The fact that indie film “The Kids Are All Right” is doing extremely well at the box office shows that there are adults who want to go to the movies during the summer. I was so excited that it was opening at our local multiplex, which usually only shows the most commercial Hollywood fare, that I insisted we go see it immediately, if for no other reason than to encourage more quality films to play there. After all, “Cats & Dogs: Revenge of Kitty” is opening next Friday and I’m sure the theater operators would be merciless in kicking “The Kids Are All Right” to the curb if it failed to perform.

If you’re the sort of person who sought out previous indie summer hits like “Little Miss Sunshine” and “(500) Days of Summer,” you probably already have “Kids” on your to-see list. Julianne Moore and Annette Bening play a lesbian couple who have been together for a couple of decades. Each of them had a baby, using sperm from the same donor. Moore’s Jules is the biological mom of son Laser, a slightly feckless 15-year-old whom his moms fear is spending too much time with a pal who’s a “bad influence.” Nic’s (Bening) bio-kid is Joni, an 18-year-old high achiever who is about to leave for college. Before she goes, Laser asks her to contact the sperm bank to see if they can give her any information about their donor (you have to be 18 to make the request). She’s hesitant, but ultimately makes the call, which leads to the kids meeting Paul (Mark Ruffalo), a restaurant owner who has never quite settled down since he dropped out of college — a fact which disturbs Nic, who had chosen Paul in part because he had indicated on his form that he was an international studies major.

Gradually, Paul finds himself bonding in his laid-back way with the kids and with Jules, while the highly-strung Nic remains suspicious of his motives. I didn’t read any reviews of this film before seeing it, and afterwards, when I did go back and read a few of them, I was disappointed (though not particularly surprised) that almost all of them gave away what happens next. You won’t hear it from me!

Even if you’re “opposite married,” in the immortal words of Carrie Prejean, you’ll no doubt find yourself relating to the difficulties Nic & Jules go through — they could be any long-wed couple, trying to balance work and family commitments and dealing with an impending empty nest. Bening and Moore both give incredible performances, and really make us believe in this couple’s relationship. Bening has the slightly more difficult role — she’s often unlikable, but in several scenes is heartbreakingly sympathetic. (I also appreciate the fact that Bening is that rare Hollywood creature who has obviously never gone under the knife; she would never have been able to convincingly play this role if she’d been Botoxed and nipped & tucked.) Considering that parts this good for actresses don’t come along too frequently, I suspect she’ll be remembered at Oscar time. Recommended for anyone who appreciates quality cinema, with the minor caveat that this film definitely earns its R rating.

As usual in the world of the MPAA, adult sexytime = R, while approximately 47 dead bodies shot at point-blank range = PG-13. There’s a high body count in “Salt,” the new spy thriller starring Angelina Jolie, and this is usually the kind of film that action-movie buff Joe goes to see by himself. But again, I wanted to use my dollars to make a statement: I want to see a woman kick ass, for a change! I was especially intrigued by the fact that the script was written for a male actor (Salt was originally supposed to be played by Tom Cruise, who wound up doing “Knight & Day” with Cameron Diaz instead).

It is indeed great to see an actress do the sort of outrageous stunts and gunplay that is usually the purview of men. But after a promising first hour, “Salt” goes completely off the rails. As far as spy fiction goes, it’s so ridiculous that it makes the TV show “Burn Notice” look like a documentary by comparison. (”BN”’s Fiona, incidentally, could go head to head with Evelyn Salt any day.) The plot involves deep-cover Russian agents living in the U.S., which might have seemed quaintly nostalgic until a bunch of them were actually discovered last month. (That part is somewhat plausible; what happens next just gets silly.) Jolie is excellent; the script, not so much. If there’s a “Salt II,” “III,” etc. the series could develop into a distaff version of the “Bourne” flicks. Jolie deserves a screenwriter who can make Salt live up to her spicy potential.

