“It is sort of amazing to hear (or read) entrenched members of the right-wing media establishment drop the talking points in favor of honesty. In favor of speaking to the actual will of the people, rather than the NRA-purchased Congressional narrative about gun control. In short, we want it. Now.
Keep talking Geraldo. You have our attention.”
True story: I’ve never read a Harry Potter book, nor seen any of the eight films from the wildly popular series. I’ll admit that in the Aughts, my resistance was that of a snotty, 20-something faux rebel. I wanted no part of common literature. I had two English degrees!
With time and the increasingly massive success of the pop cultural juggernaut, I started to feel a little foolish. Multiple critical exclamations over the quality of J.K. Rowling’s prose reinforced that I was probably missing something special. But at a certain point, the train had left and I figured it was too late to get onboard. One thing I do know about the Harry Potter series is that the sum total of pages is 4,224. And it takes 19 hours to watch the movies. That’s a serious investment.
So for many reasons I relished the opportunity to see “Potted Potter: The Unauthorized Potter Experience – A Parody by Dan and Jeff.” The production’s astute marketing position, per press materials, is a “condensing or ‘potting,’ of all seven Harry Potter books into 70 madcap minutes.” A broad, cheeky overview of a time-consuming leviathan. Who could resist that proposition?
I attended press night with a loved one who is my Potter opposite — a devoted fan. I figured if I got stuck on a reference, her presence would be handy indeed. It turns out I needn’t have been concerned. One of the greatest assets of the family-oriented show — beyond the excellence of the two performers — is its ability to appeal to all audiences. Rapid dialogue, song, dance, comedy, audience engagement, props and consumable brevity: quite literally, something for everyone.
BBC Television hosts Daniel Clarkson and Jefferson Turner, who created “Potted Potter,” do a great job of involving everyone, not only in the story, but in themselves. And just as Rowling adroitly accomplished, the performers interest the adults while remembering the most excited lovers of magic: children.
The tone is set before the show starts when Clarkson walks through the audience, thanking families for attending. As he does, the tall man lowers himself to a kid’s level — in both stature and tone — and welcomes them into the Potter world. Though not part of the script, I enjoyed the delight of the little ones, giddy with the attention, every bit as much as the actual performance.
If you can’t have fun during “Potted Potter,” you’re just a Muggle. There’s a live Quidditch game in the middle of the production which involves good old-fashioned team rivalry, cute kids in wizard hats and Super Soakers. It’s been an extra cynical and painful few news weeks in Chicago. But I dare one to remain smile-immune in the face of so much merriment. It’s good natured and inviting.
Clarkson and Turner give so much of themselves, I’m sure they need a Gatorade and a long nap after the curtain drops. For 70 non-stop minutes they transition between many of the Potter world’s 772 characters. They whiz through the important plot points of seven novels, and they do it with little more than a slew of props and advanced ad-lib and physical comedy skills. The duo displays an endearing love for Potter and a completely admirable respect for children as audience members worthy of a quality experience. With both material and consumer, they get it.
“Potted Potter” is a show for which you want to root, because it’s an all-around joyful experience. It’s icing on the cake that the massive appeal of the institution it lovingly lampoons ensures success. Highly recommended for Potter novices and experts alike, crowds of all ages, and frankly humanity.
“Potted Potter” runs through Jan. 3, 2016 at the Broadway Playhouse at Water Tower Place, 175 E Chestnut, Chicago, IL. For information or tickets, call 800-775-2000 or visit the Broadway In Chicago website.
Thanksgiving 2000
I’m a recent college graduate with my first corporate job – one that pays a living wage and provides health insurance. I have an apartment in the Uptown neighborhood of Chicago that I share with my sister, baby niece and a friend of ours. Adult life is beginning. I am independent.
Jenny is visiting an out-of-town pal for the holiday, taking KK with her. Pete has gone to his parents’ place in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. My sister and I have begun the process of estranging ourselves from our progenitors, and since my mother had it repossessed a year earlier, I no longer own a car to travel to extended family. So I spend Thanksgiving drinking cheap white wine, watching movies and taking naps.
Oh the pathetic, romantic misery of it all! Actually, not so much. At this stage of life, a break from society and the anguish, regret and pain that were regular side dishes on the childhood holiday plate is more than ok. I no longer have to do what is expected. I have my own job and place to live and can get soused while eating frozen food if I want. In almost every way possible, it’s a delicious experience. Jean-Paul Sartre nailed it in No Exit. Hell is other people, man.
I ignore the pangs of loneliness and isolation that accompany my solitary, holiday binge. I am breaking new ground and it feels somehow bold, radical to refuse the traditional mass consumerist, Hallmark-dictated rules. I’m 22. I am revolutionary. I can drink away the deeply rooted sense of rejection that gnaws at the corner of my private party.
