This is lovely...

Check it out.

Dear Susan Boyle

So I know this clip is making the rounds in a major way. And I couldn't be more thrilled.

Susan, you are simply incredible. Thank you for your talent -- and for reminding us where REAL beauty comes from.

And thank you for doing what you're doing, from all of us who wish we had the chance.

You are bliss. You are inspiration.

xoxoxo

-d.s.

Vermont Love

(John and me in Vermont)

And the lovin' continues!

The universe is clearly trying to tell me something. If Iowa is my true home, then I've long considered Vermont to be my adopted home. Even though I live in the cesspool known as Boston, I long to move to Vermont.

And today, gay marriage was made legal. John and I could move there and not be second-class citizens.

Hooray, Vermont!

Iowa Love

I have never been more proud of my home state as I am at this moment.

And I hope this sends a message to all those who think Iowa is some hick backwater full of rednecks. It isn't. I put up with more homophobia in San Francisco than I did in rural Iowa, and that's no lie.

To quote the Iowa motto: "Our liberties we prize and our rights we will maintain." Today's ruling proves this motto is more than just lip service.

It is Truth.

Way to go, Iowa!

Natasha Richardson, 1963-2009

Natasha in her Tony-winning performance as Sally Bowles in Cabaret.

I first fell in love with Natasha--and Liam Neeson--after seeing this photo of the two of them in Anna Christie in 1993.

Rest in peace, Natasha.

Sweet Bonnie Bramlett

Like many of my generation, my first exposure to Bonnie Bramlett was when she was a featured player on Roseanne for a couple of seasons in the early nineties. To my knowledge, she only sang twice on the show, but both times were amazing. I used to pray they'd let her sing in every episode.

Little did I know what a legend she was. Bramlett was one-half of the duo Delaney and Bonnie in the late sixties and early seventies before embarking on a solo career (Sweet Bonnie Bramlett being her first solo album, in 1973). Prior to meeting and marrying Delaney (who sadly passed away in December of last year), Bonnie was the first and only white member of the Ikettes, the back-up singers for Ike and Tina Turner. In the last forty-odd years, she's put out several albums and done some acting here and there.

And that voice! My God! I can't even describe it. It's like her soul is in her voicebox. 

Click here to hear Bonnie bring down the house, singing the hell out of "You Really Got a Hold on Me", from Roseanne.

And here's a more recent number: Bonnie doing "Superstar" live onstage. Many artists have covered this song (notably The Carpenters and Bette Midler), but they ain't got nothin' on Bonnie. The pristine emotion she lets loose with this number is devastating. The heartbreak -- and the talent -- in this performance will knock you out of your chair.

Learn more about the amazing Bonnie Bramlett on her website.

Sean Penn

"…For those who saw the signs of hatred as our cars drove in tonight, I think that it is a good time for those who voted for the ban against gay marriage to sit and reflect, and anticipate their great shame, and the shame in their grandchildren's eyes, if they continue that way of support. We’ve got to have equal rights for everyone...I’m very, very proud to live in a country that is willing to elect an elegant man president, and a country who, for all its toughness, creates courageous artists." 

-Sean Penn, in his Oscar acceptance speech

Amen, Sean!

Looking into Oscar's crystal balls....

It’s my favorite time of year: OSCAR TIME! And I have predictions!

Wanna hear ‘em? Here it goes:


BEST PICTURE NOMINEES
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Frost/Nixon
Milk
The Reader
Slumdog Millionaire

Who Will Win: Slumdog Millionaire.

Who Should Win: Though I don’t think any of these films are worthy of a Best Picture Oscar, I think the finest on this list is surely Slumdog. The film is ridiculously unrealistic, but therein lies its charm: it is, after all, a modern day fairy tale. The two best films of last year, Rachel Getting Married and Revolutionary Road, were, sadly, not nominated.

Dark Horse: Milk. I found the script wildly uneven, but Gus Van Sant’s direction was inspired and the performances were nothing short of miraculous. I could see this winning for two reasons: A) the snubbing of another Big Gay Movie, 2005’s brilliant Brokeback Mountain (did Crash REALLY deserve a Best Picture Oscar?), may have given some Academy members a guilty conscience; and B) in the aftermath of Prop 8, Hollywood wants to show its support for 'da gays.


BEST DIRECTOR NOMINEES
Danny Boyle, Slumdog Millionaire
David Fincher, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Ron Howard, Frost/Nixon
Stephen Daldry, The Reader
Gus Van Sant, Milk

Who Will Win: Boyle.

