Class, Gender, and Race in the Roaring Twenties at the Rockwell Museum

John Held Jr. "They Went to the Silver Slipper"

JAZZ AGE ILLUSTRATIONS

NORMAN ROCKWELL MUSEUM

STOCKBRIDGE, MA

THROUGH APRIL 5, 2026

 

The “Jazz Age” is synonymous with the “Roaring Twenties.” In the popular mind it was a time of cultural rebellion: short skirts, baggy trousers, raccoon coats, bathtub gin, sexual exploration, votes for women, exuberant dancing, and wild parties. Coming on the heels of World War I, the Jazz Age is often viewed as the death of Victorianism. It even had its own soundtrack: hot jazz.

 

Like many historical labels, the Jazz Age is an oversimplification. Was Victorianism dead? It depends on where you lived. Rural Americans and older ones saw the Jazz Age as a time of immorality, promiscuity, bad music, obscene dancing, and law-breaking. Alcohol had been banned under the18th Amendment (1919), but bootleg and homemade liquor was rampant and enforcement was lax. Some rural Americans embraced the assault on Victorian mores, but on a whole it was rural America that pushed for Prohibition, cheered the persecution of Tennessee teacher John Scopes (1925) for teaching blasphemous theories of human evolution. Unlike today in which just 20 percent of Americans live in rural areas, during the height of the Jazz Age (1920s/30s) 56 percent of Americans lived in places with fewer than 2,500 people. Black Americans invented jazz, but eight of ten African Americans lived the Jim Crow South. Even those living in the urbanized North faced discrimination. Moreover, White Women were only partially liberated. A flapper who got “caught” (pregnant) in the Jazz Age faced shame and a legal system inclined to judge her as immoral rather than demand that fathers support their offspring.

 All of this is to say that Jazz Age flapperdom was largely a Northern, urban phenomenon whose existence was invented, named, and exaggerated by a small number of elites, newspapers, magazines, and advertisers. In over 100 images, Jazz Age Illustrations at the Norman Rockwell Museum explores the period from 1912-42 in all of its excitement, ballyhoo, and excess.

 

Held, "Vacation Time in the Berkshires"

 

Held, "Tattooed Man Goes Collegiate"

 

Gibson, "Have You a Book Innocent Enough for Grandpa and Grandma to Read?" 

 

Among the Jazz Age illustrators, two names often come to the fore: John Held Jr. and Charles Dana Gibson. Held was prolific and, if anything, he is under-represented in the Rockwell exhibition. Gibson made his name a bit earlier. If you’ve heard the phrase “Gibson girl,” he’s the illustrator who depicted working women in high-collared shirtwaists and elegant long flowing skirts. Before the Jazz Age launched, a number of young women entered the workforce. Gibson emphasized their independence and wholesome beauty. His was a subtle form of propaganda as his women were generally of the upper class and actual shop girls worked long hours for little pay. Nonetheless, he wasn’t wrong to notice that it took a degree of wealth to live a bohemian life. Dana is a bit more fun in that he often drew eccentric images–especially of collegiate life– and had an eye for satire.  

 

 

Preston, Miss America pageant 1921, dressing room 

 

Preston, "Without Thinking, Without Caring, He Walked Two Steps Out on the Floor" 

Patterson, "Ballyhoo"

Hosiery Ad

Duer, "Danger Calling"

 

Leyendecker
 

 

Several other illustrators focused on social class, including May Wilson Watkins Preston and Douglas Duer. The latter captured the very essence of a vamp, slinky and salacious in an open-necked green dress that accentuated her bosom. Jazz Age advertisers knew that sex sells. Russell Patterson did a soap add with an obviously naked woman demurely tucked behind an umbrella. Phillips Hosiery advertised its “hole proof” nylons, though most eyes were likely on the thin model in her sheer petticoat looking down at her long legs. Patterson combined suggestive nudity and hosiery for the cover of Ballyhoo of a strike by cabaret women. Joseph Leyendecker illustrated for menswear clothier Kuppenheimer, though ironically, some of his well-clad men blur the line between fashion and conman.    

Jackson

Harlem: Even it was segregated! 

 

African Americans also jumped onto the Jazz Age ballyhoo train.  Jay Jackson at least dressed singer Etta Moten (Porgy and Bess)  in a thin top, though her sexuality is spotlighted more than her considerable acting and singing chops. A map of Harlem nightclub venues makes it seem exciting, though it should be noted that one of them is the famed Cotton Club in which the only Blacks in evidence were the musicians. Only White patrons were admitted to Cotton Club shows.  

 

Lois Jones

I suspect Loïs Mailou Jones was making a backdoor critique when she drew “A Lawyer” as an arrogant-looking child.

 Don’t misinterpret this review as a complaint that I didn’t care for the exhibit. Quite the opposite, though I do mean the suggest that there are different ways of seeing art. The Roaring Twenties are so… well.. ballyhooed that it doesn’t need more from me. But we do learn new things when we change the lenses through which it is viewed.

