Bryan Callen’s set at The Palm Beach Improv on Saturday night was a reminder that physical comedy is about much more than falling funny. It’s about turning ones entire body into a prop, telling your story in the way you contort your face, the direction of your arms, a deliberate but exaggerated crouch. When done sloppily, it’s an ill-defined party trick, either a distraction from the joke or the signal that there wasn’t much of a joke to begin with.

But when physical comedy is in the hands, arms and admirably elastic face of Bryan Callen, it’s exciting, like a master class in pairing goofiness with what must be incredibly practiced and choreographed movements. There’s a bit at the very end, where he does a slow-motion recreation of a fantasy beheading, on horseback, of carolers set to music. Don’t ask. You’d have to see it. As absurd as the premise is, even when you know what’s coming, it’s fun watching Callen actually enact it, from a magnificently over-the-top whack to his own butt as he rides his imaginary steed toward caroler-slaying glory, to the exaltation, in a bizarro-world Antonia Banderas way, of his task.

And it makes it all look fun and natural, because you never see the bones. You only see the fun.

Callen is known for the “Hangover” movies and “MADtv,” among other things, seems like a genial sort – he told a fun story at the end about how “Sexiest Man Alive” Bradley Cooper cheerfully photographed him with “MADtv” fans in an airport when Callen was the one recognized. And his very likable spirit infuses some of his most absurdist bits, like a stretch on sex noises that never quite seemed as disgusting as it should have, with an “Oh, you scamp!” flavor. He’s a naughty kid, but a smart naughty kid. And he’s super fun to watch.

Chewbacca would have told these children the meaning of "Do They Know It's Christmas" if they'd just asked. So sad.

OK, “Glee.” Enjoying the holiday special, and especially the Linus-esque touch of having the Irish kid read the Biblical Nativity story … but this cranky Gen-Xer asks that if the bright shiny little girls sing The Waitresses’ “Christmas Wrapping,” you can’t just sing the first verse about the girl not ever meeting the guy. The end where she meets him again in the store is the point. Don’t steal our stuff if you can’t get it right.

And another thing … you CANNOT smile during the most guilt-inducing parts of “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” That song is all about Western privilege and guilt. Grinning while singing “There won’t be snow in Africa this Christmastime” makes it appear that you aren’t paying attention to the words you’re singing, and that’s just silly. So leave my generational toys in the box if you don’t know how to treat them.

On an upbeat note…LOVED the festive holiday sweaters. But just be more careful. And stay off my lawn.

Love,

A Bitter Aging Former Hip Person

I know the world in its current economic state is a leaner, meaner, less stardusty place, but is that any reason to be materialistic, ungrateful, present-grubbing brats? And to take  that out on Santa Claus? He’s a jolly old elf, dagnabit!

Remember in the beginning of the recession, when commercials  were all about celebrating sacrifice, and hard-working, typically American values and the hidden joys of tightening our belts? Well, forget that! Maybe we’re in some sort of recovery, but we’ve gone straight from sacrifice to soul-sucking obnoxiously. On Ebay ads, one young girl sings a carol telling her family where they can shove their homemade gifts and that they can save the sentiment and buy her  good stuff, while another condescendingly disses her mom’s sweet offer of admittedly dowdy jeans while she buys another hipper pair. Just say you don’t like them. Don’t make someone offering you a gift look like an idiot. And as for Christmas carol girl…how about I just save money and don’t get your ungrateful butt anything? Who is the desired demographic they’re marketing to? Jerks?

And over in Best Buy land, two seperate ladies are enjoying the freedom of the megastore’s selection so much that they’re making it into a competition…with Santa, delivering Yuletide yo mama’s to the jolly old elf. Not that he ever did anything to them besides bring wrapped gifts to their home. But rather than, say, slipping him a Best Buy coupon or trying to write him in advance to gently refuse his services, they’re waiting up for him like suburban ninjas. They’re throwing out  verbal trash-talking ninja stars. And they’re so smug about it. It’s…ugly. Again…this is the customer  you want? Moms who take their “Toddlers and Tiaras”-style  agression out on an ancient international holiday icon?

I ranted about this on my Facebook page today, and most everyone agreed that these ads are crazy mean-spirited, although a few people indentified with the parents who are able to now take the credit for their gift-buying savvy rather than give the credit to Santa. I get that. But…don’t be a jerk about it.

After all – he can get into your house without a key. And sees you when you’re sleeping. This is not a man you can afford to make mad with your pettiness. Just buy the gift and move on.