Who Should Win: Boyle. Again, because Slumdog is the best of this lot.

Dark Horse: Van Sant. For explanation, see my above reasoning as to why Milk is a dark horse for the Best Picture award.

BEST ACTOR NOMINEES
Richard Jenkins, The Visitor
Frank Langella, Frost/Nixon
Sean Penn, Milk
Brad Pitt, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Mickey Rourke, The Wrestler

Who Will Win: Too close to call. Penn and Rourke are neck and neck.

Who Should Win: Mickey Rourke. Never in my life would I have thought Mickey Rourke deserved an Oscar over Sean Penn, but, alas, this year is an exception. Both were brilliant in their respective films, and I’d be happy with either of them nabbing the statuette. And Penn’s performance was studied, brave, and fiery. But when it comes to plunging the depths of human emotion, Rourke has all these guys beat. He takes his larger-than-life character – former pro wrestler Randy “The Ram” – and subtly, honestly makes him someone with whom we can all relate. It’s one of the best performances I’ve seen in recent years.

Dark Horse: There isn’t one. This is between Penn and Rourke to the bloody end.


BEST ACTRESS NOMINEES
Anne Hathaway, Rachel Getting Married
Angelina Jolie, Changeling
Melissa Leo, Frozen River
Meryl Streep, Doubt
Kate Winslet, The Reader

Who Will Win: Winslet. She deserved a nomination for Revolutionary Road, but winning for The Reader is a pretty good consolation prize. Plus, she’s one of our greatest younger actresses and has been nominated five times previously. She deserves the award more for her body of work and less for this singled-out performance.

Who Should Win: Anne Hathaway. Her performance in the astounding Rachel Getting Married was pitch-perfect. As a just-out-of-rehab black sheep in her upper middle class suburban family, Hathaway is a raw nerve of energy, an open wound exposed to the air for the first time in ages. I adore all these performances, and Streep and Winslet have always been favorites of mine, but no one here can touch what Hathaway did in Rachel.

Dark Horse: Meryl Streep. Never, ever count Meryl out of the running for any award. When it comes to actresses, there has never been a greater one than Streep.


BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR NOMINEES
Josh Brolin, Milk
Heath Ledger, The Dark Knight
Robert Downey Jr., Tropic Thunder
Philip Seymour Hoffman, Doubt
Michael Shannon, Revolutionary Road

Who Will Win: Ledger.

Who Should Win: Ledger. If for no other reason than to give him the award he deserved to win for Brokeback.

Dark Horse: Brolin. With his roles as Dan White in Milk and what’s-his-name in W., this year showed the acting chops of this talented thespian.


BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS NOMINEES
Amy Adams, Doubt
Penélope Cruz, Vicky Cristina Barcelona
Viola Davis, Doubt
Taraji P. Henson, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Marisa Tomei, The Wrestler

Who Will Win: Cruz. With Winslet’s supporting turn in The Reader inexplicably up for the leading category award, Cruz stands the best chance of winning. She’s also won a slew of critics’ prizes for this performance. And again, two of the year’s most incredible supporting performances were from Rachel Getting Married: Rosemarie DeWitt and the great Debra Winger, but they were both criminally overlooked.

Who Should Win: Viola Davis. Even had DeWitt and Winger been nominated, there still wouldn’t be a contest in my mind. Davis deserves this award, hands down. In an all-too-short, explosive scene, she walks away with the entire film—not easy to do when you’re playing opposite Meryl Streep. Davis’s work in Doubt is one of the greatest supporting performances I’ve ever seen. Vulnerable, fearless, emotionally naked, and ferocious, this is a legendary performance.

Dark Horse: Amy Adams. Though I don’t think she merits an Oscar for her work in Doubt, Adams is an amazingly talented, intensely likeable actress. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Academy noticed that by giving her the statuette.

Random Thought #721894

Sitting in the waiting room of the doctor's office today, I leafed through an issue of Rolling Stone from last summer. For some reason, my doctor's office--part of a Harvard hospital--cannot provide current reading material. Only seven-month-old donations from the homeless shelter.

Anyhoo.

Then-presidential nominee Barack Obama was on the cover, and the issue was filled with election drama, Obama versus McCain.

And I took a great big sigh of relief. For once, America got it right. Even in the midst of our current turmoil, I am so, so glad we elected the right man for the job.

