the film mostly just stalls out. As far as the story goes, Rob decides he must go save Beth from the TWC, and, for reasons that don't make much sense, everyone else just decides to tag along. Ok, that's fine -- you gotta get the protagonists moving around New York for one reason or another. Except, once the monster attacks, the city is almost completely empty, aside from U.S. infantrymen (who, as my friend pointed out, somehow got there before the Air Force.) I mean, it's Manhattan. You'd think there'd be people wandering around everywhere in various states of terror and confusion, but, nope, all two million people either hunkered down or got out right away. In fact, other than the Statue of Liberty and the 9/11 nods, there's not much point for the film to have taken place in New York at all. I mean, sure, there's a sequence in the subway tunnels in which our heroes magically leap from Spring St. to 59th St. (and one which will seem rather derivative if you saw 28 Weeks Later or The Descent.) But, otherwise, this could have taken place pretty much anywhere.

If this review all sounds a bit nit-picky, well, perhaps. But, when the film never really engages at an emotional or visceral level, you gotta do something to pass the time. (The midnight crowd at my local Magic Johnson sat there more dutiful than dumbstruck.) Except for the occasional rare moment, as when the gang get caught in a full-out alley melee between the creature and the US Army, or witness a horse pulling an empty cart around Central Park, Cloverfield never establishes a groove. And everytime you think it might start to get interesting, it falls back into Archie and Veronica grandstanding. Throw in a few wildly implausible escapes and people rallying from seriously painful injuries, and there's not much here to recommend. To be honest, I'd wait for the video. And, if no one ever finds said video under all the debris in Central Park, well, trust me, you didn't miss much.

In Francis Lawrence's I am Legend, Will Smith wanders the streets of New York City, his only companion his trusty, loyal, and free-spirited canine sidekick. To stave off the despair and dementia that lurks behind interminable loneliness, he dotes on his dog and immerses himself in routine: He watches as many movies as possible, indulges in his music collection, broadcasts his continued existence into the ether, and throws himself into his work, a solitary investigation marked by repetition and feelings of futility, one whose fruits he knows will more than likely go unused and unread. To all of this, I say: Who the hell wants to sit through a movie about the last year and change of grad school? And couldn't they find a sheltie to play l'il Berk? (As for yours truly, I'd have gone Philip Seymour Hoffman or Paul Bettany -- maybe Michael Cera for the flashbacks -- but, hey, Will Smith works too.)

Seriously, though, when I first heard word they were doing another take on Richard Matheson's eerie 1954 novella, and that word was penned by hackmeister Akiva Goldsman and read "We're blowing up the Brooklyn Bridge!", I figured this would be a big budget stinker, along the lines of Alex Proyas' version of I, Robot. And yet, while a action blockbuster has been grafted onto the basic story (and it's moved from suburban California to the heart of Metropolis), Francis Lawrence's I am Legend is surprisingly true to the grim feel of the novella. In short, Legend is a much quieter and more melancholy film than I ever expected. And, while it definitely has some problems, it's probably my favorite big budget blockbuster of the year, with the possible exception of The Bourne Ultimatum. True, Lawrence's take on Constantine in 2005 turned out better than I figured as well. Still, I'm actually quite surprised by how moody and haunting this film turned out to be. (And, give credit where it's due. Like Paul Haggis and In the Valley of Elah, I'm forced to concede that Goldsman might not always be the kiss of death.)