'X Factor' contestant Rachel Crowe.

So I just watched the clip of 14-year-old singer Rachel Crow sobbing as if she were being sentenced to death or legally barred from ever singing again while voted off of “The X-Factor,” and my initial reaction was that the whole thing smacked of fakery, melodrama, fake melodrama and dumb-dumb sauce.

Because I want to believe that such an amazingly poised, talented little girl, even at her age, would have been coached well enough that even in her disappointment, she wouldn’t crumple to the stage sobbing like a demented rag doll. I want to believe that the entire scene, from Nicole Scherzinger’s award-winning, hand-wringing, eye-dabbing decision over whether to send Rachel or opponent Marcus Canty home, complete with ugly-cry face and shaking like a silent movie damsel, was a ruse. A stupid ruse. But a ruse.

Video: Cowell likens teen singer’s future to that of Jennifer Hudson’s

Because if it was real, and Nicole really reacted to the idea of making a judgement as A JUDGE, and if she truly can’t handle delivering bad news to someone who signed on for this, then she doesn’t need to be a judge. And if little Rachel, even with all of the emotion and pressure and added TV cameras, can’t control herself from acting like her toes were being sheared off by piranhas – at least long enough to get off the stage and then collapse in privacy, then she doesn’t need to be there.
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Even after almost nine years covering the ends and outs of the entertainment biz here in West Palm Beach, there’s so much I’ve missed apparently by not having grown up here. One was the true identity of this really nice lady named Joy Melegari-Bryson, who I used to see on Thursday’s at Clematis By Night at the now-closed Cuillo Theater. She made the best mojitos. And she was awesome.

When she called me today, she reintroduced herself – it had been years – and told me a long, but beautiful story. And she told me who she really is.

Her name is Momma Joy. And in her 14 years as the projectionist at the also-closed Carefree Theatre, she became a surrogate mother, friend, counselor and comrade in the grand cinematic celebration of being different, freaky and proud of it.

And now, she’s moving on. And if you’re one of her kids out there, the ones she came to love while running the show and throwing out lines at Janet, Brad and that sweet transvestite, she wanted me to tell you – “I just wanted them to know,” she says.
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We are not these guys. All the time, anyway.

Even before PBPulse.com and its comment pages, we critics here at the Palm Beach Post got critiques – from you. And for the most part, we’re grateful. We want to know when you think we’re not being fair, or that we’re being mean (because sometimes we are. Sometimes deservedly. Sometimes not.)

Your opinion means a lot to us, and we are doing this job for you, to keep you informed and to let you know about things you should either enjoy or avoid.

But…

You knew there was a “but.”

Reviews are opinions. We have them. So do you. “This is a good meal,” or “This is good service” or “This is a sucky concert” are opinions based on our own standards and the facts of those standards. Maybe they aren’t your standards. But it doesn’t mean we’re lying, or stupid, or being paid to hate something (and just who would be paying us to hate something anyway?)

Just because a reporter is not a super fan, or does not always love everything, doesn’t mean that the reporter is biased, paid off or corrupt. Just because a reporter does not agree with you does not mean that they’re wrong. It just means they don’t agree with you, and if you’re a big fan of, say, a restaurant or a pop diva…you’re biased, too. (And the recent suggestion that the reviews on Yelp are never biased is just wrong. You can tell when they’re written by friends and family. Which makes you a great and supportive friend, but a bad source for someone else who just wants a good meal. And that doesn’t help anyone.)
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Pretty people in love. Yay!

SPOILER ALERT: Plot details about a 9-year-old movie.

One of the best things about being home sick, besides all that attractive hacking and coughing, is getting to enjoy my pay cable channels in the middle of the day, when they play random movies I’d forgotten about. And between NyQuil naps, I like to reacquaint myself with them over a bowl of soup and a box of tissues. And also my cat, who gets anxious that my presence is wrecking whatever dastardly things she does when I’m not around. I’m onto you, furry beast.

Today’s movie was 2002′s “Brown Sugar,” a cute, if sorta light, rom-com that I saw when I first came to the Palm Beach Post. It had all of my requirements – romance, Taye Diggs, a great soundtrack and Taye Diggs. You might remember this from the Sanaa Lathan era, when black people got to star in romantic comedies without sassy grandmas in drag and such, but with plenty of middle class folks with nice homes and good jobs, and it wasn’t about gangsters or violence or hos. (Not preaching. Just saying.)