And I love this photo of him.

Koala saved from Australian wildfires

Click here for the story of this adorable fella.

My Grandmother’s Love Letters by Hart Crane

There are no stars tonight
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
In the loose girdle of soft rain.

There is even room enough
For the letters of my mother’s mother,
Elizabeth,
That have been pressed so long
Into a corner of the roof
That they are brown and soft,
And liable to melt as snow.

Over the greatness of such space
Steps must be gentle.
It is all hung by an invisible white hair.
It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.

And I ask myself:

“Are your fingers long enough to play
Old keys that are but echoes:
Is the silence strong enough
To carry back the music to its source
And back to you again
As though to her?”

Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand
Through much of what she would not understand;
And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof
With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.

Hart Crane, 1899-1932

In Memoriam

Wolfie

"To call him a dog hardly seems to do him justice, though inasmuch as he had four legs, a tail, and barked, I admit he was, to all outward appearances. But to those who knew him well, he was a perfect gentleman."     -Hermione Gingold

Turtle, Swan by Mark Doty

(Note: This is one of my favorite poems ever. Mark Doty is a personal hero of mine, and the beauty, the naked honesty, the luminous force of this poem is a perfect example why. Enjoy.)

Because the road to our house
is a back road, meadowlands punctuated
by gravel quarry and lumberyard,
there are unexpected travelers
some nights on our way home from work.
Once, on the lawn of the Tool

and Die Company, a swan;
the word doesn't convey the shock
of the thing, white architecture
rippling like a pond's rain-pocked skin,
beak lifting to hiss at my approach.
Magisterial, set down in elegant authority,

he let us know exactly how close we might come.
After a week of long rains
that filled the marsh until it poured
across the road to make in low woods
a new heaven for toads,
a snapping turtle lumbered down the center

of the asphalt like an ambulatory helmet.
His long tail dragged, blunt head jutting out
of the lapidary prehistoric sleep of shell.
We'd have lifted him from the road
but thought he might bend his long neck back
to snap. I tried herding him; he rushed,

though we didn't think those blocky legs
could hurry -- then ambled back
to the center of the road, a target
for kids who'd delight in the crush
of something slow with the look
of primeval invulnerability. He turned

the blunt spear point of his jaws,
puffing his undermouth like a bullfrog,
and snapped at your shoe,
vising a beakful of -- thank God --
leather. You had to shake him loose. We left him
to his own devices, talked on the way home

of what must lead him to new marsh
or old home ground. The next day you saw,
one town over, remains of shell
in front of the little liquor store. I argued
it was too far from where we'd seen him,
too small to be his...though who could tell

what the day's heat might have taken
from his body. For days he became a stain,
a blotch that could have been merely
oil. I did not want to believe that
was what we saw alive in the firm center
of his authority and right

to walk the center of the road,
head up like a missionary moving certainly
into the country of his hopes.
In the movies in this small town
I stopped for popcorn while you went ahead
to claim seats. When I entered the cool dark

I saw straight couples everywhere,
no single silhouette who might be you.
I walked those two aisles too small
to lose anyone and thought of a book
I read in seventh grade, "Stranger Than Science,"
in which a man simply walked away,

at a picnic, and was,
in the act of striding forward
to examine a flower, gone.
By the time the previews ended
I was nearly in tears -- then realized
the head of one-half the couple in the first row

was only your leather jacket propped in the seat
that would be mine. I don't think I remember
anything of the first half of the movie.
I don't know what happened to the swan. I read
every week of some man's lover showing
the first symptoms, the night sweat

or casual flu, and then the wasting begins
and the disappearance a day at a time.
I don't know what happened to the swan;
I don't know if the stain on the street
was our turtle or some other. I don't know
where these things we meet and know briefly,

as well as we can or they will let us,
go. I only know that I do not want you
-- you with your white and muscular wings
that rise and ripple beneath or above me,
your magnificent neck, eyes the deep mottled autumnal colors
of polished tortoise -- I do not want you ever to die.

© Mark Doty

John Updike, 1932-2009

"Dreams come true; without that possibility, nature would not incite us to have them."

-John Updike

Click here for Updike's obituary in The New York Times.

Our President

On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics.

...For the world has changed, and we must change with it.

-Barack Obama, from his inaugural address

Andrew Wyeth, 1917-2009

Christina Olson - 1947

Click here for Wyeth's obituary in The New York Times.