 

 

Rob Weir

 

Winter Blahs and Musings

When I lived in northern Vermont, winter shocked and amused me. Who knew that antifreeze could freeze? Somehow, in my late-20s and early 30s it seemed romantic when chimney smoke made a right hand bend because it couldn’t cut through the layer of cold air hovering 50 feet above the chimney. I recall cross country skiing and being surprised that I could be sweating in -10 Fahrenheit.

 

I moved to Western Massachusetts before I turned 40 and it felt like Miami. My best friend Dominique and I  used to sit outside of our favorite cafes in winter back then. Our personal best was slurping java and slinging BS when it was + 17 degrees. Now I wonder, at what age do we begin to feel the pain of cold weather. I see young ‘uns  pop into Woodstar Café in shorts or tiny skirts when it’s in the 20s and think, “Are they nuts?” From the comfort of a warm seat inside, of course, where BS is still slung.

 

Winter and I are no longer friends, but I can’t remember when that happened. I’ve become bear-like it my desire to hibernate. When my alarm rings to alert me I am joining friends for coffee at 8:30, I roll over and think, “It can’t possibly be 6:45 already.”  Then I begin to contemplate how cold and dark it is outside, and how much I love my pillow.

 

Winter is good for musing; I’ll give it that. I’ll bet you wonder what I think about on cold day. Maybe you don’t, but I’ll to tell you anyhow. Here’s a sampling from the past week. Such heavy thoughts often inspire a nap.

 

·      How is it that squirrels disappear from my lawn for days when it snows, but show up minutes after I refill the bird feeders?

 

·      How can the worst coffee in the world call itself Seattle’s Best?

 

·      Shouldn’t there be a law against calling something the best, greatest, finest, boldest, or improved? I’ve never once been asked to weigh in on such momentous assertions. Have you? 

 

·      I don’t know why the USA is so resident to switching to the  metric system. Is there an American alive that can’t tell the difference between a one liter and a two liter bottle of Coke? Besides, I much rather say I’m 160.02 cm tall than 63 inches.

 

·      Before Trump decides to take over Greenland, the Orange Tub should consider that Ozempic is made in Denmark.

 

·      I have four guitars and a ukulele. When I shuffle off this mortal coil I’m sure some wag will conclude I collected strings and straps.

 

·      Speaking of mortality, isn’t it bad enough that we have think about it as we get older? Must we put up with other stuff related to aging—like dry skin, rashes, wonky knees, and losing height? Plus, we develop personal quirks.  Mine is that the neural pathways connecting my hands and my brain apparently have been severed. If I pick up something and put it down, I’ve no idea where I deposited it and only the vaguest memory of having handling said object. I recently “lost” my favorite coffee thermos. I located it in the garage where I must have set it down to do something else.

 

·      Oh yeah, there’s memory. I have an idea for a TV show. Ask yourself, “What is the point of a TV show?” If you guessed anything as naïve as quality entertainment, you’re not even in the ballpark. It’s selling commercials, of course.  A show called Senior Jeopardy would rake in profits. You take three oldsters and ask a question. Cut to the Jeopardy thinking music and then to three minutes of commercials. Then, return to the contestants to reveal their answers. First one to three wins. They might have to extend the broadcast to an hour for that to happen, but experience tells me that Americans will happily sit through the same brain cell-slaying commercials forever as longs as they don’t need to get up from the sofa. 

 

 

 

·      My only useful musing involved Mark Carney. Who’s he? The Prime Minister of Canada. He spoke to the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, last week. So did Trump, who gave an embarrassing speech about taking Greenland, crypto currency, and military might. I doubt he understood what Carney said. Here’s the speech: https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=mark+carney Gee, I wonder it’s like to be led by someone smart?

 

 

Rob Weir

 

 

Le Vent du Nord Grose Isle Chris Rawlins I’m With Her John Gorka Danish Vocal Ensemble Kiki Valera

 

Winter in New England deters a lot of touring musicians, but not those from Quebec. If you don’t do winter, you can’t live in the PQ. Sometimes I think Québecois musicians come to Massachusetts because it’s like Miami for them.

 

  

There may not be a better band anywhere in the province than Le Vent du Nord. They’ve just been through Massachusetts with their new recording Voisinages.  It roughly translates as neighbors or neighborhoods, but it’s a loaded word that can mean those next door, those who share your values, or those in the same general proximity. In other words, does Le Vent du Nord mean those who dance with them in their kitchens, those who share French language and culture, or the bad boy to the South of their borders (the United States). The short answer is yes. “Bienvenue” was written by Olivier Demers to welcome André Brunet to the band, but its flavor is that of set of tunes that begins slowly but eventually gets the dancers hot and sweaty. “L’Acadie” could be seen as Quebecois scat or mouth music, but the song’s title references a region that once stretched from Cape Breton to Louisiana; “Fleuve” is a wistful tribute to the St. Lawrence River; and “Du Nord Au Sud” is a spirited set of fiddle tunes, but the liner notes cheekily asks of the United States, “What comes next? When empires lose their marbles, we might as well try to redraw the maps!” The band positively rocks out on “Carillon.” If that sounds vaguely familiar, it’s about a battle at a fort now known as Ticonderoga. This album is brand new, so no live performance are up yet, but if you want to deeper taste of this amazing band, there are plenty of live music from previous albums. For the record, the Brunet brothers, André and the bear-like trickster Réjean, were once close neighbors of mine when I lived in Vermont and they in the village of Lacolle just across the border. They were the kind of neighbors you wanted to have!   