Was “Metropolis” the “Inception” of its day? “Metropolis,” the 1927 silent film, cost a whopping 5 million Reichsmark and featured the proverbial cast of thousands. Of course, back in those days, we didn’t have Ain’t It Cool News, Twitter, “Entertainment Tonight” and Rotten Tomatoes to gin up hype. I have no idea what sort of newspaper articles might have greeted “Metropolis” when it premiered in the U.S., but you can be sure that no one was calling it “the greatest movie of all-time” before it was even released into theaters.

Today, of course, “Metropolis” is hailed as a masterpiece, and a restored version is currently playing in selected cities. I went to see it on Friday, where it was the centerpiece of this year’s Silent Film Festival. I had never seen “Metropolis” before in any of its incarnations; just as well, since the new one, based on a copy found in Argentina last year, marks the first time since 1927 that audiences can truly appreciate director Fritz Lang’s vision. Like most films of the era, it can take a while for modern audiences to get into; I find myself distracted by what seems to me to be overacting and mugging (particularly on the part of Gustav Fröhlich, who plays the wealthy scion Freder). But there’s a certain pace to old movies that invites reflection and can take you deeper into the world of the film; I was mesmerized by an early shot of workers coming and going from their underground factory. No director would put such a leisurely sequence into a movie today, but watching the men walk, heads bowed, moving in unison, tells you so much about their lives and the conditions under which they toil.

The plot is pretty thin for a two and a half hour movie, but it’s really all about the striking visuals — for a brief taste, check out this crazy clip featuring “robot Maria”’s erotic dance. The eyeballs filling the screen are creepily surreal and indicative of Lang’s artistic imagination.

There are scenes in “Inception” that feature skyscrapers in the background that made me think of the more primitive visual effects of “Metropolis.” Those buildings in “Inception,” though, are part of a dream — in writer/director Christopher Nolan’s script, which he reportedly worked on for 10 years, there are hierarchies of dreams, and you can go deeper and deeper, essentially into a dream within a dream within a dream. I’ll admit that for the first 15 minutes or so, I had no idea what the heck was going on. But eventually, I figured it out — sort of. (I’m not even going to attempt to describe the plot.) Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio) and his colleagues are on an airplane, dreaming that they’re on a van about to plunge into the water, dreaming that they’re in a hotel room, dreaming that they’re in a Canadian snowscape… and then Cobb goes even deeper, into his very subconscious, where he must confront a horrifying incident from his real-life past. Or is it another dream? It’s all so mind-bending that a lot of people will no doubt want to see “Inception” two or three times to try to figure it out.

As with “Metropolis,” you can just let go and enjoy the visual richness — a scene in which a Parisian neighborhood is folded in on itself (hard to describe, but stunning) is a must-see, and I particularly liked the scenes where Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s Arthur suddenly has to work in a weightless environment. I assume it was done with wires and green screens, but he truly does appear to be floating through space as the hotel hallway moves up and down.

I kind of wish some of the dream sequences had been, well, more dream-like — I have three or four recurring anxiety dreams, and to be honest, I’d rather dream that I was skiing down a hill, shooting at bad guys, than that I’m desperately trying to pack a suitcase because I’m late for my flight. But on the whole, “Inception” is that rare summer movie that adults can enjoy, and think about. (IMDb has already set up a FAQ section for “Inception,” including this one: “What really happened in this movie?”)

If you aren’t familiar with Groupon, it’s a web site that offers a special deal to people who subscribe to its emailed offers. Most of the Groupons don’t interest me — I’m really not interested in spray tanning or teeth whitening, which seem to make up a hefty percentage of the mailings — but I’m always happy to get 50% off at a restaurant. I recently bought a 2-for-1 coupon at Five in Berkeley, which I’d been wanting to try.

However, every day, I have to keep myself from unsubscribing to the mailings, because they bug me so much. Here is a typical description of a hair-styling establishment: “The earliest salons were informal gatherings where B-list philosophers gibbered away so they couldn’t hear themselves dying of plague. Get an earful of the modern salon’s soothing hair-dryer purrs and scissor chop-chops instead with today’s deal: for $30, you get $100 worth of services at Gary Patrick Salon at its location in Pleasanton.”

