June Cohen's blog

Coastofutopia

After spending the last four months completely submerged in preparations for TED and building the new TED website (which launches this month), I am finally surfacing and reclaiming my life. What better way to jump back into New York culture than taking in the first (3-hour) installment of the new Tom Stoppard trilogy?

I've come to think of this 3-play cycle as the Cast, rather than the Coast of Utopia. Because the cast is just spectacular. Ethan Hawke: manic and memorable. Billy Crudup: Wow. I mean, wow. And then there's Brian F. O'Byrne, Amy Irving, Jennifer Ehle, Martha Plimpton.... Such a great line-up. Unfortunately, though, the women were nearly invisible. They were there on stage -- speaking lines, moving the plot along -- but they just had no presence. Now, perhaps that's the point: Women in 19th century Russia weren't exactly empowered... but it was a bit disappointing to see such phenomenal female actors recede into the background. I never got a full sense of who, exactly, their characters were.

Nonetheless, it was an impressive production. And I found myself looking around at the attentive sold-out crowd and the huge cast and the extraordinary sets (including, in one scene, ice skaters circling an enormous chandalier that looked like it had been carved out of ice, with Russian Orthodox spires on top and icicles at the bottom), and thinking, bemusedly, that we were all extravagantly indulging Tom Stoppard's whimsy. If Tom Stoppard wants to write a nine-hour, three-part trilogy about 19th century Russia. Well, by God, we'll watch. And so we did.

 I'll be back in a few weeks for Part Two ....

Cdiddy

This is what I love about New York: We have a high enough density of odd and curious souls that we can support movie theaters like the Angelika, which can screen movies like "Air Guitar Nation" -- a documentary about the world air-guitar championships (Yes. That's worth re-reading: World Air Guitar Championships) -- and a theater-full of people like me and my sister will show up at 10:30 on a Saturday night and take it in. (After drinking great wine from gorgeous glasses at Murray Moss's Centovini, across the street ... a bizarre juxtaposition that made the film that much better). Anyway: Air Guitar Nation. Utterly amusing. Surprisingly life-affirming. Awesome. Loved it.

So my brother, Guy, is in The New York Times today. He's the lead counsel in a pretty fascinating plagiarism case, which has also been covered by The Daily News, the New York Law Journal and the Hollywood Reporter. Plus Film Stew and Gothamist (which had the best headline: "WhenArt Imitates Life & Maybe Your Own Script About a Ragtag Team of Losers Playing Dodgeball") It's really a great story ...

Dodgeball (my brother's clients on the left)

Until now, Guy's law career has focused mainly on defending companies against extravagantly frivolous lawsuits. But, in a surprise plot twist, he's now representing 2 young writers who penned a goofy screenplay called "Dodgeball: The Movie," which told the story of a ragtag bunch of misfits who overcome all odds to win a national dodgeball competition, assisted by a slimy green drink, a wheelchair bound coach who dies by falling on his head (but reappears as a ghost), a fat team member named Gordo who saves the day by getting almost everyone out, and a lesbian dodgeball player named Kate.

They filed their script with the Writer's Guild, submitted it to William Morris, and got no love or interest.

Three years later, 20th Century Fox released a goofy movie called Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story, which told the story of a ragtag bunch of misfits who overcome all odds to win an international dodgeball competition, assisted by a wheelchair bound coach who dies when something falls on his head  (but reappears as a ghost), a fat team member named Gordon who saves the day by getting almost everyone out, and a bisexual love interest named Kate. An earlier draft also had the slimy green drink.

The movie, starring Ben Stiller and Vince Vaughn, made $167M. The credited writer, Rawson Thurber, who worked for and later was represented by William Morris, had his career made. The writers of the original script, as the Jill Sobule song goes, "still live in Brooklyn."

It's a TRUE underdog story!

I suspect things like this happen all the time in Hollywood, but it's almost impossible to prove. So for the last year, my brother's been combing through scripts, watching every sports movie ever made, and putting together a very compelling case that similarities like these (and many, many others) cannot be mere coincidence.  

20th Century Fox, on their part, has fought extremely hard, litigated aggressively, and asked the court to throw out the case in "summary judgment." Last week, the court said "No way." Actually, the court said "Coincidence - even an eerie coincidence - cannot explain away this evidence as a matter of law in this case."

It's almost unheard of for a plagiarism case to make it this far. Hence, the news coverage.

Go, Guy, Go!

Sundance

So Amy Novogratz and I arrived late last night in Park City, for Sundance. We threw together a last-minute trip, and arrived without so much as a single movie ticket. But I'm confident we'll pull together a memorable weekend all the same...

Well, two Broadway shows and three museum exhibits later, my New Year's resolution is looking like a bust. Work keeps interfering! But I haven't given up yet ...

If you're a single gal in her thirties, living in New York, you will inevitably have moments when you feel -- for better or worse -- that you're shadowing Carrie Bradshaw. Showing up for the first minute of the semi-annual Manolo Blahnik sale is one of them.