 

 

           

Whilst we’re in Quebec, let’s go deeper–to the place where the St. Lawrence River widens into a bay before emptying into the Atlantic Ocean. There’s a fine trio of musicians who call themselves Grosse Isle, in part an homage to Fiachra O’Regan, who plays uillean pipes, banjo, and whistles. Let’s play the game of “one of these things are not like the others.” The lead vocalist, pianist, fiddler, and clogger is named Sophie Lavoie, and the guitarist and other clogger is Francois-Félix Roy. You probably worked out that O’Regan is Irish, so what’s he doing in a band with two Québecois musicians? It has to do with Grosse Isle whose permanent population is zero, not the one in Michigan or Manitoba. Visitors come to see the remains of the “Ellis Island of Canada.” From 1832-1937 it was a screening center for immigrants. Sometimes it was a processing center and sometimes a quarantine station for those with infectious diseases. You perhaps know that the 1840s/50s were the time of the Irish potato famine. Many Irish families passed through Grosse Isle, got better, and stayed in the Quebec City area. This means that O’Regan makes sense in a Québecois trad band, as do the band’s jigged up Irish song and tunes. The band’s latest record is titled Homérique, an energetic tribute to Irish and Québecois heroes. It opens with “Gráinne Mhaol aux Cheveux de Braise,” Lavoie’s tribute to Ireland’s “pirate queen.” (Look her up, folks!) and moves on to “Mathilde la Dame Blanche,” a woman who threw herself into Montmorency Falls and whose ghost now haunts the place. One of the more unusual  hero tales is that of “Victor Delamarre,” a 5’5” weightlifter who defeated the much taller and more muscular Louis Cyr in a contest. That feat and Cyr are honored in the second part of a Lavoie-written set of tunes! The band show off their Irish chops on “Seanamhac Tube Station” and a cover of Paddy O’Brien’s “The Coming of Spring.” There are other heroes/heroines on the album. A small hint: The record is quite good–you even get a version of “Rocky Road to Dublin” (wait for it!)–but Grosse Isle is way more dynamic live. Catch them if you get a chance.

 

 

Don’t confuse Chris Rawlins with the UK mentalist of the same name. This one is an indie (for now) singer-songwriter from Chicago. His latest record is called Flyover, a pushback at the idea that Mid-America consists of “flyover” states. He likes songs that deal with memory, connections, and home. Some of his new material reveals his attraction/dissatisfaction relationship to the Midwest, which is how I’ve felt in drives from the Appalachian ridge-and-valley states to the Rockies. The flat states are fascinating, but they often feel hypnotically big in a “am I ever going to get to Ann Arbor?” way. The material on Flyover is gentle, which invites analogies to the late Tim Hardin. It also invites introspection. The song “Flyover” is enigmatic in whether it’s musing while flying or a troubled relationship song. “After Dark” is a dreaming/waking up song that contrasts how Rawlins felt as a kid and how things are different now. Rawlins states that a lot of songs began as his interpretations of snapshots and the Flyover explores ambivalence, mostly without trying to resolve it. “Anywhere” shows a weakness in the material. It’s a sweet love song, but the tune and vocal sound structurally and tonically similar to his other songs. My favorite on the record is “Firefly,” written when he visited Oregon, where  no one had heard of one! It’s also about getting older and making or missing connections. “Firefly” is catchy and has more life to it.

 

 

 

Wouldn’t it be cool to have a trio featuring Aoife O’Donovan (Crooked Still), Sarah Jarosz (Grammy Award winner), and Sara Watkins (Nickel Back)? In case you haven’t gotten the word, there is such a trio that calls itself I’m With Her. Their latest Rounder Records release is Wild and Clear and Blue, which just happens to be up for three Grammy Awards this year. One nomination is for “Ancient Light” in the Best Song category. It’s about figuring out what you want to say, be, and remember in order to be swimming in the ancient light. If you like harmony, you’ll love this track on which Jarosz takes the lead. I’ve long been enamored with O’Donovan’s calming voice with just a touch of huskiness. She’s the lead vocalist on the title song “Wildand Blue and Clear” but again it’s the harmonies that linger. This one is of formative childhood memories.  There are some serious bluegrass licks on fiddle (Watkins) and mandolin (Jarosz) that shape another O’Donovan vocal. I sometimes think that Hawkins’ lead vocals are too strident, as on “Standing on the Fault Line,” but I love her fiddling and the way she orchestrates her partners like an old-time preacher exhorting the congregation. Check out “Mother Eagle (Sing Alive”) and you’ll understand how the quiet power of I’m With Her makes everything seem like a call to meeting.