In the world of Groupon, hair is described as “frayed head threads,” while spray tanners are “handheld hue-changers” and teeth are “mouth cubes.” I know this is supposed to be clever and attention-grabbing, but the tortured prose leaves me feeling like a “malaise-filled lemur,” to use another Grouponism. I had to find out: who writes this stuff? I pictured one freaky guy, perhaps someone who had watched a few too many episodes of “Monty Python’s Flying Circus,” sitting at a desk at Groupon headquarters in Chicago with a thesaurus and a flacon of absinthe at his side.

However, apparently there is a whole staff of Grouponistas, and they’re hiring more. According to this help-wanted post, “We regularly hire full-time, in-house writers, who craft write-ups on our featured businesses and express what makes the experience and the merchant compelling… Copywriters inject creative, humorous tangents that are short, well-timed, and within Groupon Voice.”

The Groupon Voice! That’s the official name for what has been driving me crazy for these past few months. Wanting to learn more — or perhaps just a glutton for punishment — I checked out the Groupon style guide, a Google doc which helps the company’s saucy scribes learn the basics of purple prose. (See, it’s contagious.) Take a look at the Groupon thesaurus, which features this chilling list of synonyms for “hands”: “wrist-mitts, finger-docks, arm paddles, cheek slappers, open-faced knuckle sandwiches, Michigan silhouettes (only use in Midwest), turkey tracers/stencils, clapping utensils (good for events), knuckle wagons, 5-pronged pals, knuckle steaks, shake traps, high-five dispensers, nail farms, finger farms.” OK, I will admit that I sort of like “Michigan silhouettes,” and am disappointed that I will never see this description here in California.

The “humor taboos” doc goes into dos and don’ts: for instance, “over-used, unfunny humor crutches” are to be avoided (”Mullets, Snuggies, midgets, ligers” — I don’t know that I’ve ever encountered a humorous reference to a liger, so obviously the Groupon folks keep different company than I do), as are too-specific references. “Feel as privileged as Bertie Wooster with the staff as your personal valet” is a no-no (what, Groupon subscribers aren’t Wodehouse fans?), while “Feel as privileged as an onion ring in a box of french fries, as the staff personally pick up and drop off your dry cleaning” is recommended as a substitute.

I see what the Groupon folks are going for, I really do. I recently heard an interview on NPR with Henry E. Scott, author of a new book called Shocking True Story: The Rise and Fall of Confidential, America’s Most Scandalous Scandal Magazine. Scott read some excerpts from the mag, which were heavy on alliteration and wordplay. This article about Liberace is a good example of Confidential’s salacious style: “[T]he pudgy pianist’s many faithful fans would have popped their girdles if they had witnessed their idol in action last year in an offstage production that saw old Kittenish on the Keys play one sour note after another in his clumsy efforts to make beautiful music with a handsome but highly reluctant young publicity man.”

However, the Groupon prose is just too yucky. A brunch cruise of San Francisco Bay is described thusly: “While delicious edibles invade your largest head-hole, gorgeous views of the San Francisco Bay will captivate your dual orbital openings…” That gruesome head-hole imagery doesn’t inspire me to want to sip champagne and nibble on French toast, though it sort of makes me want to listen to some Nine Inch Nails. This excerpt from an offer for Buttercup Grill & Bar is even worse: “The selection of beer, wine, and frozen non-alcoholic drinks make excellent candidates to chauffer the tasty bites down the body’s food chute, and eventually into the gastronomic ball pit at the bottom.” Food chute? Ball pit? Are you trying to make me hungry or nauseous?