At 10:30 this morning, when I arrived at the pocket-sized shop on W. 54th, the line at the door was perhaps 20 deep. At 10:40, the doorman began spoonfeeding us into the store. Verrrry slowly. One by one. Still, it filled quickly, and flustered the gentle staff. "Oh! Oh!" the Italian sales manager shouted with pitch-perfect distress. "Eet's too crowed een here! Mr Toussaint! Mr. tousSAINT! PLEEZ do not let anyone else EEN!"

Now, the thing to know about Manolo Blahniks is that they're shoe lovers' shoes: Beautiful works of art that just happen to adorn your feet. Blahnik himself (brilliant, colorful, exuberantly odd) is an unabashed shoe fetishist, with zero interest in other forms of fashion. "I don't like dresses. I don't like hats. I only like shoes," he told Michael Specter in a wonderful interview during this year's New Yorker Festival. And this explains a lot about his work: Divinely designed, lovingly crafted and absurdly priced ... I mean, you really need to live in New York quite a long time before you can imagine paying that much for a pair of shoes.  

Which brings me back to the sale. The sale!! I was surrounded by scads of pumps, flats and boots at 30% off, and wouldn't you know it? Isn't it always the way? I fell head over heels with the shoes in the window: The bright red, bejeweled, 3-1/2-inch heel, peep-toe, satin d'Orsay pumps, which were utter perfection and distinctly not on sale.

As I slipped them on, and floated over to the full-length mirror -- mentally preparing to pay what used to be a month's rent in San Francisco** for a pair of shoes I obviously needed -- I wondered briefly about who I'd become. What ever happened to my pre-New York, pre-Sex & the City self ... the one who lusted after mountain bike shocks and ski racks, and went hiking on the weekends? I suspect she's still in here somewhere ... that I will someday move back to the west coast -- or Colorado, or the Alps, or Africa, for that matter -- and giggle at my current Manhattan ways.

But for now, I'm shadowing Carrie Bradshaw. And I'll settle for a metaphorical hike: across town, for dinner -- on a Tuesday, no less -- in my beautiful, bright-red shoes.

** Note: My rent in San Francisco was always rather cheap. Pre-dot-com-era cheap. I'm not that far gone ...

My resolution for 2007: To record, in some way, every cultural event I attend -- plays, concerts, lectures, exhibits, conferences -- for the next year. This is, of course, a huge part of my life, which informs my work and feeds my soul ... I think I attend around 150 events each year (depending on how you count them): I belong to six museums; I try to see all the TED speakers before they come to Monterey; I'm a regular at Joe's Pub; for a long time, I'd seen all but three shows on Broadway. These are my New York years, after all. I may not ski, hike or mountain bike anymore, but boy do I take in the cultcha...

The problem, though, is that I don't take the time to document it all. I keep playbills and programs; I sporadically keep notes in journals; I post here every so often. But still, details start escaping me over time.... Who was that funny guy from Brooklyn who does the hip-hop comedy? (Danny Hochs) What was that stunning piece Alvin Ailey performs -- the one with the strobe light and the male dancer leaping his heart out? ("Caught"). What was my problem with "Light in the Piazza"? (Beautiful score, awful songs).

So partially for your benefit, but mostly (let's face it) for mine, I'm committing to record it all... not in great detail, but in illuminating snippets. For the next year, at least, my cultural life is an open book...

Thought I'd choose a snowy design for the blog, just to remind me what winter used to look like. It's been a balmy New York winter thus far. I have yet to even wear a hat!

I keep hearing Jill Sobule's happy song about global warming in my head... (the line about wearing a halter top in Manhattan in January)

In the last two weeks, I've concluded there are few things in life more trying than hailing a San Francisco taxi. Between the relative scarcity of taxis, the lack of a consistent light system (In New York, it's simple: If the light's on, the taxi's free. If it's off, it's not. In San Francisco, it's anyone's guess), and the maddening indifference of SF taxi drivers ("It's such a nice day. I'm not sure if I really NEED any passengers to enjoy a day like this") what seems like a simple task requires a high degree of patience ... and skill.

You must not get frustrated by the empty taxis that whiz by you on the way to a radio call, you must not be humiliated when you try to wave down a taxi with a smirking passenger you failed to notice; you must not be deterred by the carousing teenage boys who heckle you as they drive by and try to high-five your taxi-hailing hand. You must not be intimidated by the drunk and staggering street resident who propositions you as you wait. No. If you are to hail a taxi in downtown San Francisco, you must persist. Keep that arm out. Yell "Taxi" at the top of your lungs. Run right out into that center lane at the red light and jump into that open cab. In short: Act like a New Yorker. Eventually, your efforts will be rewarded, and if you're lucky: Noted...

"You can always tell a New Yorker," one taxi driver explained, nodding approvingly at me in the rear view window. "They're serious about hailing cabs."

I've been in California for 10 days now, meeting with smart people working on interesting projects, and catching up on everything I've missed by virtue of the fact that I live in NY. Manhattan is fabulous for many things, but leading-edge web technology is not one of them. I really have to fight to stay ahead of the curve there. But in San Francisco, you breathe in technology like air.

Of course, this might be reflective of my own social circles... and not the cities themselves ... But I don't think so.