 

 

 

 

John Gorka has graduated to being a grizzled vet of the American folk music circuit. His latest record, unentitled, is one of the most optimistic he’s ever made. It opens with “My Favorite Place,” whose reveal is in the middle of a song. It’s a sunny, memorable piece, as light as a spring breeze. Speaking of spring, his second selection is “A Light Exists in Spring,” which encapsulates the specialness of how we feel it coming before it arrives and how it settles in slowly. He’s not the first to make that observation, yet we all know what he means when he sings of the link between nature and human nature. “Particle and Wave (Goodness in the World)” is Gorka’s response to the March for Our Lives movement and is destined to be sung at gatherings in need of an uplift. If you are wondering about the title, it’s another song about light, which is made up of particles and waves. And who, but a dry wit like Gorka would write a song about “Richard III,” the last Plantagenet king. Most of Gorka’s songs are short, as he follows in the footsteps of Jack Hardy (1947-2011) who famously wrote at least a song a week. Gorka modified that to one, then two, songs per month. It means he always has a lot of material at his fingertips, which he refines and eventually records an album. I suspect he was thinking of the 2012 discovery of Richard III’s body underneath a Leicester, England, parking lot. You’ll have to ask him next time he’s performing out your way.

 

 

 

 

The Danish National Vocal Ensemble are 18 singers from the Danish Broadcasting Corporation (DR).  Americans might recall that once upon a time we had PBS. It was a bit like the DR except that their vocal ensemble has an affinity for singing a cappella songs from the medieval through the classical and romantic periods. O Listen is a 22-track collection. It’s impossible to give you an overall review of 22 tracks, so here is a sampling of the righteous noise they can make. “Vester Camena” is Latin for “Your Muse.” They have a new conductor, Martina Batič, who leads the ensemble through works from Slovenian composer Uroš Krek. His “Three Autumn Songs” suite is powerful if you are a fan of choral music. Try “Autumn Song, No. 1.” The Ensemble also does work with the national symphony, this time from composer Else Marie Pad, who is described as “a modernist musical Rosary.” Lend your ear to “Maria: No. 2, Amare.”  Modernist indeed! It's a bit jarring for my taste, but it does have aspects of the sacred and might be your kind of mass.

 

  

Kiki Valera comes from a famous musical family in Cuba and has done just about everything a musician can do. He has taught, soloed, played in bands, produced, composed, directed, and has served as a sound engineer. He plays numerous instruments but is an acknowledged master of the cuatro, a mid-sized guitar about the size of the Martin 000 series. In the live clip of “El Cuatro de tula,” he is on your left with a cuatro in his hands. The album Vacilón Santiaguero features Valero in a group filled with blaring brass and hand drums and percussion. Here they play a rumba, “Sobre una Tumba una Rumba.” Other selections include boleros and danceable selections. There’s even a song titled “Marijuana.” Here’s a clip of him with other family members playing “Vida Parrandera” and the street crowd busting out their dancing shoes.

 

Rob Weir

 

Please Don't Lie Fails as a Mystery/Thriller

 

 

PLEASE DON’T LIE (2025)

By Christina Baker Kline and Anne Burt

Thomas and Mercer, 259 pages

★★ ½

 

It’s true that, in general, mysteries are more popular than most forms of fiction. It’s also true that being a great novelist doesn’t necessarily mean you can write any subgenre. Nor it is it the case that two heads are guaranteed to be better than one when writing a novel. Most novelists I know are solitary creatures who are only a lot of fun when they are not stapled to their writing desks.

 

I’ve read numerous Christina Baker Kline novels and enjoyed them all–until now. Anne Burt has but one novel, which I have not read. I will say from the outset that mystery does not seem to be Ms. Kline’s forte. Please Don’t Lie is a paint-by-the-numbers mystery/thriller that’s neither hard to unravel nor stirring. Its protagonist is New Yorker Hayley Stone, who is dealing with two heartbreaks. First, her parents perish in a fire that destroys their home, which is followed by her sister Jenna’s fatal overdose. She suddenly finds herself quite wealthy and is being harassed by muckraking journalist Olivia Blackwell, ostensibly to tell “her story,” but Blackwell acts like a crass muckraker. Alas, some of Hayley’s fair-weather friends spill some tea.

 

At her sister’s funeral she meets Brandon, a hunk who promises to get her out of the limelight. Before you can spell contrivance, Hayley and Brandon are having hot sex and marry. Okay… it takes the proverbial New York minute to suspect that Hayley and Brandon are wrong for each other. She’s a hardcore New Yorker who hangs out in cafes with former work friends and Emily, her bestie. Brandon’s an upstate country boy who convinces Hayley that they should move to his childhood home high up on a ridge in the Adirondacks above the village of Crystal River. He insists that all they need is each other, but bright autumn leaves, baking bread, making jam, canning food for winter, and spooky (to her)  coyote visits are  no cure for loneliness. Plus, a few locals know Brandon and are not exactly happy to see him. One of them, a crusty older woman named Cheryl is especially antagonistic and insists that the fancy dream home in which Brandon and Hayley are living was built by her father, not Brandon’s.  Brandon is appointing their nest with Hayley’s money and disappears regularly to go hunting during the night.