It’s pretty obvious from the time the credits roll that Sid (Lathan) and Dre (Taye), two lifelong friends in love with hip-hop and, secretly, each other, are gonna wind up together. That’s what happens in these movies. But I liked that it was about something besides goofy single women and the hot men they’re obviously into – the shared love of hip-hop. It celebrated the poetry and the art of the words and their marriage with the beat, the memories of standing on a street corner watching guys that looked just like you create a symphony with just their minds and their mouths. And it was openly disdainful of ‘ho and gun music. Gotta love that.

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There are concerts where audience members are discouraged from singing along, or standing up, or rocking out, or visibly displaying any music-related exuberance outside of clapping between songs.

Last night’s tour opener for Def Leppard and Heart at Cruzan Amphitheatre was decidedly NOT one of those shows. Arms were raised, feet were stomped, heads were banged and air guitars were enthusiastically strummed. And it’s not just that the audience went rogue — it was by command.

“It’s like, for the next eight minutes, you’re part of the band!” explained Def Leppard lead singer Joe Elliott, during a well-received acoustic set done on a wee stage extended into the crowd. Both his band and Heart, fronted as always by power sisters Ann and Nancy Wilson, have the distinction of never having to have staged a reunion tour, because they never broke up, never stopped rocking.

There are some that will label such acts as guilty pleasures. Believe this — there was no guilt at this show. There was no one looking around their expensive beer sheepishly regretting being there. It was all a proud, loud celebration of the hair or the car you used to have, the things you used to do or the people you knew when “Never” or “Photograph” or “Barracuda” or “Pour Some Sugar On Me” came out. It’s not high art, whatever that means. But it’s solidly and enthusiastically played by people who’ve been mastering the craft of cultivating and keeping an audience, there on the edge of their seats. Or, more appropriately, on the soles of their feet.
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Scotty.

But I think Lauren’s going to take it, if only because of the blatant Jedi mind tricking of the judges and the producers, as well as Lauren’s scary but conveniently pimped vocal crisis. I think he earned it. But the show obviously has other plans.

EW.com’s Kate Ward referred to her inner critic Hulk being incited into shirt-bursting anger by the blatant Lauren pushing – the choreographed “moment” with her mom, the not-so-subtle blessing of previous “Idol” country juggernaut Carrie Underwood, and that original song “Like My Mother Does.” Corny. It’s much better than some of the previous “Idol” singles – just the mention of “This Is My Now” makes my skin instantly develop scales, turn blue and want to start slapping people with my feet like Mystique in “X-Men.”

It’s not that I don’t like Lauren – I keep saying over and over that she’s got a powerful instrument, a sweet smile and, when she turns it on, some natural moxie. But I don’t think it compared to Scotty’s charm. He took it easy on the smug tics and weird mic carry, and just let his confidence do the talking…er, singing. I thought he left the cheese largely at home, and during his second song, hand-picked by George Strait, I turned to my husband and said “That kid is a star.”

And that was based purely on his performance and vocals, not on any cues from the judges. I think Lauren has a great talent that will be perfect one day. Not yet. Not that she won’t win, if the show has anything to do with it.

We’ll see.

And again…SPOILER ALERT!

They voted out James Durbin. And I almost don’t care who wins at this point. That’s purely an emotional response – Of course I care, professionally, because at the core of this show it’s always interesting to see how in a few short months a kid can go from a nervous hopeful to America’s Favorite. And whoever that happens to, whether it’s Lauren, Scotty or Haley, it’s going to be a talented, deserving kid.

But it won’t be my favorite. It won’t be the person that, to me, most flourished on the “Idol” stage, who connected to the music and the audience, and who made every performance thrilling. Yeah, he wasn’t always note perfect. Neither are a lot of rock stars. But he felt every note, in every song, even the cheesy ones. He was the singer that most elicited that “Wow, what’s HE gonna do?” response in me, because whatever it was it wasn’t going to be boring. And I’m gonna miss him.

I’d like to see Haley win, but the judges are doing an excellent job of thwarting her by, well, judging her in a way that they don’t judge the other singers. It’s almost like what was done to Elliott Yamin years ago, where at every turn the judges seemed to say “Wait! You’re still here?” Both Lauren and Scotty are talented and have the potential to be great. But I just don’t feel that excitement with them that I feel with James, that beautiful, present, emotional flash that bonds a singer to a song, and a song to the audience.

Whoever the viewers pick is going to be deserving. But it won’t be my favorite. It won’t be James. And that makes me sad.