Rare Anne Sexton Clips

The drama, the madness, and the genius of Anne Sexton...

Everything's Coming Up "Nightrose"

Eighteen years ago, when I was first becoming interested in the genre, I read a romance novel that I've never forgotten. It's lived on the periphery of my memory ever since, and as I read more and more historical romances over the ensuing years, I inevitably compared them all to this one early tale that had introduced me to the world of affordable paperback love stories. Typically, I found all other romances to fall short of the spectacular tale spun by Dorothy Garlock in her 1990 novel "Nightrose".

A few weeks ago, I got my hands on a used copy of "Nightrose" and trembled with anticipation at rereading it (as only booksluts like myself can tremble over a book). I was excited to see if the story was as great as I remembered, or if it had somehow changed over the last eighteen years. I knew I had changed, so the idea that the novel had as well, for better or worse, was a very real possibility. And I was right. "Nightrose" had indeed undergone a transformation. It was even BETTER than I remembered.

There could be a few reasons for this, all of which are plausible. Perhaps I've read so many second-rate romances that I now recognize a truly good one for the rarity it is. Perhaps, as someone who has tried his hand at writing one of these things, I've come to respect the monumental challenges presented by writing not only a believable, logical love story (for what is logical about falling in love?), but an historically accurate document of a certain time period. Or perhaps I've just grown up and could relate more realistically to this story of love, compromise, and second chances. Whatever the reason, I now regard "Nightrose" as my favorite romance novel -- and certainly one of the best ever written.

I've always felt a certain affinity with the novel's author, Dorothy Garlock. Like me, she is an Iowan with a fond attachment to the land and the stories associated with it. In fact, I lived and worked for years in the same town Garlock calls home, and though a small community, I can't recall ever having run into her. That may be for the best, as I probably would've groveled at the feet of such a celebrated writer; Garlock, now in her sixties, was one of the pioneers of the American romance novel: the grand dame of the frontier love story.

This title is well-earned, as is evidenced in "Nightrose". Garlock constructs a story that is so much more than your dime-store bodice-ripper. Though much of it revolves around the relationship between strong-willed spitfire Katy and determined charmer Garrick, the book is much grander in scope than it first appears. It is really the story of an entire town, once deserted and left to rot, that comes brilliantly back to life, and the diverse, interesting people that populate it.

"Nightrose" takes place in Montana Territory, 1874. Twenty-one-year-old Katy, her older sister Mary, and Mary's young daughter Theresa have been abandoned; they are the only residents of the desolate ghost town of Trinity. Mary's loser-husband Roy has run off in hopes of striking gold, and though he left with the promise to return one day, wealthy and successful, to his wife and daughter, no one is holding their breath. The three young ladies are forced by necessity to leave behind their ramshackle cabin on the outskirts and take up residence in the most unlikely of places: the town funerary. They are completely alone and living off the land, with just a cow, a derringer, and whatever left-behind foodstuffs they can salvage from the forsaken buildings and homes.

Enter Garrick Rowe. Tall, muscled, Greek, and imposing. He sets up camp across from the funerary in the town jail. The ladies are uncomfortably aware of him, tracking his every move, though unsure of his motives in Trinity. He, too, is keeping tabs on them. What in the hell are two grown women and a little girl still doing in this forgotten place?

So begins the brilliant "Nightrose". Their paths soon cross, sparks fly, all manner of people come and go throughout the town, shots are fired and blood is shed, and all the while Katy and Garrick are drawn closer together. The focus of the novel gradually expands to include the stories of not only Mary and Theresa, but those of the entire growing community descending upon Trinity, as well as the stories of Garrick's friends and acquaintances in the "metropolis" of Virginia City.

Of course, there are villains as well. And not just one lowly scoundrel, but several shady schemers with different malicious agendas. Even using the word "villains" to describe these people is too generous. They fall more into the "Mega-Douchebags Who Deserve to be Castrated" category. I tend to dislike romances where the villains are this thoroughly evil, without even the slightest hint of humanity, but in Garlock's deft hands, these characters serve a greater purpose than just being total pricks. Their collective presence is simply another obstacle that Katy and Garrick, and the town itself, must overcome on the journey to wholeness and contentment. Much like the hardships of living hand-to-mouth off the land, or being submissive to the whims of the weather, or existing under constant threat of attack from God-only-knows-who, these villains are one more hurdle to be overcome. And since all romances rely on a Happily Ever After (the main reason I enjoy them so), this overcoming is triumphant and exhilarating.

