tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63048321590397126372024-03-18T09:00:32.238-04:00Off-Center ViewsPhoenix Brown & Lars Vigohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12238497525529132993noreply@blogger.comBlogger2501125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304832159039712637.post-49133829163029291652024-03-18T09:00:00.001-04:002024-03-18T09:00:00.133-04:00The Narrows: Why Did I Wait So Long?
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8oqV-C169-yo2jVenKJiX7EQLNvqchEs8AQH96Yu9G7MRBoHrqynFicYpyoVzVTktO0LSB_KPFT1Ds_WDtYve1O3HiSatX0VEsCAL3Ay2G8bUZanyl6CVCCnLNyy8HwQD-K9UrN-Q4U-rWTOfqQV-_07sCRrs1sxAAMOAukEnt_AgtDiJv8mGjzrMl4uM/s1000/81XYzLZKxQL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="558" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8oqV-C169-yo2jVenKJiX7EQLNvqchEs8AQH96Yu9G7MRBoHrqynFicYpyoVzVTktO0LSB_KPFT1Ds_WDtYve1O3HiSatX0VEsCAL3Ay2G8bUZanyl6CVCCnLNyy8HwQD-K9UrN-Q4U-rWTOfqQV-_07sCRrs1sxAAMOAukEnt_AgtDiJv8mGjzrMl4uM/s320/81XYzLZKxQL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="179" /></a></i></b></div><b><i> </i></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>The Narrows </i>(2004)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>By Michael Connelly</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Little, Brown and Company, 405 pages</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★★★★</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Back in 1996, <b>Michael Connelly </b>hit his stride with
his fifth novel, the award-winning thriller <i>The Poet</i>. It brought
together two characters from other books, LA homicide detective Harry Bosch and
FBI agent Rachel Walling to investigate a cluster of homicide detective
suicides. Why? Because cops aren’t generally susceptible to the sort of copycat
patterns of hormonal teens. Crime reporter Jack McEnvoy suspects murder and one-line
“suicide” notes <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>from Edgar Allan Poe confirm
that a serial killer nicknamed The Poet is at large. As things unfurled, a
finger pointed back to FBI <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>superstar
Robert Backus, who went over to the dark side. The book ended with Rachel
pushing Robert out a window and down a steep embankment. Later a body was
discovered that was said to be Backus.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are other plotlines in <i>The Poet</i> that make it
worth reading, but its ending practically screams out for a sequel. <b><i>The
Narrows</i></b><i> </i>is that book. I’ve no idea why I waited so long to read
it but now that I have, I’d rank it above <i>The Poet</i>. In intervening novel
time, Harry has retired from the LAPD after a procedural squabble. Now he does
some occasional PI work. Graciela, the wife of his friend Terry McCaleb, an
ex-FBI agent, asks Harry to look into his recent death. Terry was heart
transplant recipient whose death appears to be a routine medication mix-up. Graciela
isn’t convinced, and neither is Harry when he searches Terry’s boat. Terry has
been looking into “cold cases,” including files suggestive of Backus’ MO. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The FBI knows that Backus is back. Cherie Dei, from FBI HQ
at Quantico recalls Rachel from a post in South Dakota, where she has been
exiled for various reasons: having been Backus’ mentee, a crime involving her
ex-husband, an FBI agent killed during his arrest, having an affair with
McEnvoy while investigating The<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Poet,
and insubordination. Dei makes clear, though, that Rachel’s role is strictly advisory.