I am Legend begins innocuously enough with a sports report -- It looks like the Yankees and Cubs in the World Series, although LA has an outside shot at a pennant too. But, in the near future, it ain't just the ball players injecting experimental serums anymore. As a doctor (Emma Thompson) on the news informs us, scientists have altered the measles to work as the ultimate body-cleansing virus, in effect working as a cure for cancer. (A Cure for Cancer! This follows the baseball scores?) Cut to New York City, three years later. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, nothing beside remains...except one man (Will Smith) and his dog (Abbey), chasing down a herd of deer through the empty steel corridors of a desiccated Manhattan. (Sorta like Llewellyn Moss in No Country for Old Men, except now that country is everywhere, and the deermeat is worth more than the bag of money.) Clearly, something has gone Horribly Wrong. As we come to discover, that heralded cure backfired in dismal fashion, killing 90% of the Earth's population immediately and turning the rest, a la the rage virus in 28 Days and 28 Weeks Later, into violent, depraved monsters with a taste for blood and a susceptibility to sunlight. This Last Man on Earth is one Robert Neville, an army scientist (blessedly immune to the disease) who spends his days in a Jamesian manse on Washington Square, working on a cure to beat back the infection, and his nights just trying to stay alive. (Put simply, "scientific atrocity, he's the survivor.") But, even with Samantha, his German shepherd, by his side, the loneliness and omnipresent danger are taking their toll. And as he succumbs deeper into hopelessness -- and the creatures show signs of learning -- his coping strategies begin to shift. Forget the cure...Maybe it's time just to chase these Crazy Baldheads out of town...

Now, as I said, I am Legend does have it share of problems. The movie becomes more of a conventional actioner as it moves along, and the last act in particular feels weaker than the rest of the film. Looking exactly like the cave-dwellers in Neil Marshall's The Descent, the CGI creatures have an ill-favored and badly-rendered look, and the more you see of them the less scary they become. Also, in complete counterpoint to what Dr. Neville tells us about the infecteds' "social deevolution," they eventually seem to get behind a Lurtz/Solomon Grundy of sorts. But his presence or authority is never really explained -- he's just a tacked-on Big Bad. I had trouble believing that somebody could've heard of Damien Marley but not his father Bob. (And, since you're seemingly geared to the teeth, Dr. Neville, may I make some suggestions? 1) Infrared scope. 2) Night-Vision goggles.)

All that being said, for most of I am Legend's run it's a surprisingly rich and nuanced film. Will Smith is invariably an appealing presence, but he doesn't rely on his easy charisma or "Aw, hell no!" bluster much here. His performance is tinged with melancholy, and he does some great work in some really awful moments. Also, I feared going in that the canine companion bit would come across as a gimmick, just a cute creature for Smith to bounce off expository monologues. But Sam isn't just Wilson the Volleyball -- she's a living, breathing character of her own. (Nor is she Lassie -- she doesn't seem preternaturally smart, and occasionally does dumb dog things, which seemed all too realistic.) And then there's New York after the Fall, which in itself is a sort of character in the film. In shot after shot (somewhat akin to, but less showy than, the opening Times Square sequence of Vanilla Sky), Lawrence captures the eeriness of this great city laid low. Other than the aforementioned Brooklyn Bridge, "Ground Zero," as Neville now calls it, hasn't been destroyed or ravaged. It's just empty, an overgrown, city-sized echo chamber for his pangs of isolation. (And as the Marley song goes, "It hurts to be alone.") But, hey, even in a desolate New York City, with vampires lurking in the dark places, there are still plenty of fun ways to pass the time, and particularly if you have a good dog by your side.

"'Embarrassing,' Zach Randolph said...'I don't know what else to say.'" Sadly, the Knickerbocker meltdown continues. In an nationally-televised game on TNT, the Knicks get blown out in Boston, 104-59, "their third-worst loss and their second-worst scoring performance of the shot-clock era." (The only reason it wasn't the worst-ever was because Nate Robinson hit a 37-foot three-pointer at the final buzzer.) "In an incredible display of surrender, with 8:09 left and the Celtics mounting a 50-point lead on Eddie House's jumper, a Knicks fan sitting behind the basket ripped off his blue Knicks jersey, threw it onto the court in a rage and marched up the stairs and out of the building as Celtics fans applauded." I saw that guy (yes, I was watching this fiasco rather than the Cowboys-Packers game), and knew exactly how he felt. Really, how much worse does it need to get? Look at the picture above -- It's only the second quarter, and nobody's listening to Isiah. Fire him already.

In more intriguing New York area news, Obama and Bloomberg do breakfast in midtown. "[Bloomberg spokesman Stu] Loeser said among the topics discussed were global warming, homeland security, education, and the economy. He added that Bloomberg wasn't there for any other agenda such as joining forces as Obama's wingman against Clinton." (And, keep in mind, the mayor dined with Chuck Hagel this past week as well.) Still, Bloomberg does appear to be an Obama fan. When he tested the waters for his own bid this past summer, it was suggested Hizzoner wouldn't run against the Senator from Illinois.