 

Hayley’s only solace is Megan, a young woman who seems as if she walked off of a Sixties’ commune (vegan, hippie garb, yogini, animal rights activist). She’s partnered with Tyler, who Brandon doesn’t seem to like. Then again, he doesn’t seem to like anyone other than his unnamed hunting buddies, though he and Hayley have a lot of “make-up sex.” When the rundown apartment Megan and Tyler are renting becomes uninhabitable, Hayley invites them to live in the rental cabin on their property. When Emily visits from New York it takes her a half of a New York minute to see that Brandon is a creep and that Hayley is miserable. And it doesn’t take long for Emily to discover why Cheryl hates Brandon and why other locals steer clear. A dinner with Megan and Tyler leads to a truth or dare game that sends Brandon into orbit.

 

You name the convention and it’s in Please Don’t Lie: poor cellphone coverage, a disappearance, a mutilated animal left on the lawn, suspicion cast upon Tyler and Megan, another phone call from Olivia, Internet conspiracy nuts, and Hayley’s constant fear she’s being lied to. (We could have told her that!) All of this leads to Hayley’s flight for her life on an icy, snowy evening. Some thunder snow would have been the cherry atop the formula.

 

Hayley Stone has got to be one the dumbest protagonists over the age of 18 in recent publishing. There are no likable characters in this novel and there are certainly no candidates for Mensa membership. Not even Emily, who decided to go on a late-in-the-season solo hike in the Adirondacks. My two-star rating is because I finished the novel to see how it resolved, though I was pretty certain how it would happen. I was right, so that’s on me. I didn’t see  the “happy” ending coming, but I didn’t buy it for a New York second. A second Crystal River book is planned. I’m not sure that’s wise.

 

Rob Weir

 

Boy Friends Explores Male Friendship and..?

 

 

BOY FRIENDS (2022)

By Michael Pedersen

Faber, 232 pages

★★★

 

Have you ever had a best friend to whom you pledged to be besties forever? Someone with whom you were instantly compatible. A person who simply “got you” despite your moods and foibles. Is this person still your BFF? If not, what happened?

 

There are a variety of reasons why good friendships cease. Mostly it’s because one or both people change. Of all the ways to lose a best friend, the worst is if that person dies.. It’s as if your friend was flash frozen. You grow older, but they stay forever young.

 

Note that the title of this book is Boy Friends, not boyfriends. Author Michael Pedersen details previous special friends, but none of them measured up as intensely as Scott Hutchinson (1981-2018). Pedersen is a Scottish poet, spoken word artist, and musician. Hutchinson’s name might be more familiar; he was the founder and guiding spirit of the indie rock band Frightened Rabbit. They made five albums from 2006-15. Hutchinson also recorded with others, briefly soloed (as Owl John), and did the artwork for Frightened Rabbit, other bands, and several of Pedersen’s collections. For eight years, Pedersen and Hutchinson were best mates. On May 9, 2018, Hutchinson was reported missing. The next day his body was discovered in the Firth of Forth, having chosen to end his life by jumping from a bridge.

 

Pedersen’s book is mostly based on diary entries he wrote as he was working through his grief over Scott’s suicide. It’s non-fiction that is a memoir, mixed with a lamentation, cultural history, and a love story. Scott and Michael were simpatico because their childhoods were challenging, each was more shy than they outwardly projected, and they oozed non-conformity. Not many kids dream of being an androgenous poet or a depressed musician and illustrator. They shared a twisted way of looking at the world. For instance, they both were obsessed with the Curfew Tower in Ireland, a 19^th century structure most people see as curious, but not beautiful. Boy Friends catalogs some of the adventures Michael and Scott had while trekking, sharing boyhood memories, writing poetry, and being on the road. Pedersen founded Neu! Reekie!, an arts collective that produced 200 mixed arts shows of poetry, videos, music, and artworks. As you can imagine, Hutchinson and Pedersen partnered in many Neu! Reekie! shows. They also collaborated on Pedersen’s second poetry collection, with Hutchinson illustrating Oyster.

 

Boy Friends is beautifully written, even when it is oblique. Pedersen has an enormous vocabulary and isn’t afraid to use it. He leaves open the question is whether his relationship with Scott was also that of boyfriends. Neither acknowledged being gay or bisexual, but the language suggests that they were occasional lovers. For the record, though, Hutchison’s known relationships and breakup songs concern women and Pedersen’s partner is the comely poet Hollie McNish. Michael clearly loved Scott, but his objective is to show the intensity of men’s friendships. As a poet he has written about queer lives and sometimes waxes so rhapsodic over male bodies that his language evinces the passion that landed Oscar Wilde in jail. I don’t know his work very well, others have said that he obliterates the borders between Platonic and romantic. I can say only that if both engaged only in heterosexual relations, Boy Friends is the gayest straight memoir I’ve ever read.

 

It matters not to me who sleeps with whom. In my judgment Pedersen makes a strong case that men’s friendships can have the intensity of romantic love.* There are many playful moments in Boy Friends, antics that are indeed what a boy might do. There are laugh aloud hijinks and deeply moving passages. However you decode the message, Boy Friends is a tribute and exploration of inner feelings held by men, a seldom-discussed topic.

 

Still, by leaving so much unsaid, Pedersen tempts readers to take a voyeuristic interest in the book rather than a considered one. I wanted to yell out, “Let’s hear it for enduing friendships,” but Pedersen’s florid writing often gets in the way. Moreover, the work is so interiorized that we seldom feel like we are part of the fun. Some have called Pedersen’s prose antiseptic. I don’t agree, but in a book where not much actually happens, it can seem that way.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

 * Amusing true story: I once went to Amsterdam with a good male friend. We arrived too early, dropped off our bags, and joked about while discussing what to do for a few hours. When we got to our room, the twin beds were pushed together. 