Rachel finds this maddening. She truly <i>does</i> have authority issues, but
she knows Backus better than anyone and suspects he will have altered his
appearance. (Hey, it’s not just actors who get new faces!) </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As crime novels go, <i>The Narrows </i>is considerably more
gruesome than most. Backus has left calling cards and enjoys toying with the
FBI. He literally wrote the investigative procedures the FBI uses and trained several
of its top agents. He is thus several steps ahead of everyone else and, though
he is a psychopath, he’s as brilliant as he is bold. His murders are so
perversely cruel that it would be safe to say that the only difference between
him and Hannibal Lecter is that Backus doesn’t eat his victims’ livers with
fava beans. You can also bet that he takes pleasure in pulling Rachel’s
strings, though Connelly wisely leaves open questions of whether he admires her
or has a predetermined grisly fate in mind for her. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Harry and Rachel work along parallel lines until their paths
cross and converge–in more ways than one. Backus will lead them on a
follow-the-crumbs trail that takes Bosch to a California island and then he and
Rachel to a spot in the Mojave called Zzyzx, Los Vegas, low-rent brothels in
Nevada, dots in the desert on their way to becoming ghost towns, and back to
Los Angeles. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The title refers to a canyon wash that empties into the Los
Angeles River, either . Contrary to what most Easterners think, though 95% of
the LA River lies in concrete, during heavy rains and spring run-off it is a
raging stream that can be 25-35 feet deep. <i>The Narrows </i>is either the
Alios or Brown Canyon Wash. It is there that the novel’s heart-pounding
denouement takes place. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s a terrific thriller, even when it strays into expected
places. Connelly’s law enforcement characters have attitude and stubbornness,
but he prefers suspense and tension to wisecracking PIs. He leavens <i>The
Narrows</i> with occasional humor, but of the variety that induces a wan smile
rather than ripostes you’re tempted to add to your own repertoire. Instead of a
notebook, you might wish to keep a blood pressure cuff nearby. I’d call <i>The
Narrows </i>a good vacation read, except you’ll be afraid to turn off the lights.
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHgCYv1tq7LY5NI8S8vPOHvI_222UF_MW13k2g6OfKF_ULyy-teYqupqAI0hf305tBoHVqzHUn03YXfzOU_t97tQzl3ls3tUT7f4HYupj_nYT6AE1CeluOqpRBGEUzatCMwox3cWASpn60bvCrBwt_Bmh429w431D3HqOuOtXftOjyCpWiGxfzXZoGvtQR/s1481/MV5BYTM4YjlhZGQtOWJmYi00OGQzLTk1NDUtZDlmYzY5ZWNlNjc4XkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyNTM0NTU5Mg@@._V1_FMjpg_UX1000_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1481" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHgCYv1tq7LY5NI8S8vPOHvI_222UF_MW13k2g6OfKF_ULyy-teYqupqAI0hf305tBoHVqzHUn03YXfzOU_t97tQzl3ls3tUT7f4HYupj_nYT6AE1CeluOqpRBGEUzatCMwox3cWASpn60bvCrBwt_Bmh429w431D3HqOuOtXftOjyCpWiGxfzXZoGvtQR/s320/MV5BYTM4YjlhZGQtOWJmYi00OGQzLTk1NDUtZDlmYzY5ZWNlNjc4XkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyNTM0NTU5Mg@@._V1_FMjpg_UX1000_.jpg" width="216" /></a></i></b></div><b><i><br /> <br /></i></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Joan Baez: I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Am
a Noise</i> (2023)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Directed by: Miri Navasky, Maeve O’Boyle, and Karen
O’Connor</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Magnolia, 113 minutes, not-rated.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★★ ½ </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Although she was one of my favorite interviews, I have mixed
feelings about <b><i>Joan Baez: I Am a Noise</i>. </b>Some reviewers have
called it a nostalgia trip, but that’s inaccurate. It’s a look into Baez’s
psyche that reveals things that few of her fans knew about, including her long
struggle with depression.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Baez (b. 1941) is the middle of three daughters born to
Albert (1912-2007) and Joan Baez, Senior (1913-2013): Pauline (1938-2016),
Joanie, and Margarita (1945-2001), best remembered under her married name, Mimi
Fariña. Joan had dark thoughts mixed with joy from an early age, partly because
she experienced prejudice due to her mixed heritage–her father was Mexican and
her mother white–and because Albert, a physicist, worked for UNESCO and the
family moved a lot. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here’s where things get very murky and the documentary could
be sharper in clarifying. It’s tempting to suspect that Joan was bipolar, but
that term never appears in the film. Was there family trauma? Mimi alleged that
Albert inappropriately kissed her, which both he and his wife vigorously denied
and which bears hallmarks of a therapist’s “planted” memory. The film settles
for an explanation of mutual family hurts, but of what family is that not true?