One of the aspects of "Nightrose" I found so impressive was the masterful way Garlock is able to walk the line between creating a story that is completely true to the traditional roles and accepted attitudes of the novel's era, all the while remaining respectful of the sensitivities of modern readers. Many romance novelists don't get this; they strive for historical accuracy and end up with offensive stereotypes (blithering, submissive women and violent, aggressive men). But Garlock's characters are different: they are three-dimensional creations with rich inner worlds and capabilities of great thought and understanding. Katy is perhaps the most headstrong heroine I've encountered in a romance novel, often to the point of being stubborn and delusional, and Garrick is so bloody determined to make Katy "his" that he more than once crosses the line into the territory of controlling and obsessive -- but these traits in our hero and heroine are not cemented. Like all of us, Katy and Garrick have the ability to change, and this fact is perhaps Garlock's greatest success as a storyteller. Her characters slowly transform themselves, or let themselves be transformed by "the power of love", however you choose to look at it. They think, they feel, they come to realizations about themselves and one another. Katy examines the nature of her initially strong (and extreme) aversion to Garrick, and she gets to the root of the problem to see just how flawed her reasoning is. Garrick, too, realizes that if he's ever going to woo Katy with the passion he feels in his heart, he's going to have to take a step back, make compromises, and concentrate on her thoughts, needs, and dreams. Whether these transformations are historically likely is not really relevant. What is relevant is that the author is courageous enough to imbue her characters with something truly timeless: GOOD SENSE.

All of this makes for a very believable and entertaining love story, an easy unfolding and revealing of emotions between two very interesting characters. And swarming around this main romance are several others, just as believable, notably Mary's own burgeoning relationship with Garrick's right-hand-man, the burly, furry Irishman Hank Weston.

Yet each of Garlock's characters -- not just the ones in the throes of la passion -- are equally strong, memorable, and unique. The brusque but tender she-hulk Mrs. Chandler, owner of the eatery. The handsome and sensitive mercantile proprietor Elias Glossberg. Nan Neal, a sassy illiterate showgirl who rocks Virginia City. The spunky working gals of The Beehive, Trinity's very own whorehouse. I even liked Mary's daughter, five-year-old Theresa, and I typically find kids in romance novels to be annoying and distracting. But Theresa is precocious and endearing; it's easy to see how she enchants those around her.

Then there are the love scenes, which Garlock handles elegantly and sensually, without ever tipping over into the unseemly or unrefined. There is a lot of kissing in this book. A lot of kissing. Pages of it, in fact; from a peck on the cheek to a full-out French, and all of it is tasteful and classy (it's a special writer who can make a tongue down the throat come across as romantic and soft). And I loved the fact that Garrick was Greek; imagining his fine-ass bod was a pleasure for me, and clearly for Ms. Garlock as well. I also loved that Katy wasn't some heaving-bosomed sex kitten. She had boobs proportionate to her frame (read: SMALL), and while she approached her lovemaking with abandon and great joy, I always got the impression she kept her eye on the bigger picture: she loves this man, and he loves her. Thus, the sex became something more than sex (another fact that many romance novelists completely miss).

Garlock's prose is luminous. She has the power to transport you wherever her words are in any particular moment. As "Nightrose" is so much more than your everyday historical romance, her talent as a storyteller is immense. While she could have focused solely on Katy and Garrick, she chose to make this a much larger love story: the romancing of an entire town. In this sense, I almost want to suggest that "Nightrose" is less of a romance novel and more of a good old fashioned Western. With really hot love scenes.

Finally, the cover. Not only can this book be held up as an example of how great historical romance novels can be, but the cover art is also exemplary (at least it is on the edition I read, the original 1990 publication pictured above). For one thing, the characters actually LOOK like the characters in the book; in fact, they look just as I had imagined them. There's also no submissive embrace or cheap excuse to show skin (though Garrick is shirtless, with his back to us, on the cover); there is instead a pose that appears as if they are running into one another's arms. This is much more believable than some awful cover depicting, say, Katy's nipple shadow and the outline of Garrick's twelve-inch bratwurst as they cavort in the mountains with swans and horses creepily watching. Like the book it envelops, the cover is dignified yet fun.