Here’s some food prose that did inspire me to action, from the Rivoli Restaurant newsletter: “Sweet corn is SO sweet and delicious right now, so Wendy’s making her spoonbread soufflé with it, surrounded by a fresh summer succotash and paired with the perfect saltiness of Iowa’s La Quercia prosciutto… We’re offering a Moroccan summer vegetable plate, highlighted by an artichoke b’steeya (that awesome filo pie we sometimes do with duck), house-made yogurt and gypsy peppers stuffed with couscous and pinenuts…” We went last night, and for the record, both the soufflé and the vegetable plate were indeed tasty.

Anyone care to try to translate that into Grouponese? I’ll start: “For thousands of years, maize mazes have thwarted would-be corn-eaters from putting ears down their pie-holes. Capture a cob without getting lost in a labyrinth at Rivoli…” Ugh, I feel dirty now. I think I’d rather make my living writing those fake letters to Penthouse.

Back in March, I mentioned that I was going to skip reading The Girl Who Played With Fire and just wait for the movie to come out. It finally made it to our shores this weekend, and was another fast-paced adventure featuring the ultimate Lisbeth Salander, Noomi Rapace. (Carey Mulligan and Kristen Stewart have both been rumored for the U.S. remake.) I didn’t know much about the plot, having skipped reviews to avoid spoilers, but I do remember reading somewhere that Lisbeth gets a boob job. Luckily, that is not the case here. There’s no reason Rapace, who appears topless in this film (and is obviously un-augmented), should have to go that far for a role.

I don’t want to ruin any surprises, so I’ll just say that there were some gasp-worthy revelations about Lisbeth’s past. Unlike “Dragon Tattoo,” which gave more screen time to crusading journalist Mikael Blomkvist (Michael Nyqvist), this is definitely Salander’s film, and she does everything you want to see her do — Taser bad guys, hack into computers, ride a motorcycle, slink around in various disguises, and just generally be a bad-ass. Awful things do happen to her, but nothing in this film is as horrifying as what takes place in “Dragon Tattoo.” Even when she’s in mortal danger, well, we know that Episode #3 — “The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest” — will be out next month. “Fire” is “The Empire Strikes Back” of Scandinavian thrillers.

In my month-long effort to read literary, non-mystery fiction, I just finished up John McNally’s After the Workshop, which is in one of my favorite subgenres: fiction about fiction-writing (see also: Michael Chabon’s Wonder Boys, Steve Hely’s How I Became a Famous Novelist). McNally, like his protagonist Jack Sheahan, is a graduate of the famed Iowa Writers Workshop, and a former literary escort — the guy who drives authors who are on a book tour around the city, taking them to signings and lectures. Jack published a story in the New Yorker years ago and has suffered from a mondo case of writers’ block ever since. In Workshop, everything that could go wrong does go wrong for Jack: one of his authors goes missing, his car is breaking down, he has an ill-advised fling with his ex-fiancee, and another writer comes to town intent on stealing the manuscript of Jack’s unfinished novel. Throw in a naked neighbor, a crazy publicist, and a couple of alpha-male novelists who remind Jack of his unrealized potential. Over the top? Yes, but anyone who’s ever spent time in the world of authors and publishing will be able to relate.

After the Workshop is at its heart a book about a guy who is stuck in a life he never envisioned for himself — and you don’t have to be a member of the literati to sympathize. Still, to show how inside-baseball After the Workshop can be, I got the biggest chuckle out of a bit where Jack is browsing through literary magazines in a bookstore. “I always made a point to pull one out and look it over, but I never recognized anyone anymore, except for Stephen Dixon, whose work appeared in every third magazine on the shelf, and other than examining the quality of the paper, the readability of the font, or the texture of its cover, I never actually read any of the work itself. I might as well have been studying an arrowhead or a piece of primitive pottery.”

Stephen Dixon was my writing professor at Johns Hopkins, and is known for being incredibly prolific. I last saw Dixon several years ago at an alumni event in San Francisco. I had done well in his classes and he remembered me, which was nice. After the Workshop serves as a reminder, as if I needed one, why I was wise to choose a non-literary career path.