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What emerges is that Joan had swings of amazing
creativity–in drawing, poetry, and journaling as well as music. Much of this is
told via home movies and tapes from family members and from Joanie’s guided
imagery/meditation therapy sessions. Again, it’s hard to know to make of this.
Even the documentary title is mired in ambiguity. It is a quote from Joanie in
which she insists she’s a noise, not a saint. Ahh, but what a noise.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What we know for certain is that she played ukulele as a
child, saw Pete Seeger when she was 13, and bought her first guitar in 1957.
What happened next would confuse saint and sinner alike. In 1958, she played
her first gig at Club 47 in Cambridge, Massachusetts–Albert got a job at
M.I.T.–and was soon playing there twice a week singing a repertoire of Child
ballads and songs inspired by Seeger, Marion Anderson, and Odetta. In 1959, Baez
appeared at the Newport Folk Festival and an instant star was born. She was
dubbed the “barefoot Madonna,” made the cover of <i>Time</i>, had three gold
albums, and was the hottest ticket in “the folk revival.” Baez admitted to once
having had a female lover, but the one that changed her dramatically occurred
when a scruffy songwriter appeared in her life: Bob Dylan. She caught him in
his protest phase and they were an item from 1961-65. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Baez grew up in a pacifist Quaker household, but Dylan was
part of her move into social justice movements–until he wasn’t. There has long
been a vampiric aspect to Dylan and he drifted away from Baez and social causes
about the time Baez did a deep dive–civil rights, the peace movement,
environmentalism…. She befriended Harry Belafonte, marched with Dr. King,
married draft resister David Harris with whom she had her son Gabriel, and was
soon as well-known for outspoken activism as for her glorious voice. Those on the
right lampooned her as “Phony Joanie.” She told me that they hated her because
she <i>wasn’t</i> phony like them. Yep!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Things grew cloudy again when the Vietnam War ended. She was
part of the drug-fueled Rolling Thunder tour of 1975-75, dabbled in
now-embarrassing disco-laced pop, and was creatively and personally adrift for
a time. She told me that a key moment back occurred when she sang in
Czechoslovakia and knew from her reception that the Iron Curtain would soon
fall. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>I Am a Noise</i> has musical clips, but it’s not a <i>music</i>
documentary. It’s more a confessional and how she found inner peace, dealt with
the pain of losing her brother-in-law, rivalry with Mimi, estrangement from
Gabriel, Mimi’s death, that of her parents, and retirement. I’m no
psychologist, but I’d hazard that much of what happened to Joan Baez is that she
never got the chance to work out her childhood blues before stardom claimed her
incomplete self. I couldn’t be happier that she now feels centered. A confession:
I was never a huge fan of her vibrato-heavy soprano. My fondness runs for alto
voices, but whatever one prefers, she has never been a Phony Joanie! </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVMeebw5rh8X1m-7GsNiPPw82nfQI5hThwxZzUJlfdlO6p1tz6aoEFHBohoV0ihkuwHxLcYfjrrzf9elw6Jnl-XZmKXxvZnhi0c-7mydfKFAgIUQvgWf28kJikG9QPh2OmuZCLG1ROq3jTXSq863_veOFBwQgUd7EeDSkVXBg-NVMMf3lxMec5AGvumoI5/s600/Altan-Donegal-cd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVMeebw5rh8X1m-7GsNiPPw82nfQI5hThwxZzUJlfdlO6p1tz6aoEFHBohoV0ihkuwHxLcYfjrrzf9elw6Jnl-XZmKXxvZnhi0c-7mydfKFAgIUQvgWf28kJikG9QPh2OmuZCLG1ROq3jTXSq863_veOFBwQgUd7EeDSkVXBg-NVMMf3lxMec5AGvumoI5/w302-h302/Altan-Donegal-cd.jpg" width="302" /></a></b></div><b><br />Altan</b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Donegal </i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b> </b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What could be better for St. Patrick’s Day than a new <b>Altan</b>