If you've never read a romance novel, but have fallen under the impression that they are somehow sub-par or tawdry, "Nightrose" is for you; not only will it prove your theory wrong, but you'll have a hell of a lot of fun in the process. If you are a romance reader who's never really come across a decent one, "Nightrose" is also for you; this is a book that could be used as a shining example in "Romance Writing 101". Even if romance novels hold no interest for you, but big epic stories about people and places of a bygone era are more up your alley, then "Nightrose" is an excellent choice here as well; it plays out in the mind with all the sweeping majesty of a classic Western movie.

Just a Bunch of Mischief: A Review of the Film "Mamma Mia!"

"Mamma Mia!" is the gayest movie ever made. It's big, splashy, colorful, campy, and absolute crap. And you know what? I loved every minute of it.

What's so refreshing about this film -- which, admittedly, took a little time for me to figure out -- is that it tries to be nothing more than it is. It's an ABBA musical for Christ's sake! Let me say that again. It's an ABBA musical. If you're expecting Bertolt Brecht or Kurt Weill (or hell, even Andrew Lloyd Webber), you've come to the wrong movie. This is just pure fun and fluff. "Mamma Mia!" isn't going for the gold here. It's going for something like sheet metal. And it succeeds beautifully.

Yet I didn't understand this for the first twenty minutes or so. As soon as Meryl came barreling onto the screen in her rolled-up denim overalls with the broken strap, I cringed and said, "O Meryl! Why hast Thou forsaken me?". It took me a while to realize that Meryl, along with the rest of the cast and crew, knew exactly what they were doing. I doubt anyone involved with this production was under the impression they were making a grand, deep, complex piece of musical genius. It is, after all -- and say it with me now! -- an ABBA musical. The cast of actors, most of whom are known for their serious dramatic abilities, let down their collective hair and just have fun. The result? "Mamma Mia!" is a rocking, rollicking, raucous good time.

In my bizarre and overactive imagination, I imagine director Phyllida Lloyd, who helmed the original stage version, giving the following direction to her actors at the first read-through:


To Amanda Seyfried (Sophie): "Just be sassy and make lots of big eyes."




To Stellan Skarsgård (Bill): "Look bored. Look REALLY bored."



To Pierce Brosnan (Sam): "OK, Remington Steele, you're only here because we need some hotness. Keep your shirt unbuttoned to the navel, or completely off, as much as you can. And please, for the sake of the children, don't sing unless you absolutely have to."


To Colin Firth (Harry): "Squint your eyes a lot and look baffled, like you're wondering what the hell a hot piece like yourself is even doing in this movie to begin with."

To Julie Walters (Rosie) and Christine Baranski (Tanya): "Blow it out of the water, girls. Walk off with the scenery. The gays love that."

To Meryl Streep (Donna): "Do whatever the hell you want! You're MERYL STREEP!"

Now, in any other movie, these sorts of cardboard characters would really piss me off. But in "Mamma Mia!", they are perfect, fitting in seamlessly with the bright hues of the film, the spontaneous eruption into nearly all of ABBA's greatest hits, and the simple, sweet plot that brings it all together.

The story takes place on a remote Greek island, where 20-year-old Sophie is about to be married and decides to invite three of her mother Donna's ex-boyfriends to the wedding. Of these three, one is Sophie's father, but no one is sure which. And that's about it for plot.

Don't be misled. This isn't a musicalization of a Maury "Which One of These Men is My Baby's Daddy?" Povich episode. "Mamma Mia!" would never stoop to something as serious and thought-provoking as "Maury".

And the music is, of course, great; I defy anyone not to get swept up in the catchy cotton candy sweetness of the songs. My favorite, though, was "Dancing Queen", a song which has been played to death in recent years. Lloyd and her team reinvent "Dancing Queen" and turn it into a fantastic feminist manifesto. Donna, Rosie, and Tanya go flitting through the Greek hillside as they sing, releasing all the women in the village from their archaic and traditional roles, until everyone ends up on the docks. This leads to the inevitable, gleeful jumping-in to the sapphire waters of the Aegean.

Another standout is Christine Baranski bringing down the house with one of my least-favorite ABBA songs, "Does Your Mother Know?". She belts the song in true diva fashion to a beach full of shirtless, muscly young men, who are, of course, all lusting after her 50-year-old ass. Baranski transforms the number into an innuendo-laden, laugh-out-loud romp. Both she and Julie Walters are so divinely over-the-top in this film that you can't wait to see what they'll do next. They do not disappoint.