"'Isiah has to start me,' Marbury fumed, according to the source. 'I've got so much (stuff) on Isiah and he knows it. He thinks he can (get) me. But I'll (get) him first. You have no idea what I know.'" (Some choice suggestions on what Starbury knows in the comment thread here: I like "It was Isiah's call to cancel Arrested Development" and "Isiah does not care about black people.") Yep, the once-promising 2007-2008 Knickerbockers imploded early this year, with our overpaid, underachieving, untradeable "star" point guard Stephon Marbury leaving the team in a huff over coming off the bench -- at the start of a tough four game road trip -- and now threatening to expose Isiah Thomas's dirty laundry (as if we didn't get enough of that with this past summer's sexual harrassment case.) How will the saga of the Traveling Marbury pan out? Will Stephon be handled with care or sent to the end of the line? Either way, I expect the Knicks to stay moribund so long as this PG, this GM, and this owner are running the show at the Garden. (NY Daily News and Deadspin links sent to me via Ben of The Oak, who also birddogged a great find last week with these graphical representations of hip-hop.) Update: The prodigal Knick returns to a loss in LA, but something's still rotten at MSG.

"Today, due to the dearth of competitive city council elections and lack of a mayor's race, it is likely that few New Yorkers will go to the polls. A good number of residents, tied up in the hectic pace of their daily lives, will probably not even realize today is an election day." But, Election Day it is. As such, the New York Sun's Seth Gitell laments the lack of interest in voting, and asks blogs to help publicize the day. (Y'know, making today a national holiday might help too.) And, while it may not be the Big Show this year, there are some important races happening around the country right now: "Kentucky and Mississippi both have gubernatorial battles. There are state legislative contests in Mississippi, New Jersey and Virginia. And a host of cities across the nation -- including Baltimore, Maryland; Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; and San Francisco, California -- will see mayoral elections." (Today's local NYC races are covered here.) Update: Dems gain Kentucky and the Virginia Senate.

"The Accused is a role that demands the ability to transmute technique into the expression of the passionate intensity, psychological pain and pure hatred that drive the character to her gruesome deeds. And in 2007 it also demands a strength of interpretation that can transcend the stylized Americana that makes this work feel museum-piece valuable and dated at the same time. Ms. Murphy managed just that in an impressive role debut on Friday night."

My sister Gillian draws a rave in the NYT for her Fall River Legend on Friday, as excerpted below: "Her auburn hair drawn tightly away from her face into a gleaming skullcap, her pale face tight and impassive above her high-necked dress, she embodied (to borrow the title of a famous piece of feminist literature) the madwoman in the attic -- the Victorian antiheroine who incarnates the rage and anxiety forbidden by a sexually repressive, socially coercive society. There is plenty of dancing for the Accused in 'Fall River Legend,' but it is testament to Ms. Murphy’s acting that the movements became a seamless part of a succession of memorable emotional moments: her little shudder as the details of the violent acts are read out at the beginning; her suppressed amusement and momentary triumph at her father and stepmother’s fear when she first picks up the ax to chop wood; her disbelieving, scarcely allowable pleasure when the young pastor (Sascha Radetsky, also strong in a role debut) offers her love and compassion. By the time Ms. Murphy, alone onstage at the end, threw back her body and opened her arms in a final, anguished embrace of death and her fate, she had made her character simultaneously tragic and real." I was at City Center for both the Friday and Saturday evening shows over the weekend, and while Balanchine's "Ballo Della Regina" honestly didn't make much of an impression on me, I found "Fall River Legend" quite spooky and memorable. Suffice to say, all sharp objects and implements will be well-hidden next time Gill comes over.

The confusion in her eyes says it all: Gill suits up as Lizzie Borden in this promo pic for Fall River Legend, part of ABT's upcoming fall run at City Center, Oct. 23-Nov 4. Borden "was a New England spinster who was the central figure in the axe murders of her father and stepmother on August 4, 1892 in Fall River, Massachusetts." (As you can see, the "Axe Effect" had a different meaning back then.) "The slayings, trial, and the following trial by media became a cause célèbre, and the fame of the incident has endured in American pop culture and criminology." (Indeed, Borden even has her own blog over at the Lizzie Borden Virtual Museum.) Tickets for ABT's fall season are on sale now.