album? And what could be more appropriate than one named <b><i>Donegal</i></b><i>,
</i>the Ulster County from which the band hails and which has produced some of
the finest music in the Emerald Isle?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The usual formula for an Altan album is a “big set” of raucous
tunes followed by a Mairéad Ní Mhaonaigh song. (For the non-Irish speaker,
that’s roughly, Mah rayad’ nah weenie, the Irish equivalent of Margaret
Mooney). She has been both one of Ireland’s finest singers and fiddlers for
nearly 40 years. Donegal instrumentals can often be differentiated from others
in Ireland by the use of two fiddles instead of one. Within Altan, the literal
second fiddle is usually Ciarán Currain, who is also the band’s bouzouki player,
though sometimes young fiddle whiz Clare Friel does that duty. That’s much the
same way that it depends on schedules whether Mark Kelly or Dáithí Sproule is
the guitarist. Martin Tourish mans the squeeze boxes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Notice I said “usual formula. <i>Donegal </i>opens with “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sY7gJQej_zQ">TheYellow Tinker,</a>” which was also on the band’s <i>The Red Crow </i>(1990). It’s a
reel, but in 1990 it was played fast but on <i>Donegal </i>it’s an unhurried
slow reel. Don’t write it off as getting older. “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=501VIenZnCQ">The Donegal Selection</a>”
contains three fast reels that are joyous and chase their own tail as only
reels can do. The middle one is titled “Tommy Peoples” and pays homage to the
great Donegal fiddler (1948-2018) of that name. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In many ways, though, Altan seeks a different vibe on <i>Donegal</i>.
Just about the time I went into mourning for the retirement of Clannad, Altan
has caught much of their vibe. That’s no accident; Clannad was also a Donegal
band and Ní Mhaonaigh is pals with Clannad’s Moya Brennan, whose vocal
style is similar, as well as Moya’s younger sister Enya. “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lrQ92p5JOmM">Faoiseamb a Gheobhasda</a>” has a discernible Clannad feel in its delicacy, its moody
interludes, and swelling instrumental meshes. These dovetail beautifully with
Ní Mhaonaigh’s bird-like vocals. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What’s an Irish album without a set of jigs? Tunes beginning
with “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=501VIenZnCQ">Port Arainn Mhór</a>” fit that bill, but to return to an earlier point, they
are lively but with a lighter touch than burn-down-the-hall big sets that bring
the noise. Close your eyes and you could imagine<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ní Mhaonaigh and Brennan sharing leads on
“The Barley and the Rye.” It’s as if Altan is inviting us to feel and dream
rather than dance and shout. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are exceptions to this. The fiddling on “Gabhaim Molta
Bride” is melancholic with a tinge of Roma tears and a perfect example of why
Ní Mhaonaigh is so revered in Irish music. And yes, Altan will make you
jump up and kick your heels on the four-reel “Letterkenny Blacksmith combo.
