Breaking News: An Adult Sees 'Twilight'

I may have been the only adult in the theatre who wasn't accompanying a teen or preteen when I went to see "Twilight" over the holidays. I may be the only such adult who has ever seen that movie under such circumstances. But perhaps this makes me uniquely qualified to give this more-than-mediocre film a fair shot.

Admittedly, I read the entire series of books by Stephenie Meyer avidly between Thanksgiving and Christmas, as if I had nothing better to do. While I can't say they were well-written, I have to admit that I couldn't put them down. So I was particularly interested to see how the filmmakers would adapt the first installment for the screen and keep the kids happy.

I'm not sure they did. My daughter and her friends gave it mixed reviews. Their biggest complaint--and I hear this often about films adapted from books--is that they weren't faithful to the book. But books and movies are disparate things, and naturally they must be treated as such. In fact, I think this particular adaptation was rather elegant and judiciously executed. Sorry, kids--not every sigh is worth screen time.

Another complaint from the juvenile set (and some others) is that the pace of the film was too slow. Now, this may be a generational thing today. We all know that images come flying at today's teens far more rapidly than they did in my day. But I found the pace to be, well...accurate. Let me explain. This is the story of a powerful teen love. It's not a horror story. It's not really a story about vampires. It's a story about a girl in love with a boy who everyone else would see as bad, only he's not. A familiar story. And this film rolls out its story to play almost in real time. Don't we all recall the agonizing pace at which we felt our lives were crawling back then? How you hoped for what seemed a lifetime for him to ask you out? Then your first kiss seemed to be forever in coming. (It seemed to last forever, too, but that was a good thing.) And a romance that lasts six months has all the gravitas of a commitment of a lifetime. In "Twilight," this dynamic is played out through looks, sighs, and the ever-so-meaningful body language between two young people unsure of how close they can safely get.

Another complaint, this time from actual film critics as well as 13-year-olds (is there a difference?) is that the special effects were terrible. Yes and no. They were elementary, but I think the critics and the kids are missing the point. Whenever possible, the director tries to distract you from feeling any need for special effects. She wants you to focus on the story, and only when it's absolutely necessary does she include a shot where you can witness the vampires' incredible strength or speed. To get caught up in the specials would be, in my opinion, a distraction from what's central here, which is the intense feelings between the protagonists. We wouldn't want the teens to be exclaiming "Cool!" while some pretty subtle and wavering emotions are supposed to be the focus.

One of the best things about this film, however, is the estrogen level. The author, director, screenwriter, and editor are all women. This is unusual in Hollywood, even in our so-called enlightened century, and the movie definitely has the feminine touch. It's possibly subtler and more mature than it should be for its target audience, but it worked for me.

But please, in the sequel, don't make the vampires wear bright red lipstick. Kinda ruins my argument about subtlety.

Happiness and Bad Acoustics at the National Gallery

I have to say that I have never been unhappy for one moment at the National Gallery. Never. I could sit in the rotunda for 30 minutes, and months of career cares float out of my body and across the street to the East Building where they belong. I'm Holly Golightly at the NGA, and I can usually make it fun for those around me, too. My husband J., however, is capable of having a bad time there, which I confess I can't understand. Perhaps it's one of those things that will form the mystery that keeps our relationship interesting.

Last night, after viewing some pieces from the permanent collection (our emphasis this time was finding paintings with really pale people) and then having mediocre dessert and decent wine and coffee at the overpriced but darling cafe, we lined up with what felt like half the inhabitants of the District of Columbia to hear the weekly free chamber music concert in the West Garden Court.

Why this was so fabulously attended last night I can't be sure. The National Gallery String Quartet, with the addition of ancient pianist Menahem Pressler, was, well, nice. They played Mozart's Piano Quartet in G Minor and Schumann's Piano Quintet in E-flat Major in one of the worst places for acoustics I've ever encountered since my high school gym. I confess that I love coming here for concerts, but the room is so "live" that every note bounces from one granite pillar to the next and then back again until it sounds like a big, muddy mess. Nevertheless, the mess was Mozart and Schumann, and that can only be so bad. What's weird is my preferring the Schumann, but stranger things have happened.

Because of this unusual acoustical predicament--as well as the fact that I know squat about muscians' abilities--it's hard to break down the quality of the performances. J. tells me that the violist had some problems and was the cause of my unease in the Allegro. I could hear for myself that the cellist played lyrically, but I'm partial to the cello. As J. says, violinists are two for one on every street corner, but he tells me the two violinists we heard for the price of $0.00 were fine.

But I'm not really sure it's about the quality of the music. You can't beat looking at masterpieces, then eating or drinking them, and then listening to them. You're surrounded by marble, granite, lush plants, velvet drapes, and really old people who could actually afford to pay for a concert. And young people! At a free classical concert, there are always plenty of young people. This gladdens my heart, as I grow weary of always being, in my mid-forties, the third youngest person in the audience.