"'What I did here, I did for every working woman in America,' said Browne Sanders, who came out of the courtroom beaming. 'And that includes everyone who gets up and goes to work in the morning.." The NBA's nightmare off-season continues with (just as during the regular season) a loss for the Knicks: A jury finds MSG, owner James Dolan, and Knicks coach Isiah Thomas guilty of sexual harassment and liable for $11.6 million in damages. The occasional Post headline screaming at me from the local deli notwithstanding, I haven't been following all the twists and turns of this ugly case, other than that I heard Stephon Marbury somehow got caught up in it too for having consensual sex with a Garden employee. Regardless, this is a total embarrassment for the NBA and for New York basketball, and one hopes Commissioner Stern will crack down hard on Dolan & co. if MSG doesn't clean house, and soon.

"I think were seeing the life of hip-hop coming back with songs like 'Aunt Jackie.' It's the kids acting like kids used to act when I was growing up, and I love it because, to me, hip-hop has been too cool for school lately." While I'm linking to music on YouTube, I meant to post this while in Seattle and forgot: Slate's Jody Rosen examines the Aunt Jackie phenomenon. Who's Aunt Jackie? She's "new rap music with an old-school flow," i.e. a goofy, ridiculously infectious throwback jam that's been blowing up on the Tube over the past six months. No gangstas, no bling -- just old-school beats, rhymes, and b-boyin' invoking the early days of NYC hip-hop. (NSFW, due to language and the fact that you'll likely try to imitate the Aunt Jackie after awhile.)

As expected, Greg Oden and Kevin Durant went 1 and 2 respectively at last night's 2007 NBA Draft. Bigger news on the local scene, however, was the Knicks acquiring Portland's talented, troubled PF Zach Randolph in exchange for sophomore SF Channing Frye (a good player, but he slumped considerably last year) and veteran "superstar" PG Steve Francis (a wildly overpaid underachiever with an awful, bloated contract -- I can't believe Portland took him, frankly.) All in all, I'm pretty happy with this trade. Randolph's clearly a bit of a loon, and a cluttered Randolph-Curry frontcourt makes about as much sense as the Marbury-Francis backcourt -- it's a fantasy team line-up with no sense for team chemistry. How are Marbury, Crawford, or Robinson going to drive into the paint with both Curry and Randolph drawing double-teams in the low post, and no real shooters to spread the floor? Still, losing Francis was addition by subtraction, and, while's Randolph's contract is also pretty hefty ($61 million over 4 years) at the very least, Randolph is still young. (The move was definitely better than the Celtics' obvious panic-trade for Ray Allen. I love Jesus Shuttlesworth, but shooting guards over 30 -- particularly those who just had two ankle surgeries -- age in dog years, and he, like Pierce, has a tendency to disappear sometimes.)

"Although my plans for the future haven't changed, I believe this brings my affiliation into alignment with how I have led and will continue to lead our City." In keeping with recent speculation that he plans to Bull Moose in 2008, NYC Mayor Michael Bloomberg quits the GOP. Well, ok then. The third party stuff aside, pretty much anybody deciding that today's Republican party isn't for them is good news in my book.

"Hemmed in by term limits that will force him to leave office after the 2009 municipal election, Bloomberg seems to be searching for new worlds to conquer. With Eliot Spitzer just inaugurated as New York's first Democratic governor in 12 years, there is only one elective job soon to be vacant for a politician with Bloomberg's bent for executive leadership -- and its home office is on Pennsylvania Avenue." In Salon, Walter Shapiro wonders if Mayor Mike Bloomberg is considering an independent run in 2008. Well, I'd prefer Hizzoner to everyone in the Republican field, but don't really imagine myself leaving the Dem fold to vote for him.

