It was a joke, I think. My friends Sam & Abigail came round for Shabbat dinner on Friday night, and they brought me a gift: The Jewish Princess Cookbook. How thoughtful, I thought.
Dinner, of course, was already done-and-dusted. My girlfriend's spaghetti-squash soup for starters; my patented honey-mustard chicken, accompanied by roast potatoes and sweet potatoes, as the main. My other friends' gorgeous baby, Luna - who loves me more than you, Sam - provided the entertainment.
I picked up the cookbook yesterday. I began to read. But the more I did, the more I winced: at the poor prose, the squirm-inducing tone, and jokes so bad they could grace any barmitzvah-boy's speech. Here's an example of their brilliance:
"It really is true that the way to a Jewish man's heart is through his stomach. If you asked Jewish men whether they would prefer a nice bowl of chicken soup or a romp upstairs, I'll bet eight out of ten of them would go for the chicken soup - especially if it contained matzo balls."
Scientific studies aside, there are some decent recipes in there. And the pictures are pretty. But Georgie Tarn and Tracey Fine - the self-confessed JPs behind the book - are not talented writers. If you do buy this lightweight tome, do yourself a favour and ignore everything but the dishes. Georgie and Tracey should stick to shopping.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Man on Wire: 7/10
His name was small. His ambitions limited only by the height of the building he set his sights upon.
Man on Wire tells the story of one Philippe Petit, a self-taught high-wire walker enchanted by the seemingly insane dream of shimmying between the Twin Towers of the World Trade Centre on a piece of metal wire.
The man himself - together with his partners in crime (and he was arrested for the dare-devil act) - explains on film, in great detail, how he conceived the hair-brained scheme (he saw a magazine picture in a dental surgery); how it almost never happened; and how he coped with his new-found fame.
But nothing, neither the emotions of his friends, the archive footage of Petit practising in his back yard, nor the absence of an explanation as to how he financed his escapades, compares with the stills that catch Petit in the act.
I got vertigo just looking at them. My jaw dropped, mesmerised at the incredible audacity of the man. My girlfriend was a little frustrated by the detailed explanations of the logistics involved in the operation. And I did nod off a couple of times, mainly because of exhaustion.
But this documentary is as thrilling and as raw as any I've seen. "You have to live your life on a tightrope," concludes Petit. If you don't push yourself to the limit, you're wasting your time. A fine philosophy indeed, even if it does come from an obviously arrogant, and selfish, Frenchman. You can't help but like him.
Man on Wire tells the story of one Philippe Petit, a self-taught high-wire walker enchanted by the seemingly insane dream of shimmying between the Twin Towers of the World Trade Centre on a piece of metal wire.
The man himself - together with his partners in crime (and he was arrested for the dare-devil act) - explains on film, in great detail, how he conceived the hair-brained scheme (he saw a magazine picture in a dental surgery); how it almost never happened; and how he coped with his new-found fame.
But nothing, neither the emotions of his friends, the archive footage of Petit practising in his back yard, nor the absence of an explanation as to how he financed his escapades, compares with the stills that catch Petit in the act.
I got vertigo just looking at them. My jaw dropped, mesmerised at the incredible audacity of the man. My girlfriend was a little frustrated by the detailed explanations of the logistics involved in the operation. And I did nod off a couple of times, mainly because of exhaustion.
But this documentary is as thrilling and as raw as any I've seen. "You have to live your life on a tightrope," concludes Petit. If you don't push yourself to the limit, you're wasting your time. A fine philosophy indeed, even if it does come from an obviously arrogant, and selfish, Frenchman. You can't help but like him.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Moscow State Circus: 2/10
I've just returned from the Moscow State Circus. It was performing at Alexandra Palace in North London. I had front-row seats, and was joined for the early evening entertainment by my girlfriend, and my eldest niece, aged 5, and nephew, 7, who were visiting from Israel.
We were one of the few. At least two-thirds of the £25-a-pop seats were empty. Maybe they were scared off by the price of sitting in an old-style big top; perhaps it was the Bank Holiday weather; maybe the prospect of a circus without animals or the inhuman contortions of Cirque-du-Soleil was just not a big enough pull.
I quite enjoyed it at first. The clown was amusing, skillful (and, most importantly, when you have kids in toe, unscary). The performers - aside from one hairy, pot-bellied chap - appeared able, their acrobatics impressive, and the petite, sequined blond alluring.
My niece and nephew were wowed by the magic - the old slice-the-woman-in-half-and-have-her-head-appear-in-another-box-trick - and the trapeze artists.
I was left a little perplexed by the use of Hava Nagila during one act, which reminded me a little of my bar mitzva. And the man who - wait for it - bounced balls to dazzle the crowed (up to, oh yes, five at a time!), reminded me of some kind of circus satire.
The piece-de-resistance was supposed to be the human canon. Cue a disembodied voice relating the history of the art-form, and extolling the virtues of Andrei something or other: "The last remaining human cannonball in Russia". The lights dimmed; the net laid out. And then.....nothing. He wasn't fired. The net disappeared. And he was never mentioned again. The finale ended with a bow and a scowl from the clearly-unhappy cast. There was no encore.
After the two hour show (minus a 20 minute intermission), I made the mistake of approaching the petite blond, who by now had changed into a sandwich-board bedecked in Russian dolls and other "authentic" knickknacks. I asked her what happened to the human cannonball. She shrugged desultorily: "I don't know," she said, her eyes narrowing in scorn.
We left the Big Top. My niece and nephew went to the toilets. Just as well they did there and then. Five minutes later, the portaloos were attached to a tractor heading for the main exit. Strange given that they're supposed to be performing in the same spot for the next five days. You have been warned.
We were one of the few. At least two-thirds of the £25-a-pop seats were empty. Maybe they were scared off by the price of sitting in an old-style big top; perhaps it was the Bank Holiday weather; maybe the prospect of a circus without animals or the inhuman contortions of Cirque-du-Soleil was just not a big enough pull.
I quite enjoyed it at first. The clown was amusing, skillful (and, most importantly, when you have kids in toe, unscary). The performers - aside from one hairy, pot-bellied chap - appeared able, their acrobatics impressive, and the petite, sequined blond alluring.
My niece and nephew were wowed by the magic - the old slice-the-woman-in-half-and-have-her-head-appear-in-another-box-trick - and the trapeze artists.
I was left a little perplexed by the use of Hava Nagila during one act, which reminded me a little of my bar mitzva. And the man who - wait for it - bounced balls to dazzle the crowed (up to, oh yes, five at a time!), reminded me of some kind of circus satire.
The piece-de-resistance was supposed to be the human canon. Cue a disembodied voice relating the history of the art-form, and extolling the virtues of Andrei something or other: "The last remaining human cannonball in Russia". The lights dimmed; the net laid out. And then.....nothing. He wasn't fired. The net disappeared. And he was never mentioned again. The finale ended with a bow and a scowl from the clearly-unhappy cast. There was no encore.
After the two hour show (minus a 20 minute intermission), I made the mistake of approaching the petite blond, who by now had changed into a sandwich-board bedecked in Russian dolls and other "authentic" knickknacks. I asked her what happened to the human cannonball. She shrugged desultorily: "I don't know," she said, her eyes narrowing in scorn.
We left the Big Top. My niece and nephew went to the toilets. Just as well they did there and then. Five minutes later, the portaloos were attached to a tractor heading for the main exit. Strange given that they're supposed to be performing in the same spot for the next five days. You have been warned.
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