What a delight that after 15 studio recordings, numerous compilations, and a
live album that Altan still has tricks up its collective sleeve. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IBDg67L61Ug">Hear Maired and Moya</a> share a song here. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Altan in truncated band for TV. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6EFLZBQuyQ8">Mairead goes to town.</a></span></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqEaSn_4rj06yva4ugfgixiW4s5IiuPkljkLkeOwza6JkyXDYAPm9xuZWu72HDqTyuxRYv8361RCaOTQ_Gda6OPDaYfMEYV_0KY6l3jHIeuo29wxieFLhjE-cwqACpBj5aCcIzxv46Z509UaGyOFwoCvzfTRYIaXxl4YSjToAg3CNjCUpy9_3cOlupzvQe/s4000/MV5BNGEyYTQyZDEtOGVjMS00Yzc1LThmNjgtYzUzOWJjZDhlMTUwXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMDM2NDM2MQ@@._V1_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="2700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqEaSn_4rj06yva4ugfgixiW4s5IiuPkljkLkeOwza6JkyXDYAPm9xuZWu72HDqTyuxRYv8361RCaOTQ_Gda6OPDaYfMEYV_0KY6l3jHIeuo29wxieFLhjE-cwqACpBj5aCcIzxv46Z509UaGyOFwoCvzfTRYIaXxl4YSjToAg3CNjCUpy9_3cOlupzvQe/s320/MV5BNGEyYTQyZDEtOGVjMS00Yzc1LThmNjgtYzUzOWJjZDhlMTUwXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMDM2NDM2MQ@@._V1_.jpg" width="216" /></a></i></b></div><b><i><br /></i></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> <br /></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>The Holdovers </i>(2023)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Directed by Alexander Payne</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Focus Features, 133 minutes, R (F-bombs, drug use,
drinking, and “nudity”)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★★</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>The Holdovers</i></b> is a feel-good film. It has been
compared to <i>It’s a Wonderful Life</i> for it fairy tale transformations and
its message that virtue trumps material success. Let me be upfront about it. I <i>liked
</i>it, but I didn’t love it, even though it’s about a teacher. I jotted down
my ten favorite teacher movies–from <i>Conrack </i>and <i>Dead Poets Society </i>to
<i>Stand and Deliver </i>and <i>Whiplash</i>–and nothing about <i>The Holdovers</i>
tempted me to alter my list.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It follows classics professor Paul Hunham (Paul Giamatti)
from the final days of the 1970 fall semester to the end of Christmas break.
Hunham is old school, the sort whose C- is the equivalent of an A- from anyone
else. He’s grumpy, stern, exudes a strange body odor, has a lazy eye, and is
absolutely intractable about his standards. Hunham once went to Barton and he
has ideas about what a “Barton man” should be, hence he’s <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>just flunked the son of a U.S. Senator and
major donor. Barton is a prestigious New England private school–fictional
though much of it was filmed at Northfield Mt. Hermon and Deerfield
academies–but times have changed and Hunham has not. He especially has it out
for students Teddy Koutnze, a rich airheaded punk, and Dominic Sessa (Angus
Tully), who is bright, but also arrogant and disrespectful. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As a not-so-veiled put-down, Headmaster Hardy Woodrup, a
horse’s patootie, sticks Hunham with “holdover” duty; that is, supervision of students
who have nowhere to go during the break. At the last minute, Tully becomes one
of them and is not at all happy that Hunham expects them to study during the
break. The campus is fairly remote, the town has limited options for a teen
such as Tully–Shelburne Falls is the stand-in–and students young and old feel
like prisoners. One by one the students get reprieves until just one is left:
Tully. That leaves him, Hunham, Joy , campus cook Mary Lamb (Da’Vine Randolph),
and African American janitor Danny. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One reviewer called <i>The Holdovers </i>“diagrammatic,”
meaning its plot draws on a host of clichés, devices, and pieces of other films
that define the hard teacher with secrets/young man in need of growing up
genre. That strikes me as fair commentary. In other words, director <b>Alexander
Payne</b> opted to play things safe. The chaotic 1970s, for instance, make
little more than a drive-by appearance beyond Mary’s loss of her son in the
Vietnam War. You can tick off the film’s sugarcoated situations: teen
rebellion, reluctant bonding between Hunham and Tully, Hunham as mentor,
revelations of why teacher and student are socially gauche, psychological
growth, and full-scale borrowing from the 1939 classic <i>Goodbye, Mr. Chips</i>.