Pavement: The glorious reunion concert by my favorite band, which I have spent years wishing for. (See, “The Secret” does work!) Yes, it was the greatest night of my life, thank you very much. Stephen Malkmus is still doing OK, but drummer Bob Nastanovich needed help paying off gambling debts. Is it wrong of me to hope he keeps playing the ponies so they have to reunite again in another 10 years?

“Toy Story 3″: Pixar’s “pretty good” is anybody else’s “great,” and if “TS3″ wasn’t quite as brilliant as “Up,” “Ratatouille” and “The Incredibles,” it’s still very much worth seeing. We shouldn’t take their brilliance for granted. Incidentally, we saw it in 2D, and that was fine — especially since 3D glasses can kill you! Perhaps eventually filmgoers will opt to own their own pairs, the way regular bowlers buy their own shoes.

Susan Shea: A very nice local author, Susan recently published her debut mystery, Murder in the Abstract, which I haven’t read yet — but blog posts like this one prove that the woman can write. She also did an excellent job of introducing her book; a lot of new authors are terrible public speakers, but Susan has polish and panache.

Project: Pimento: The world’s only theremin lounge band, Project: Pimento celebrated its 10th birthday! For a taste of the P:P sound, check out their swingin’ cover of the theme from “Star Trek.” Fun fact: “Trek” creator Gene Roddenberry wrote the cheesy lyrics (”Beyond the rim of the starlight, my love is wandering in starflight…”) in order to claim 50% of the song’s performance royalties. The composer, Alexander Courage, was understandably pissed off and refused to do any more scoring for the show.

The Corner Laughers: Joe is really into this cute power pop band, which we first saw open for our pal Anton Barbeau in Sacramento last year. At that gig, I noticed that there were several people who appeared to be in their 50s & 60s, whom I took to be the band members’ parents, photographing and filming the show, which I thought was sort of adorable. And then last night, at Berkeley’s Starry Plough, there they were again, snapping away. It occurred to me that if I ever start a band, I’m never inviting anybody’s parents to come to shows unless they agree to check their cameras at the door. Fun fact: guitarist Angela Silletto is about to move to Grand Rapids.

Jeff Oster: How cool is it that our financial adviser is also an award winning new age musician? He & his ensemble did a live gig at the New Zealander pub, which recently reopened under new management. I always felt the place had great ambience but mediocre food, and was very pleased at how much it’s improved. Oh, and since it was July 1, I ended my sugar fast by sharing some sticky toffee pudding with Joe. Good times!

On top of that, I also read William Kent Krueger’s excellent new book Vermilion Drift in ARC form (it’ll be out in September), as a prelude to swearing off mysteries for the month of July.

Of course, there was so much more than just the vows. I spent two hours on Friday afternoon watching the special pre-wedding concert held at Stockholm’s Konserthus. (All of this, incidentally, was streamed live on the web site of Sveriges Television — kudos to them for doing an excellent job of presenting a high-definition live broadcast with barely a glitch, despite the fact that tens of thousands of expat Swedes were no doubt glued to their screens.) The concert reminded me of those annual Kennedy Center Honors telecasts, with a mix of pop (including a Roxette reunion!), classical and jazz. There was even a pair of Chinese acrobats.

The wedding itself kicked off many hours before the vows with lots of pre-show coverage, and continued ’til after midnight Swedish time, with dinner, dancing, and cake-cutting. Immediately after the wedding, the princess and brand-new prince traveled through the streets of Stockholm in a horse-drawn carriage, waving to the citizens. Amazingly, there was even a little TV camera mounted on their carriage. (The taxpayers picked up half the cost of the extravaganza, so they were certainly entitled to “attend” the ceremony.) I watched maybe 3-4 hours. My mom stayed tuned for about 12 hours (though she did emphasize that she’d done other things, “like hanging out the sheets”). If you weren’t watching in full-screen, there was a little scrolling Facebook app on the page in which people could post comments. I noticed that Swedes were watching from the Phillipines, Scotland, Israel, Mexico, all over the U.S., among many other countries.