Thanksgiving 2001 – 2014
When I reflect upon Thanksgiving 2000, I’m reminded of that scene from Say Anything after Diane Court breaks up with Lloyd Dobler. He’s hanging out in a convenience store parking lot with some slackers from school on a Saturday night, pained and desperate enough to solicit advice from almost any source. When it finally hits Lloyd that the drinking dudes don’t know anything more about love than he, the gang’s representative defensively declares that they are alone, “By choice.” But you can hear the dangling question mark, and can certainly feel the ambivalence. It’s funny, awkward and pitiful – and the scene serves as an accessible sketch of my own cognitive dissonance.
I’m still looking for my way. At times I’m downright disoriented. I make a lot of bad choices. Many of them stem from a self-imposed, internalized tension between doing things “right” by the standards of society, and making decisions that feel authentic and true for me.
Part of the problem – a huge fucking chunk – is that I’m not sure who I am. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say I’m not sure I have the courage to be who I am – an oversharing writer who works out her issues in public, an American who’s not sure she wants to be part of the ownership economy, a liberal, an overbearing but loving friend, sister and aunt, a crybaby, a stubborn, hardworking, ambitioned career woman who doesn’t want the responsibility of raising children. I want a family but my definition doesn’t fit the norm. As the title character says in the Toni Morrison novel, Sula, “I don’t want to make somebody else. I want to make myself.” I spent long, sad co-dependent years living for others. Now I want to read. I want to see the world. I want to buy a scooter. I want a passionate relationship with a smart, strong, funny, unusual man who can celebrate my idiosyncrasy.
I’ve butted heads with people who demand more convention, but the least accepting of all of this is I. I will do anything to try to make the shoehorn work. The results? Two divorces, some Sid and Nancy-style breakups, family arguments, financial, career direction and health struggles. I also pass many despondent, confused holidays.
In 2014, I focus on my job, friends, familial rifts and sanity with regular Al-Anon meetings, weekly personal therapy, writing, travel. I don’t date much. I spend a lot of time on my own and it starts to feel good. I guard it jealously. The Say Anything scene fades. I’m alone by choice. It forces me to be honest with myself, consider my inclinations and follow the ones that feel healthy – without regret. On Thanksgiving Eve I spend the night at my sister’s house, watch a movie and have a slumber party with my nieces. It’s exactly what I want.
Thanksgiving 2015
At any point during the last 15 years, if you’d asked me what I wanted to be, I probably would have directed you to Carrie Bradshaw and Sex in the City. A fabulous, beautiful, urban writer with interesting friends and places to go. Unlucky in love and of course I loathe high heels, but close enough.
I have the life that’s necessary, and it’s better than the Bradshaw fantasy. It’s perfect by no means, and the direction evolves, but I trust myself now. I make leaps and take calculated risks – not dictated by external forces (beyond the basic food, clothing, shelter drivers), but by my truth. A set of principles I can now accept don’t work for everybody. They don’t need to.
I had the most satisfying holiday of my 37-year life last week. It involved almost everyone I love from both sides of the family I share with that unusual man who buys a new plastic wine cup when I accidentally launch mine three floors into the neighbor’s yard. He finishes my text messages when I’m too shaky with emotion, takes care of me when I’m sick and paid the highest compliment in likening my conversation to “Oscar Wilde at a cocktail party.”
Bob only raises his voice during sporting events or while stuck in traffic, and he tells the lamest jokes. He has this routine at the grocery store where every time we walk down the condiment aisle, he offers me an off-brand jar of some Miracle Whip-like substance. He enjoys watching my involuntary gag response. Sometimes when I’ve ignored a pun, he’ll force me to look at him while he repeats it. Then he cracks himself up anew. We have three pets, no kids and can go for long, comfortable stretches of time saying nothing while cuddling or holding hands. Bob cooks. I eat and pay for the cleaning service. I can’t tell you how well it all works.
We did the warm family gatherings this Thanksgiving. Then we retreated to a virtually-abandoned Michigan vacation spot for three days of wine, good food, wood burning fires and outdoor hot tub relaxation. A healthy, perfect for me mix of community and solitude. Bob and our dogs were there of course, but they’re extension of me rather than a situation to make work. I’m quiet and content inside. And that’s a revolution.
“We are the city that reversed the flow of the mighty Chicago River in 1900 to rid ourselves of toxic filth. We can do it again. We must. If not, we are officially, if passively, surrendering to an Orwellian dystopia. And we can’t complain about anything else from here.”
becky sarwate 