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If it sounds like I’m being Hunham-hard on the film it’s
because it <i>was</i> predictable, but could have been much more. The problems
lie with David Hemingson’s script not with its top-flight acting. Paul Giamatti
is a vastly underrated actor and has been nominated for a Best Actor Oscar for <i>The
Holdovers</i>. The film is also up for Best Picture, Hemingson for Best
Original Screenplay, and Ms. Randolph is the odds-on favorite to win for Best
Supporting Actress. It would be a shame, though, if any of them won. To put it
bluntly, <i>The Holdovers </i>lacks enough gravitas to be feted. (Odds are
certainly against it as Best Picture, as Payne wasn’t nominated for Best
Director. It happens, but it’s rare a film wins but its director isn’t up for
an award.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The very R rating of <i>The Holdovers</i> seems a
contrivance to give it more heft than it has. It rests on a torrent of F-bombs,
drug use (pot and lithium–what next, Ibuprofen?), and “nudity,” an ancient
Greek vase and an over-the shoulder peek inside a “skin” magazine. Dear MPAA:
F-bombs are as common as lottery tickets, pot is legal most places, lithium is
a prescription drug, and the statute of limitations for ancient Greek nudity
passed 3,000 years ago. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>The Holdovers </i>is a perfectly good little movie that
will give most viewers a case of the warm fuzzies, its semi-sad ending
notwithstanding. Enjoy it for what it is: a decent night on the sofa that won’t
tax your brain very much. I hope that someday Paul Giamatti lands a role that
will yield an Oscar. But not for <i>The Holdovers</i>. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><br /> </i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0P3XMe8V_udz3yLh7DX-jnBLDoj4QJq1ppSn2WtgJlzLzeOzElhMRii0Cfho9BtaWBPKxhnKeFUdI_sTAfyfWhEfQU1AWLnlEVkRppIgs1RCCAP9KD9o4FcW6_Qp0YHIOlsKXt7CdIWhrShBB89H6HT7qPhtW5-6EaCs6nc2EZ-e9MnmWap2lE-fajCs_/s650/Ordet_Current_medium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="366" data-original-width="650" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0P3XMe8V_udz3yLh7DX-jnBLDoj4QJq1ppSn2WtgJlzLzeOzElhMRii0Cfho9BtaWBPKxhnKeFUdI_sTAfyfWhEfQU1AWLnlEVkRppIgs1RCCAP9KD9o4FcW6_Qp0YHIOlsKXt7CdIWhrShBB89H6HT7qPhtW5-6EaCs6nc2EZ-e9MnmWap2lE-fajCs_/s320/Ordet_Current_medium.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Ordet </i>(1955, 1957 in North America)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Directed by Carl Theodor Dreyer</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Dreyer A/S, 120 minutes, not rated.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>In Danish with subtitles</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★★ ½ </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Carl Theodor Dreyer </b>(1888-1968) is considered one of
the greatest directors of all time. Dreyer’s <i>The Passion of Joan of Arc </i>(1928)
was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen in a theater. Likewise, <b><i>Ordet</i></b><i>
</i>has been cited by Britain’s <i>Sight & Sound </i>as among the top 20
films in cinema history, an assessment shared by those who awarded it a Golden
Lion in Venice in 1955. I rate it lower because it takes a certain kind of
viewer to appreciate it. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Ordet </i>is based upon a 1932 play by Kaj Munk, a
Lutheran pastor martyred during World War II. Religion is at the center of <i>Ordet</i>,
which takes place in Denmark during 1925. The widower Morten Borgen is a
prosperous farmer and the father of three sons. In his mind, though, his greatest
achievement was bringing faith to what had hitherto been the darkness of
Jutland. His brand of Lutheranism is stern, but joyful. His eldest son Mikkel has
lost his faith, though he is married to the ebullient and very pregnant Inger.