A bunch of the coverage is now archived, in case you want to check it out. If you only watch one video, I’d suggest this one, which is partly in English — Prince Daniel’s after-dinner speech. As a little backstory, Prince Daniel was, until two days ago, a commoner named Daniel Westling. He met the Crown Princess while he was working as her personal trainer at the gym he owned in Stockholm; she was recovering from a much-publicized eating disorder. The two have been dating for about eight years, and word has it that the princess’ dad — that would be the King of Sweden — wasn’t too thrilled about it at first. (His own bride Queen Silvia, Victoria’s mother, was not quite as common a commoner; she was descended from Portuguese royal lineage.) Daniel’s “rural accent” was “the subject of cruel jokes among Victoria’s blue-blood friends.”

Eventually Daniel was accepted into the royal circle, undergoing a makeover (here’s a slide show including a pic of the scruffy-looking future prince in 2003). He was also “intensively tutored in English, French and German, and given classes in Swedish history and political science,” according to this article. One royal watcher said, “‘He is barely recognisable from the young man we saw in 2002. The courtiers taught him how to eat, what to say, how to stand.”

The end result of all that training is very much on display in Daniel’s speech, which is delivered with great poise, with no notes. And it’s incredibly sweet and touching (I’ll admit it, I teared up). There’s no doubt these two newlyweds look at each other with love in their eyes.

The wedding itself, which featured a (literally — so many tiaras!) glittering array of European royals, seems a little out of step with the very modern country that Sweden has become. Some surveys say that an increasing number of Swedes want to dump the monarchy. But Victoria herself is personally popular. She is a hard-working, highly educated young woman who travels all over the world promoting Sweden and doing charitable works. Victoria obviously has a strong sense of duty. Even though I really can’t justify having a monarchy in the 21st century, I still think she is an amazing person and Sweden is lucky to have her. I’m sure Daniel will be a great asset to Sweden, too; now that he’s a prince, he’s had to give up the gym biz, but plans to promote good health & fitness in his new royal role.

The Swedish royal family does have its black sheep, though — Victoria’s brother, Prince Carl Philip, is dating a bikini model who used to appear on a reality dating show called “Paradise Hotel.”

I’m a fan of the English comedian Russell Brand, so it was inevitable that I would see his new movie “Get Him to the Greek,” despite the fact that it was described in several reviews as a “gross-out comedy.” There are some gross moments, but honestly, it’s not so bad. As for the film, well, if you’re a Brand fan, it’s pretty much wall-to-wall Russell. But if you’ve already seen “The Hangover” and “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” (the film in which Brand’s character, dissolute rock star Aldous Snow, debuted), “Greek” seems a little been-there, done-that. The biggest surprise was co-star Jonah Hill, who plays a lowly record company employee who is tasked with transporting Snow from London to New York (for a “Today Show” appearance, leading to one of the best random cameos I’ve ever seen in a movie: Paul Krugman!) to Los Angeles. I’ve seen Hill in a bunch of films and never really warmed up to him, but he shows unexpected depth in this role. As Hill’s girlfriend, “Mad Men”’s Elisabeth Moss is refreshingly well-rounded compared to the usual harpies you see in bromance pics. In all, not a must-see, but a pleasant matinee if you need to get out of the summer heat for a couple hours.

We did make time on Saturday to go see a preview of “Durang Me!” at Custom Made Theater Co. — an evening of two one-act plays by Christopher Durang. I had always wanted to see “The Actor’s Nightmare,” and it was indeed very funny. A hapless actor (Eric O’Kelly) is welcomed to the theater by a relieved stage manager, who is glad that the understudy has finally arrived. He is then thrust into a role in a Noel Coward play — one he has never rehearsed; indeed, he has no idea where he is, and why people keep calling him George. Or Stanley. The man has to improvise his lines, which proves even more difficult when “Private Lives” suddenly morphs into “Hamlet.”