Joel Lobenthal of the NY Sun: "As Gamzatti, Gillian Murphy imprinted infallibly etched images of pride, love, and ruthless will. She has studied the role so thoroughly and respectfully that even when she brings her own time and culture to Gamzatti's rarified reactions and body language, they don't coarsen her performance, but rather add to its vitality. Ms. Murphy has refined her natural facility for turning, so that her multiple fouettes in the Pas d'Action coda were smooth as silk, and her pirouettes in her last act solo, followed by an echoing spiral into the upper body, were mesmerizing." Or, says Jennifer Dunning of the NYT: "Once again Ms. Murphy made Gamzatti as pitiable a creature as she is evil, but this is a ballerina who needs a substantial work created for her." Yes, it's ABT's summer season time at the Met, and once again Gill is rocking the house. I've caught her in Othello and The Dream (that's her as Titania at right) thus far, and both times she was grand. If you're in the NYC area and looking for an evening out, check the listings -- you won't be disappointed.

Hey all...I'm now back in New York City, tan, rested, and ready for whatever 2007 may bring. (I hope.)

Admirably ambitious and running the emotional gamut from syrupy to sublime, Darren Aronofsky's The Fountain is a resolutely uncommercial big-think sci-fi piece that I expect will strongly divide audiences. (My guess is, you'll either love the film or turn on it in the first half-hour.) I found it a bit broad at times, particularly in the early going, and I definitely had to make a conscious decision to run with it. That being said, I thought The Fountain ultimately pays considerable dividends as a stylish, imaginative, and melancholy celebration of the inexorable cycle of life, from birth to death ad infinitum. In its reach, The Fountain at times suggests 2001, and even if that reach probably exceeds its grasp by the end, it should still be applauded for so fearlessly tackling such heady themes, box office be damned. And if nothing else, The Fountain will not only make you contemplate the meaning of it all, but contains several haunting images, like scraps of a fever dream, that will resonate long after the movie's over. All in all, not bad for ten bucks.

Like Requiem for a Dream and especially Pi, The Fountain is more about mood than plot, per se. Nevertheless, we begin in the sixteenth century, with a scruffy conquistador (Hugh Jackman, having a banner year) paying respects to what appears to be his beloved (Rachel Weisz) before embarking on a suicide mission against a Mayan temple. Before we're fully acclimated to what's going on, we've leapt to the twenty-sixth century (No, no Twiki), where that conquistador is now a bald, tattooed, Tai Chi practicing monk, traveling across the cosmos with an ailing tree and suffering visions from an age long hence. After a few bewildering minutes here, we find ourselves in our present, where neuroscientist Tom Creo (Jackman) is struggling against time to develop a cure for his wife Izzy (Weisz), before she succumbs to a brain tumor. As The Fountain progresses and we switch back and forth through these three timelines, a picture slowly coalesces of a man-out-of-time (no, not him either), determined beyond all bounds of hope or reason to defeat death and defend his one, true love from its thrall.

In all honesty, The Fountain suffers from some clunky moments in the early going, particularly when Weisz is forced to deliver exposition regarding Mayan beliefs about the Tree of Life, Xibalba (the Mayan underworld), and the Orion Nebula. And some, such as former Slate writer David Edelstein, couldn't seem to get past the Clint Mansell score, which -- as in Pi and Requiem -- is hypnotic-bordering-on-intrusive. But, once you get past the somewhat unwieldy set-up, I found the movie's themes considerably more sophisticated and less banal than most reviewers are giving it credit for. The romance here is pushed front-and-center, sure, but I found The Fountain moving less as a simple love-conquers-all tale than as an eloquent Zen meditation on mortality. (As one character puts it in the film, "Death is the road to awe.") If matter is neither created nor destroyed, then, in a way, we are all immortal -- the elements that make us up were around since the Big Bang and will continue to be around, reconstituted in other forms, long after we're dead ("in the stars above, in the tall grass, and the ones we love," to paraphrase a poet when he contemplated a similar plight to Jackman's.) Indeed, in this fashion, each of us -- made up of a combination of matter that, however briefly, has achieved sentience -- is the universe trying to express itself. That is no small thing.