 

Hamnet is Affecting, but not History

HAMNET (2025)

Directed by Chloé Zhao

Focus Features, 126 minutes, PG-13 (adult situations, hint of nudity)

★★★★

 

You’ve no doubt heard that actress Jesse Buckley won the Golden Globe award for Best Actress for her portrayal of Agnes Hathaway, the wife of William Shakespeare and the mother of his three children: Susanna, and twins Judith and Hamnet. If you don’t  know, Hamnet was an alternative spelling of Hamlet.

 

Hamnet the film is that is not a biographical study.  It’s a play within a play within a play, though director and Mount Holyoke graduate Chloé Zhao disguises it so well you might assume it’s a historical look at the Shakespeare family. William Shakespeare may be the most famous Westerner of all time about whom we know so little. He is presumed to have written the greatest plays in the English language, but the key word is “presumed.” Anti-Stratfordians do not believe that a man from such a humble background could have written such words and put forth as the real author such properly educated gentlemen as Earl of Oxford Edmund de Vere, Sir Francis Bacon, Christopher Marlowe, King James I, Sir Walter Raleigh, or Christopher Marlowe. Some even claim that Shakespeare was a woman (Countess of Pembroke Mary Sidney, Queen Elizabeth I, Mary Queen of Scots, Agnes Shakespeare); or perhaps a group of people ranging from known writers to Jesuits or Rosicrucians. Some 88 people have been fingered for what would be the greatest literary fraud in Western history.

 

I’ve no desire to open such debates, though the Anti-Stratfordians could easily be accused of  arrogantly assuming that no one not to the manor born could be a genius. Again, though, we know very little of the historical William Shakespeare beyond his birth in Stratford-upon-Avon, England, in 1564 and his death there in 1616. The movie Hamnet, though, focuses on the Bard’s wife, who we used to call “Anne” Hathaway but now believe was named Agnes. When she married in 1582, Agnes was 26 and "Will" (Paul Mescal) was barely 18. Age differences were usually the other way around, but Will’s relative youth would have been unusual at the time.  

 

Hamnet is beautifully acted, with Buckley’s grief one of the rawest and most convincing depictions of abject sorrow I’ve seen in quite a while. Mescal gives us a tortured look at writer’s block, but he and Buckley generate considerable heat of a couple who began married life as passionate lovers. Of the two, Buckley’s character is more complex. Her late mother was rumored to be a forest witch and Agnes didn’t all far from the creepy tree that factors into the story. Agnes is literally a child of nature, with gifts of herbalism, taming hawks, and prognostication though the latter power isn’t always on the money. Her brother Bartholomew (Joe Alwyn) is her greatest champion and becomes a good friend to Will. (If Alwyn’s name sounds familiar, any female under the age of 30 can tell you he was Taylor Swift’s boyfriend for six years!) David Wilmot and Emily Watson turn in solid performances as Will’s parents, but the children are the anchor of the family tragedy. Susannah (Bodhi Rae Breathnach), the eldest, is her mother’s helpmate and pupil when Will is in London, and the twins (Jacobi Jupe and Olivia Lynes) are so simpatico that when Judith is thought to be dying of bubonic plague, Hamnet sees Death coming, offers his life for hers, and dies in her place. Hamnet’s experience as a shadow portends Hamlet’s in his father’s play, which we see acted out at the Globe Theatre. To add the third level of fiction, though we can assume that Hamnet’s death gutted his parents, the film’s drama comes from Maggie O’Farrell’s novel, not historical accounts.

 

Nor do we have any records of Agnes witnessing a staging of Hamlet. If you want to find other inaccuracies, they can be unearthed. It is quite unlikely that Agnes could read or write, let alone each of the children. Hamnet died at age 11, but probably not of the plague as no outbreak was rampant at the time. Screen wipes show the passage of time but the time frames don’t always make sense. Speaking of not making sense, the film doesn’t show Will or Agnes ageing–or Agnes having ever changed her red dress–though a dozen years would have passed before the very affecting emotional climax, which would not have gone down the way it was filmed.

 

All this said, Hamnet is a very good movie. But call it a romantic drama, not history.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

 

What Will Kill Americans in 2026

 

 

Newest Health Warnings

 

Various health specialists–including those from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Doctors Without Borders, Doctors With Shiny Silver Discs Around Their Necks, and the three people not yet fired at the National Institutes of Health–have issued their annual Report on American health. Here are the top things that will kill Americans in 2026.

 

1. Topping the list is being shot while attempting any sort of conversation with a U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent. President Donald Tramp has issued a blanket immunity for all I.C.E. officers who have responded with lethal force. Threats include unfriendly stares in supermarkets, signs at places of worship, mothers sitting in their personal vehicles, and homes devoid of MAGA regalia. The presumption is that all I.C.E. personnel are protecting national security and the dead had it coming.

