Flirt Ideas.com

By Ellen Tumposky


Nicole Kidman's marriage to Keith Urban has not always been smooth sailing. But the Oscar-winner says she is so happy relaxing with her husband in Nashville, she has to be "seduced" to accept movie roles.

In fact, when she was first offered the part of Mrs. Coulter in The Golden Compass, she wasn't convinced.

"I actually just didn't want to work," Kidman, 40, said Tuesday at a London press conference to promote the new film (based on the beloved children's book by Philip Pullman). "I was just in a place in my life where I was in Tennessee and I was just feeling a little lazy and wanting to hang out."

So what changed her mind? A flattering note from director Chris Weitz and one from Pullman himself. "With those two letters, I was seduced," said Kidman.

The prolific actress (currently filming the epic Australia) also referred to her love of the easy life when asked which daemon – the animal companions to human characters in Compass – she would most like to be.

"It changes," she explained. "Yesterday it was a kitten, because I love milk and I like to be petted and taken care of and to sleep a lot." But today, under the spotlight at the press conference, the actress said her daemon would be "a tiger."

Mozart reigns at the Carnival Center, while Ramirez rules at Mad Cat.
By Brandon K. Thorp

After squinting and squinting, picking out maybe one in 10 words of the translated libretto projected above the stage, I was not in a good mood during a recent Carnival Center staging of Cosi Fan Tutte. Which is fine: The music of Mozart was performed during the American Civil War, both World Wars, Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf War, and its sequel, and on both sides during most of those conflicts. So Mozart is obviously oblivious to human misery. He'll just go doodly-doodly-doodly unto infinity, being all beautiful and perfect.

This production seems a bit austere — a lot of white walls, seashorelike backgrounds, and perfectly conical trees that look like they were made of AstroTurf. But it's all functional, and to my knowledge, Mozart's appeal never had much to do with interior design (though it has occasionally had something to do with wigs, and for Cosi, Florida Grand Opera has dug up some winners). Mozart is mostly known for writing gorgeous, structurally perfect, and busy music, and that's what'll be filling the seats at the Carnival Center.

The music is good. Really good. At first the singing was a bit underpowered, but that was just the actors warming up. This is a very silky-voiced crew. Except for Susanne Mentzer (Despina), whose role demands a lot of funnily voiced character singing, there is never a metallic note from any of Cosi's six principals. These folks are creamy. And that goes double for Ana Maria Martinez, a stunning soprano. It's rare to find a voice that's both dark and creamy; hearing her sing is like falling onto a pillow of ravens' feathers.

Lorenzo Da Ponte's translated libretto is bolstered by solid comic acting, especially from tenor Brian Anderson and baritone Michael Todd Simpson. I wonder, though, how much easier it is to act convincingly with lines like this one, delivered when the men are trying to woo their fiancées by singing the praises of their own body parts: "Our mustaches might be plumes of love!"

Plumes of love! Yessir, people were funny in the 1700s. But hell, if you go see this thing, you might do more than laugh — you might learn something. Any story about (deep breath) a couple of dudes who tell their fiancées (who happen to be sisters) they're going off to war, and instead put on some cheesy-ass disguises to return and seduce their own fiancées in order to test the ladies' fidelity, and who then wind up regretting the decision when the ladies' willpower weakens, break their fiancés' hearts, and ultimately learn the true meaning of love and life and whathaveyou — well, any story like that is probably gonna get at some kind of profound wisdom about love or honesty or something.

Look, that's important, but not superimportant. What this is actually about is Mozart's divine doodly-doodly-doodly. The guys in the pit do a fine job; conductor Stewart Robertson and his orchestra are lovely and sensitive throughout (aside from a few slurred woodwind arpeggios during the overture). And the cast is rare, delivering delightful ensemble singing. "Soave Sia il Vento" ("May the Wind Be Gentle") is so gorgeous that, if the rest of the opera weren't so funny, you'd cry all the way home.

Over the years, a great many books, movies, and TV shows have been compared to the books, movies, and TV shows of Stephen King, because he is one of the few writers famous enough to be an immediately recognizable cultural touchstone. But it has always been bullshit. Nobody has ever really been like King, who for all his damn popularity has retained a unique and expressive voice, from Carrie to whatever unscary stuff he's writing now. (The voice is still there, but plots? Alas, that bird has flown.)