Moreover, in The Fountain (and akin to Jacob's Ladder), Jackman's character ultimately isn't fighting to save his love as much as fighting his fear and despair over loss, not only of Weisz but of himself, his own ego: in short, his fear of death. As Weisz's character says several times over, "I'm not afraid anymore....Finish it." Jackman's Creo is afraid, so he won't or can't. "Without accepting the fact that everything changes, we cannot find perfect composure," writes Shunryu Suzuki in Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind. "But unfortunately, although it is true, it is difficult for us to accept it. Because we cannot accept the truth of transiency, we suffer." To my mind, this suffering, and the overcoming of it, lies at the heart of Aronofsky's The Fountain. I thought the richness of both its vision and its ideas helps it elide over a lot of the pacing and exposition problems in the early going. So, in sum, go see The Fountain: I'm not sure you'll like it -- it's very possible you'll love it -- but I'm willing to bet, either way, that it'll stick with you.

[One addendum/caveat/boast: As it happens, I saw The Fountain Monday night at a very private screening/cocktail affair. (How'd I get in? Long story...basically, Aronofsky and I have a mutual friend.) I've admitted earlier to being an inveterate celebrity hound, and in terms of celeb-spotting this was manna from Heaven. Of maybe 40-50 attendees, 10-15 were instantly recognizable folk: Not only Aronofsky, Jackman, Weisz, and Ellen Burstyn (also in the film), but a gaggle of other high-profile celebs: Bowie(!), Lou Reed, Mike Myers, Iman, Helena Christiansen, Ben Chaplin, Elizabeth Berkeley, etc. So, I'm almost positive I'd have liked and recommended The Fountain regardless, but I'm forced to admit (re: would like to brag) that I saw it under more-than-ideal circumstances. (Yes, I played it cool despite being famestruck, but I'd be lying if every so often in the first half-hour of the film I found myself thinking "Am I really sharing an armrest with Famke Janssen right now? How bizarre." Not very Zen of me, I know, but sometimes I'm just a material guy.)]

So, my sister, her boyfriend, and I went to check out The Times They Are A-Changin', the new Twyla Tharp-choreographed reimagining of famous Bob Dylan songs, last Thursday (with, as a star-gazing aside, some heavy-hitters in attendance: Annie Leibowitz sat directly in front of me, and Tharp herself sat directly behind. Yes, I'm a celebrity hound.) And the verdict? Well, first let me say, that -- some early dabbling in community-theater notwithstanding -- I'm really not much of a musical guy. I tend to find the American Idol-ish histrionics of Broadway singing really distracting, and particularly when the song in question is something like "Masters of War." Nor have I seen Moving Out, Mamma Mia!, Ring of Fire, Almost Heaven or any of the other "Broadway Karaoke" shows that currently seem to be the rage, so I can't really compare it to any of the others -- I was really more interested to see some intriguing interpretations of Dylan than I was to partake in a group sing-a-long (which, thankfully, Times is not.) With all that said, I found Times to be...kinda hit-or-miss. While some of the visions here do their source material justice in memorable fashion, others fall flat or just seem ill-conceived. And, while the circus acrobatics on display are amazingly well-performed and at times mesmerizing, too many numbers slip into the same dark carnival-of-the-absurd pattern. The cast works hard, but surely, when you get down to it, there is more to Dylan's oeuvre than just aggro carny folk.

To its credit, Times samples songs from across Dylan's career, from the hoary ("The Times They-Are A Changin'," "Blowing in the Wind") to the obscure ("Man Gave Names to All the Animals," "Please, Mrs. Henry"), through the lean years ("I Believe in You," "Dignity") and up to the recent critical revival ("Not Dark Yet," "Summer Days.") Set in a traveling circus run by the vicious, heavy-handed Captain Ahrab (Thom Sesma) -- a character from one of Dylan's great American fables,"Bob Dylan's 115th Dream," not included -- the play basically centers around a love triangle among Ahrab, his son Coyote (Michael Arden), and the lady Cleo (Lisa Brescia), one of the circus performers. Through their story -- and the larger tale of a power struggle over the circus -- are refracted these thirty or so Dylan tunes, strung togther in haphazard but decently compelling fashion.