 

2. Measles: Health and Human Experiments Secretary Robert Kennedy Jr. is adamant that vaccinations have killed 9 billion Americans in the past week and he’s doing his best to protect the 11 toothless idiots who think vaccinations are dangerous.

 

3. Classroom Slayings: Insisting that people not guns, kill people, President Tramp has ordered mandatory firearms training for all students and school employees. Doctors warn that young kids love bang-bang sounds, that grade schoolers are notoriously poor shots, and by Friday most teachers are ready to murder someone. They further warn that support and janitorial staff are very likely to frag principals, supervisors, payroll managers, and kids that walk over freshly washed floors.

 

4. Mumps: See Two above.

 

5. Combat Deaths: President Tramp is furious he didn’t win a Nobel Peace Prize and has announced plans to declare a Fourth Reich to foist “peace” on the rest of the world. This will involve forced conscription, as an anonymous Tramp D.O.D. official reported that he was “furious” that the U.S. military’s 1.3 million armed personnel were unable to subdue and attack force of four kayakers and a dozen spear fishermen during America’s aborted assault on Greenland. Tramp also announced plans to invade Malta, Gibraltar, Lichtenstein, Andora, and Kiribati as phase one of building the Reich. Some of those countries are alleged to be supplied with robust sticks and “big honking rocks.”

 

6. Hair Dye Poisoning: President Tramp has decreed that all American women will be required to be blonde. Given that Tramp has already dismantled “needless regulations,” doctors warn that several million MAGA women won’t be smart enough to figure out that they are not supposed to drink the hair dye.

 

7. Pogroms: Tramp has proposed a “culling of the herd” hunting season against all Leftists. Details are still being formulated but leaks to the “failing New York Times”  (circulation 11.8 million) claim that the following U.S. citizens are “hiding behind the failing U.S. Constitution” and hence subject to culling: people of color, children born in the U.S. to non-citizens, naturalized citizens who break any law (including littering), non-beef eaters, abortionists, women not wearing government-issued red cloaks, non-Christians, and “radical insurrectionists.” The last group will include: anyone to the left of Stephan Miller, Muslims, non-Republican Jews, anyone wearing Birkenstocks, Californians, Greenpeace supporters, New Englanders, “Save the Whales” communists, and non-heterosexuals. 

 

8. Being pressed to death: In his zealous quest to sleep with more women than Bill Clinton, President Tramp intends to classify any women having intercourse (consensual or forced) with him and complaining about it as a “lying b……s” and subject to the death penalty. Execution will involve Tramp lying atop their naked bodies until they suffocate.

 

9. Death by right-wing shooters, car drivers, and tactical bombers who are in the act of standing their ground and/or protecting the president from “leftists” (see 7 above). Subsections protect patriotic vigilantes who are: engaging in target practice along U.S. borders, are forced to self-protect during “peaceful demonstrations” inside the U.S. Capitol, are being harassed by Black trick-or-treaters, heathens holding placards asserting that Charlie Kirk was a fraud, and leftists whose heckling hurts their feelings.

 

10. Whopping cough, polio, COVID, and 5,000 other preventable diseases such as Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, Bubonic plague, TB, diphtheria, RSV, monkey pox, chickenpox, flu, or failing to own a gun.  (See Two and Nine above.)

 

 

 

Michael Connelly, Jess Walter, Charlotte Wood, T.J. Klune, Steven Wright

 

 This week I’ve featured John Irving’s new novel and an older one from Mark Haddon. Here’s a book clean-out in short review form. One must move some books out to make room for others!

 

Mysteries Solved:

 

 I enjoy mysteries, cozy and not. Now that I’ve exhausted most of the Robert Parker collection, Michael Connelly has replaced him as my go-to read. I quite enjoyed The Drop (2011, 387 pages). This is a Harry Bosch novel whose very title involves a twist. Harry has been an LAPD homicide detective for many years about to retire. He’s not on active cases because he’s in the transitional Deferred Retirement Option Plan (DROP) for four years. To keep him out of trouble he’s in the Open-Unsolved unit that looks at cold cases to see if they should be reopened using new methods. Harry is looking into a murder/rape from 1989 and discovers that the now 29-year-old man convicted of the crime was just 8 years old when sent to adult court. Harry smells corruption. At the same time, Harry is handed a new case. The son of City Councilman Irvin Irving is found dead outside a fancy hotel. Irving was once a cop who disliked Harry and now has the power to cut funding for DROP. Shockingly, Irving demands that Harry investigate his son’s demise; he hates Harry, but trusts him to ferret out the truth. Did his son jump or was he dropped from above? Irving is furious when Harry works both cases at once and also finds some time for romance. Not to mention Harry’s deep dive into feuding taxi cab companies.

 

I also enjoyed Connelly’s The Night Fire (2019,  456 pages). This Bosch novel also includes LAPD Renée Ballard, who is new school to Harry’s old school methods. Ballard lives in her car and has been demoted to the graveyard shift after accusing a superior of sexual harassment. She’s tough and fearless, which is exactly what scares Bosch. Renée hangs out in an unsavory neighborhood and is investigating possible homicide when a homeless man dies in a tent fire. For his part, Harry has been given a murder book by the widow of a deceased cop friend. Why? To complicate things further, a judge is stabbed to death in broad daylight in a public park. There is DNA evidence linking a young man arrested for the judge’s murder. He is being defended by Mickey Haller, who knows Harry. Is there a connection between the judge, the fire, and a long ago murder? Get the feeling something much bigger is at play?     