Not having been raised Catholic, I wasn’t sure how well I’d relate to “Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All For You,” which is presented in the form of a lecture by the titular nun (wonderfully played by A.J. Davenport, who manages to be both intimidating and comic). She attempts to answer audience questions (allegedly pre-submitted on index cards) about Catholic teaching — for instance, if you ate meat on a Friday before Vatican II, are you going to hell? Occasionally, she is assisted by her 7-year-old prize pupil Thomas, who receives cookies for each correct answer he gives. Thomas is played by a young actor named Cole Cloud, and seriously, this kid is amazing. I am too nice to bash a child actor on my blog, but believe me, I have definitely made comments about overly precious or obnoxious kids to my companions after some shows. Cloud, however, has the poise and presence to blend in perfectly with the other extremely fine actors in this show. Anyone who has ever questioned the inconsistencies in their particular religion will enjoy this play.

I was also remiss in not mentioning “In the Wake” by Lisa Kron, now playing at Berkeley Rep, which we saw a couple weeks ago. I was such a fan of Kron’s “Well” that I bought tickets to “In the Wake” months in advance, when it was still listed as “A New Play by Lisa Kron.” I’m glad I did, because if I’d heard the subject matter of “Wake,” I may have decided to skip it, and then would have missed a thought-provoking evening of theater. The play takes place during the Bush years, beginning with the contentious election of 2000. The lead character, Ellen (Heidi Schreck), is not a fan of Bush, to say the least, and she talks and talks about the injustice of it all. Remember those people who couldn’t bring themselves to turn off CNN and wouldn’t shut up about hanging chads? That’s Ellen.

One might think initially that “Wake” is preaching to its liberal Berkeley audience. However, Ellen is far from a totally sympathetic character — Joe found her so irksome that he did not like the play at all — and I found that the show challenged many of my assumptions. Ellen’s friend Judy, who spends most of her time volunteering at refugee camps and (gasp!) refuses to vote, has the best scene in the whole play, when she finally forces Ellen to confront her misplaced idealism. At two hours and 40 minutes, “Wake” is too long, and I’m not sure Ellen’s monologues — in which she breaks the fourth wall to talk directly to the audience — work; they seem to break the rule of “show us, don’t tell us.” Still, I think “Wake” is well worth seeing, and I suspect Kron will tighten it a bit before it moves to New York later this year.

I will also have to finish up whatever stray sugary items are in the house, because I’m doing the Summer of Lent again, and giving up refined sugar during the month of June. (I had to make an exception for evaporated cane juice, which is an ingredient in my favorite breakfast cereal, Kashi.) In July, I have decided to give up something even more extreme: mystery novels. And chick lit, so I don’t just switch from Lee Child to Sophie Kinsella. I’m finally going to get around to reading those serious novels that lie neglected around the house.

When I was little, there was a laundry at Laxsjön [the lake], so you had to take your laundry over on your bike, boil it in large pots, and then wash it in the lake!

Sheets and things were sent to a laundry in Billingsfors [a larger town, about 5 km away] in a suitcase.

Mormor [my grandmother] got a portable washing machine when I was maybe ten or eleven years old, which was hooked up to the faucet in the kitchen and had two valves, which pressed the water out of clothes one by one before the laundry was hung out to dry. It was perhaps a bit more modern than this:

I hope my mom doesn’t mind my mentioning that this would have been in the 1950s (when they got the portable washing machine). She and her sibings still own the house in rural Sweden where they grew up; there’s been a modern electric washer there as long as I can remember, but there’s never been a dryer. You hang your clothes out to dry and enjoy the resulting skogsdoft (scent of the forest).

I would imagine that if I had to send our sheets to a laundromat, as my grandparents did, I wouldn’t wash them as often. Of course, the main reason our sheets need frequent washing is because of the accumulation of dog hair, and I suspect the phenomenon of dogs sleeping on the bed is a very modern one.

Wikipedia has some interesting notes on the history of washing machines in the U.S.