But Marco Ramirez actually writes like King, at least when the topic is werewolves. I don't think it's Ramirez's real voice — he's too young to have settled on a real voice, and he seems like too fluid a writer to get pinned down so easily — but the boy can steal like a gypsy. There are details throughout Mister Beast that are so King you can barely stand it. For example, a retarded kid (played by Scott Genn) talks about the Incredible Hulk, how when he undergoes his transformation his pants stay on so we don't have to see his "gross Hulk weiner!" That's King humor, baby — the kind of awesomely fun detail ignored by people who think this kind of entertainment is for idiots.

Well, it ain't for idiots, unless I'm one too. Mister Beast is the most fun I've had at a theater in South Florida this year. Beast has novelty, laughs, suspense, some surprising poetry, a killer cast, and even some pathos. There are continuity problems, but, eh, it's a world premiere. Anyway, it's not like this is fucking Titus Andronicus. Again, this is a play about a werewolf. A werewolf!

Cosi Fan Tutte

Mister Beast

Contact the author to discuss the story:

stage@miaminewtimes.com

Our sexpert tackles your bedroom conundrums.
By Stacey Grenrock Woods

I'm a woman, and I think I might taste bad. Could it be something I'm eating?

What do you mean you "think"? I suppose some girls are not as limber as others. Whatever, let's assume you do taste bad (and it is bad, not badly, but I'll leave that grammatical stew to simmer, because if I have to go into a parts-of-speech lesson, the fellas will get too turned on to finish reading!). First, consider that your taste is probably the result of a vaginal infection, inferior genes, bad jeans, or any combination of your dirty habits: infrequent bathing, too frequent freebasing, sitting too close to the television set, etc. And some experts (the ones who would talk to us) don't rule out that your diet could indeed be influencing what the bloggers keep referring to as your "congealed salmon and battery acid" flavor. (But don't let them bother you. Take it from me: They're just jealous!) Garlic and onions spring to mind. Curry is far from innocent. Antihistamines, too. Ultimate Guide to Cunnilingus author Violet Blue (who was kind enough to speak to me now that Blue Indigo Violet is no longer accepting my calls) posits that one can sweeten one's taste by drinking "a smoothie that contains cucumber, mango, and pineapple juice once a day for three or four days," and hopefully by that time, anyone who was considering oral sex with you will have moved on. But Howard I. Glazer, neurophysiological psychologist and coauthor of The Vulvodynia Survival Guide, which is not, as the title suggests, about Russia, says it's not as simple as eating some things and not others, since everybody metabolizes things differently. Not to mention, taste is a matter of taste. I'm sure you can still recall that innocent age before you developed a taste for fresh semen. Personally, I remember my bittersweet years back at James Caan Prep, where my fellow Swallows and I would horse around the locker room and squeal with disgust at the very thought of such a thing! It may take a while to find a suitor with an appropriately refined palate. So in the meantime, forget the smoothie. Just pour yourself a big glass of Benadryl, take the cucumber to bed, and wait it out.

What do women really want me to smell like on a date?

Roses, of course. It was decided at the last Women's Summit. There was me, Steinem, that French chick, Fonda, Longoria, and Charo, and we were in the hot tub, drinking our daiquiris, and Jane said, "I want my perfect date to smell like roses -- pink roses," and we all said, "Oooo, me too!" But perhaps I'm remembering it incorrectly. The fact is, women don't really know what they want, and you complicate matters with your zesty talcs and voodoo sprays. It's better to smell like a somewhat honest version of yourself. According to Rachel Herz, visiting professor in psychiatry and human behavior at Brown University, "When men mask their biology with cologne and seduce women, women can end up making a biological mistake," and all too often naming it something like "Jayden James." In a blind smell test, women favored the worn T-shirts of men who were biologically unlike themselves, and not those of Warren Oates after a long weekend in Mexico, as I predicted. It has to do with the furtherance of the species: Selecting a mate with dissimilar genes makes for better progeny. But you want to get laid, and luckily Dr. Alan Hirsch, neurological director of the Smell & Taste Treatment and Research Foundation of Chicago, has logged countless hours measuring vaginal reactions to a variety of odorous stimuli. His findings from a recent study indicate that the scent that most incites the female sex drive is a combination of Good & Plenty candy and cucumber. Cucumber. My, how that gourd comes up.

Whose advice is more likely to get me laid, yours or that Mystery guy's from The Pick-up Artist?

The Pick-up Artist? You mean the movie where the guy hits on a bunch of chicks and then bones Molly Ringwald? That's no "mystery guy" -- that's Robert Downey Jr. Maybe you ought to crawl out from under your pet rock and check your VHS cabinet once in a while, pal.