 

 

Inspires: 

Jess Walter is an author who seeks unique ways to tell a story. In his dark satirical novel The Financial Life of the Poets Walter takes potshots at the 2007-09 housing market collapse and financial crisis. The Arizona Republic cogently summed it as a novel that “would be sad if it weren’t so funny and so funny it if weren’t so sad.” At age 46, Matt Prior is living the middle-class dream: a nice house, a lovely wife (Lisa), and two boys. He’s also typical in that he’s leveraged up to his eyeteeth, his kids are struggling in school, and Lisa’s e-Bay business is tanking. Matt foresees the decline of newspapers, but makes the first of a series of bad choices by quitting his job and launching a Website dispensing financial advice in the form of blank verse (no ending rhymes). Who wants a haiku on adjustable mortgages or stock advice in the form of a sonnet? No one. When the excrement hits the air circulation device, Matt is so broke that he needs to raise $30,000 in seven days or he will lose his house. His senile father is no help; he was bilked by a Las Vegas stripper! Matt is wallowing in so much desperation that when he meets a group of young guys of questionable character at the local 7-Eleven he ends up smoking powerful dope with them and surrendering his favorite slippers!  Soon, Matt wants to buy more pot to sell. Not the best idea as it’s illegal, plus there are some serious bad guys who are all about turf. Soon, Matt is the verge of losing his marriage as well, as Lisa seems to be having a Facebook affair with an old flame. (Not that her decisions are any better.) Will the Priors join those families that went down in flames? This is a satire in which you laugh and say “ouch!”

 

 

 

Don’t laugh, but I learned about Stoneyard Devotional (2023, 291 pages) from Sarah Jessica Parker. She’s a serious reader who has served on Booker Prize committees. This novel from Australian author Charlotte Wood was shortlisted for a 2024 Booker. I might have voted for Wood for her skill in compiling a short novel that feels like non-fiction. An unnamed middle-aged burn-out case leaves Sydney to rejuvenate at a rural monastery. She never returns, though she’s neither a believer nor a member of the Catholic Church. She is attracted by the routine and the relative silence. Wood’s novel is  akin to opening a detailed diary recounting the three big crises of her time there. The first is the nunnery’s mouse infestation, by which I mean so many mice that trenches are dug for three-a-day rodent burials. The second rocks the nuns as word arrives of the discovery of Sister Jenny’s bones, who disappeared in Thailand years before. She may have drowned or have been murdered. It sets off a bout of jealousy; Sister Bonaventure was Jenny’s friend but others have been in charge of what to do about a burial. The bones come back to the monastery via Helen Parry, an activist nun who is a world celebrity. She’s a bit like a cross between Greta Thunberg and Nurse Ratched, but she stimulates old memories in our narrator who was once a school mate. Seldom have I read a book that is so inwardly judgmental yet so calm.  

 

Misfires:

 

 

If I were a young gay or trans person, I’d probably love the latest T. J. Klune novel Somewhere Beyond the Sea ( 2025, 416 pages.) Klune writes fantasy novels in which the LGBTI + community takes center stage. My problem is that each of his books has the same story: the prejudice facing those of non-normative sexuality and how love overcomes adversity. Klune novels are easy reads and this is the fifth I’ve perused, but I think I’m done. This is a sequel to Klune’s heralded 2020 House in the Cerulean Sea, which could stand as a sort of Harry Potter for gay folks. This one takes us back to Marsyas Island where Linus Baker and his partner Arthur Parnassus run a home for troubled magical children: Lucifer, Chauncey (a blob), Talia (a bearded female gnome), Theodore (a wyvern) Phee (a sprite), Sal (a were-cat), and new resident David (a Yeti). Jeanine Rowley is the new head of the Department of Magical Youth (DICOMY) and wishes to close down the orphanage because the resident “children” are too “dangerous,” especially Satan’s son Lucifer. It is far too easy to figure out that each character is a stand-in for something else; Rowley represents the intolerant political right, Marsyas and environs are a sanctuary city, Lucy is a victim of labeling, Sal is so big that no one thinks he’s a kid, etc. Klune has already made most of these points in Book One, so he tries to hinge the book on property ownership and crown it with a syrupy wedding. It feels (and is) lightweight. 

 

 

 

If you asked me to identify my favorite living comedian, I’d pick Steven Wright. I love his surrealistic humor, his wry/dry delivery, the brevity of his stories, and his hilarious punchlines. As in music, often a performer is much sharper live than on a record.  Wright’s novel Harold (2024, 256 pages) is an example of this in comedy. Harold is an offbeat seven-year-old who might be high-functioning autistic. He’s clearly bright but experiences the sensation of birds flying into his head whenever he contemplates somethings and deposits Harold in surreal places. The book covers a single day of Harold’s school- and family-life. Harold, like his creator, takes us to some seriously odd places, but I seldom guffawed because what works on the stage didn’t translate on the page.

 

Rob Weir