I'd like to say there's a formula for when a song works and when it doesn't, but it doesn't go over like that. One of the two best numbers, "Simple Twist of Fate" (the only cut from Blood on the Tracks here), is played basically straight. Alone in spotlight, Ahrab sings wistfully in the foreground (as seen at left) while the younger couple cavorts behind him, a haunting memory. "He woke up, the room was bare. He didn't see her anywhere. He told himself he didn't care, pushed the window open wide. Felt an emptiness inside, to which he just could not relate." The bleak, melancholic staging matches the song perfectly, and Ahrab/Sesma channels both its poetry and its pain.

But, in the other most successful number, "Mr. Tambourine Man" (a song I can usually take or leave), Tharp & co. have taken a tune that's ostensibly about a drug deal and just ran with it. Now, it's a gripping, Bergmanesque dance of death, with one of the sadder clowns (Charlie Neshyba-Hodges) holding center stage as the ensemble circles around him in black, recalling the doomed pilgrims of The Seventh Seal. Obviously, Tharp isn't the first to read "Tambourine Man" as a disquisition on mortality. ("I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade...into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way, I promise to go under it.") Nevertheless, the staging both feels innovative and cuts close to the bone of the song in surprising fashion.

There are other good moments scattered throughout the show, although few that hold their power over the course of an entire track: For example, a contortionist writhes horribly on a hospital bed during the "Dr. Filth" passage of "Desolation Row," flashlights whirl and twirl (held by people brandishing them vaguely like tusken raiders) during "Knocking on Heaven's Door", the cast memorably get their drink on for "Please, Mrs. Henry," and one clown reenacts Dylan's "Subterranean" signage during the latter half of "Like a Rolling Stone."

But, when a song's off, it's pretty off. The most obvious offenders are "The Times They Are A-Changin'," "Blowing in the Wind," and arguably "Lay, Lady, Lay," all of which are performed in a deadly earnest Broadway patter that just stop the show dead. (This is particularly unfortunate in the case of the first one, since that's how the show begins.) But, there are other problems. The bizarre welcome-to-the-carnival-of-beasties routine works well for "Desolation Row" (since, after all, "The circus is in town") and maybe even for other rousing numbers such as "Like a Rolling Stone." But, it's overdone -- in "Highway 61 Revisited," "Everything is Broken," "Gotta Serve Somebody," "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35" -- to the point that the musical numbers become indistinguishable. ("Masters of War" also falls somewhat into this pattern -- I liked it better than most, but was reminded more of ABT's splendid recent revival of "The Green Table," which captured the same sentiment better.)

And, sometimes, in my humble opinion, the attempted interpretation falls flat on its face. I thought turning "Not Dark Yet," Dylan's gloomy but resigned rumination on death around the corner, into a rage-against-the-dying-of-the-light completely misses the point of the song, which is that he's given up and given in to the coming darkness. ("I've been down on the bottom of a world full of lies. I ain't looking for nothing in anyone's eyes.")

Most egregious in this regard is what's been done to "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright." Perhaps because it remains such a personal song -- a song about two people rather than a generation -- I'd say it's aged much better than almost all of the other hugely popular early-Dylan standards ("Blowing in the Wind," "The Times They Are A-Changin'," "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall.") In fact, I might go so far as to say that "Don't Think Twice" may just be the quintessential Dylan break-up song in a career full of them (although now that I write that...Blonde on Blonde, Blood on the Tracks...ok, never mind. That's too bold a statement.) At any rate, here, all the complexity of competing emotions that drives the track -- "I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind, you could have done better but I don't mind, you just kinda wasted my precious time" -- is wasted, as it's become, inexplicably, a number sung by a woman to her overly eager dog. (Although I will concede that the canine in question -- I believe it was Jason McDole -- was convincingly and creepily Berkeley-like.)

In sum, A Times They Are A-Changin' is at times engaging, and may be worth catching if you have a hankering for the carnivalesque, if you're a Dylan completist, or if you have a higher tolerance for showtune renditions than I do. But, as an exploration of Dylanalia, I found the show too narrowly circumscribed within its three-ring circus, and ultimately unsatisfying. (Then again, in the play's defense, I didn't think much of Masked and Anonymous either, so perhaps I'm just ornery about such things.)