Despite the pervasive fluffiness of "Mamma Mia!", Streep is given one moment to show off her dramatic mettle. Standing on a rocky cliff, working a bright red shawl, she belts "The Winner Takes It All" with palpable passion and heartbreak. It is one of the film's more unforgettable moments.

And no, Pierce Brosnan cannot sing. Not even a little bit. Every time he's called upon to croak out a number, it sounds like he's taking a massive dump in his Speedos. But this, like everything else in "Mamma Mia!", is intentional. You're supposed to laugh. That, above all else, is what this movie is about.

Worth a special shout-out is the film's Greek chorus. Random heads popping up at precisely the right moment to sing back-up, or native villagers sweeping across the screen with supporting vocals and carefree dance moves. Never has the term "Greek chorus" been used so literally.

I'm so glad I saw "Mamma Mia!". I enjoyed it far more than I ever would "The Dark Knight" or "Hancock". But then again, how could I not? It's an ABBA musical!

Forever Our Girl: Estelle Getty, 1923-2008

It's always sad when a piece of your childhood dies. My heart broke a little when I heard that Estelle Getty, the well-loved, Emmy-winning actress who played Sophia on "The Golden Girls", passed away this morning. Getty had been in declining health for the last few years, suffering from Lewy Body Dementia, and died at 5:35 a.m., surrounded by family and caregivers at her Hollywood Hills home. She was 84.

I grew up on "The Golden Girls" and Sophia Petrillo. Viewed as something of a weirdo in my small Midwestern hometown, I lived most of my childhood on the sidelines. But one thing I always counted on was Saturday night, 8:00, NBC: "The Golden Girls". There was, for one divine half-hour, a welcome escape -- a place I could go where I knew everything was OK, I was OK, and I could laugh. And laugh. And laugh some more.

I've seen every episode of "The Golden Girls" at least a dozen times. By the time I was struggling with my demons as a young adult, the show was being broadcast in reruns on Lifetime (television for women and gay men). Even through those lean years, the Girls still brought great humor and hope into my life.

In fact, they still do. I can watch episodes now I've seen countless times in the past, to which I know the entire script. And I am STILL able to laugh till the tears fall.

This is thanks in no small part to Estelle Getty. The woman was a comic genius. Her Sophia was a consistently masterful portrayal for seven years straight. It is, quite simply, one of the greatest performances in television history. Getty's comic timing, deadpan delivery, and mousy little frame contributed a major element to "The Golden Girl"'s status as a television classic. And no one -- absolutely no one -- can deliver a one-liner like Estelle.

She was born in New York City in 1923. Getty, as a young woman, started her career as a stand-up comic and actress, performing mainly in the "borscht belt" of the Catskills and the Yiddish theater. But marriage and motherhood, as well as disapproving parents, took priority, and Getty devoted herself to her family. Over the years, she occasionally acted here and there in regional theater and Off-Broadway, often working office jobs during the day to make ends meet.

It was until she was 59 that her first big break came, in the form of Harvey Fierstein's play "Torch Song Trilogy" in 1982. Her role as Fierstein's mother stole the show, and even to this day remains one of the most talked-about theatrical performances of the last thirty years.

And "Torch Song" led to her second big break, the role that would propel her to stardom and make her a household name. At the age of 62, Getty won the role of Sophia Petrillo on "The Golden Girls", playing the mother of Bea Arthur (who, incidentally, is actually one year older than Getty). For her work, Getty was nominated for an Emmy Award every single year of the show's run, winning once, and she also received a Golden Globe. The show was a massive hit the first time around, and remains so today.

But let's not forget Getty's activism. Long before it was chic or fashionable, Estelle Getty was a vocal supporter of gay rights and AIDS awareness. Remember, folks, this was back in the 80s, when celebrities didn't touch topics like this. Proving she was just as tough and lovable as her titular character, Getty did something truly noble. She spoke for those of us who had no voice. She called for people like me to be treated like, well, people. She fought for us.

Thank you, Estelle. Thank you for your talent, your humor, your voice, and your heart. Thank you for being a friend.

You will be missed.

What better way to remember this legendary little lady than a few classic moments with Sophia and the Girls. Enjoy the clips below. The last two are some of the most hysterical scenes of the entire series.



Sophia & Picasso



Sophia Rents a Porno



Sophia as Sonny & Dorothy as Cher



"Lesbian Lovers of Miami"