Scene & Herd - Nemo maki
Washed down with beer
“Finding Nemo On Ice” is the live performance version of the enormously popular Disney/Pixar/Whoever animated feature, Finding Nemo. It played last Wednesday through Sunday at Philips Arena. I caught last Sunday’s 5:30 p.m. show.
“Finding Nemo On Ice” closely follows the film’s original story about a clownfish named Marlin who goes on a long voyage to Australia to rescue his son, Nemo, from a diver who has captured him. This version ends differently, though. Instead of reuniting in the Sydney harbor, Marlin finds Nemo in the glass refrigerator case at a sushi bar. The show ends with Marlin in tears and with the audience unsure about whether the tears are from sadness, or from the big dollop of wasabi he swallowed along with his boy.
OK, so that last part is a lie, but I can’t possibly be the only person who looks at the words “Finding Nemo On Ice” and feels a combination of worry and hunger.
The truth, now — the show was great. I’ve perhaps seen more “On Ice” shows than a childless, non-figure-skating 31-year-old man should, and “Finding Nemo On Ice” was easily the best of the lot. The set and the costumes were uniformly gorgeous. The jellyfish scene in particular, with its floating, flying wish and Brooke Shields-on-Circus-of-the-Stars acrobatics was a wonder. The art direction was more akin to classic Hollywood musicals than it was other cheap kids’ shows.
The dialogue, performed via recordings by the same actors who voiced the movie, was also terrific. Ellen DeGeneres as the voice of the absent-minded fish, Dory, was particularly good. Anne Heche was a fool to dump her.
No Disney (or for that matter, any kid-themed) attraction would be complete without a comprehensive attempt to squeeze every penny out of Mom and Dad’s wallets for absurdly priced, cheap, plastic crap. The pick of the junk pile was easily the $10 Nemo cup. Nemo’s skull was opened and filled with a multicolored snow cone. Surprisingly, they didn’t call the cup “Finding Ice In Nemo.”
Fine malt writing: One of this column’s welcome perquisites is the sheer number of strange but enjoyable activities that I’m asked to participate in as a fifth-rate local celebrity. Some of you may remember that I helped judge the “Coyote Ugly” bartender auditions, during which a parade of young women were judged on a variety of crucial bartending skills such as dancing like a stripper, bending over, and faking lesbianism for male enjoyment.
Easily the most enjoyable of these strange activities has been my participation during the past two years as a judge in the Georgia Craft Brew Challenge. Last Saturday morning, just like I did last November, I woke up early (by my standards) and drove to a bar (this time it was Five Seasons Brewing) to sample local brews. Because the beers are judged, among other traits, on aroma, I had to skip my normal Saturday morning potpourri bubble bath. Oh, well.
It was worth it, though. I requested that I be placed at an American Ales judging table with a man named Larry Johnson. Knowledgeable, gracious and funny, he helped me convert my thoughts from stuff like “that tastes a little funny,” into more helpful, beer-speak comments like, “This is a bit diacetyl.” Also at the table with me was master judge Brian Cole. Stern and judgelike about beer, he seemed genuinely miffed at the poor quality of the India Pale Ales he was judging. It was kind of like a parent being disappointed at his child’s report card. His main qualm was that the beers lacked the high hops taste typical of that style. After the fifth straight disappointing IPA, he blurted out in frustration, “If there’s one thing you’d expect a passionate brewer to do, it’s overhop his IPA!”
Chilitown: After the beer tasting, I went by Cabbagetown Park for the 2004 Chomp & Stomp chili cook-off and bluegrass festival. Alongside chili offerings from restaurants like Cafe 458 and Six Feet Under were delicious-looking offerings from private citizen chefs. Some of them spooned out chili with funny made-up brand names. There was Che’s “revolutionary” chili and the Passion of the Chili (which I hear was mmm, mmm, sacrilegious!). Others, such as Team Hineykin, branded their chili with names that played off chili’s notoriously lively effect on the lower G.I. tract. One team just abandoned the wordplay altogether and called themselves Cabbagetown Colonoscopy. Nice.
False advertising: On Sunday afternoon, I went to the Viking Cooking Demo at the Whole Foods store on Briarcliff Road. Man, was that thing misleadingly titled or what? There wasn’t a longboat or horned helmet in sight. Jerks.
Tango in the night: There were more interesting art shows on Saturday night than I could cover without doppelgangers, so I flipped my mental coin and decided on the Visual Quartet show at Edgewood Avenue’s Moving Spirits Gallery.
Of the pieces on display, my favorite was Barb Rehg’s charcoal sketch of a woman holding her head as though she has a frustration headache. That pretty much sums up how I, and a lot of people I know, felt for most of last week. Before I could really take in any more of the art, though, somebody hollered for everyone in the gallery to be quiet and pay attention to the couple doing the tango. The couple, billed as Tango Anonymous, eventually tangoed their way out onto Edgewood, with gallery-goers blocking traffic so the couple could tango safely.
Soon, we were all back inside the gallery watching Seaberg Acrobatics. The group consisted of four people, two of whom appeared to be in their 70s, holding difficult acrobatic poses while one of them, a woman with a vaguely Middle European accent, read serious, often sad poetry about man’s cruelty to man. Reading that description back to myself makes me laugh, but seeing it in person, it was very compelling.