Part of Mikkel’s faith crisis is that Inger has given him two daughters, but no
son. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To make that sound less outrageous, farm families depended
upon male heirs to keep even rich farms going. The youngest son Anders is
unmarried and, though he’d like to wed Anne Petersen, neither father will agree
to the match. Her father,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peter (Enjer
Federspiel)* belongs to the Inner Mission sect, a very austere and sin-focused
form of Lutheranism. He and Morten see each other as apostates. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To say that the middle son Johannes (is unlikely to produce
an heir is an understatement. He was once a promising student, but studied Søren
Kierkegaard so intensely that he underwent an unusual conversion; he believes
that he is Jesus Christ, preaches atop empty hillsides, and drives other male
Borgens crazy. Most of the villagers would attest he <i>is </i>crazy. A word: Kierkegaard
is among the most difficult philosophers to study. He was an existentialist who
believed in free will. Existentialism is sometimes called living like a saint
without God, but Kierkegaard was a mystic who emphasized Christian love and
believed that God could only be intuited. What, exactly, that means has baffled
many. Morten blames Kierkegaard for Johannes’ troubled mind. Now you know why I
said not every viewer will relate to <i>Ordet</i>. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Johannes–Latin for John–plays another role. “Ordet” is Danish
for “The Word.” The New Testament Gospel of John opens: “In the beginning there
was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” There is a new
pastor in the village who thinks Johannes is mentally ill, as does the local
doctor. Though the first is a believer and the latter a man of science, each
agrees that the age of miracles is over. I will say no more about what happens
other than it will challenge whatever you think or believe. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here's how I unpack the characters, though I know little of
Kaj Munk mine might not have been his intention. I’m pretty sure that Morten
and Peter symbolize that theological debates are dead ends when they depart
from the essence of faith and when, in Kierkegaardian terms, they seek to
“prove” the unknowable. The doctor, pastor, and Mikkel seem to represent materialists
who doubt anything they cannot observe. Johannes is tougher, but I think Munk
and Dreyer are playing off the age-old question of whether anyone would
recognize a messiah if one appeared amidst them. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m on safer ground in saying that the black and white
cinematography of Henning Bendtsen is stunning, especially his empty expanses,
grey skies, and grasses blown by seaside breezes, though all of Bendtsen’s
camera work enhances moments of moodiness, melancholia, and astonishment.
Dreyer used long takes and Bendtsen made each look like a painting. I should
note that the acting is more mannered, expressionistic, and poetic than
realistic. Was this was deliberate, stylistic, or because Dreyer first made
films in the gesticulating silent era?** Add it to the list of mysteries.<i> Ordet</i>
is better contemplated than explained.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">* You will not know the actors. I mention Federspeil because
he too was a Danish film director.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">** Thanks to friends Chris, Ian, and Kiki for those
thoughts. </p>
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<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><br /><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b> </b></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib7906X8DQoSMU4GjPq25is2V3pieoQHObx5tz7cVq15OvSgRzi3okr1UjgRhD5_bIeCEDP76y4fgcnucpbSqOOcBF9J4qTr3Cg1TR2aKmSwHL9nJWS-cRKf1Y4TJKP4a_kViqksOlxu6z2OzNctYeeXYu8etvcis2L_UEM0T0YdTiIAOv1j5uUV7rBucl/s2240/Lewsi%20Hine%20Holyoke%20Paragon%20Rubber%20Co%20c%201936.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1550" data-original-width="2240" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib7906X8DQoSMU4GjPq25is2V3pieoQHObx5tz7cVq15OvSgRzi3okr1UjgRhD5_bIeCEDP76y4fgcnucpbSqOOcBF9J4qTr3Cg1TR2aKmSwHL9nJWS-cRKf1Y4TJKP4a_kViqksOlxu6z2OzNctYeeXYu8etvcis2L_UEM0T0YdTiIAOv1j5uUV7rBucl/s320/Lewsi%20Hine%20Holyoke%20Paragon%20Rubber%20Co%20c%201936.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lewis Hine<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Pioneer Valley of Massachusetts has numerous colleges
and universities with art museums. As befits educational institutions, many of
the exhibits change–for good or ill. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Mount Holyoke College Art Museum </b>is celebrating its
150<sup>th</sup> anniversary through May 25 with an exhibit titled <b><i>Relaunch
Laboratory</i></b>. It showcases work that challenges old conventions. As
you’ve probably noticed, Eurocentrism and colonialism have come under critical
scrutiny, as have elitist perspectives on “fine” art. This includes both creative
people in the West who find beauty in street perspectives and those from
non-Western cultures whose work collapses outmoded ideas that anything
“functional” is, at best, craft. </p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiObizxdlnHCrS_92J2sUMUiJdzjrLmDIh5OIC2aWvwNVeNwZsdzh8vdWz_8pQOUHavxyTq6IPKRaP3SqkiPvGJNeWBANFvPaB9-rt1jWTNYqMdreKXRZr9JbNCAC7ElC8pGo_b-tN6lZSZgOFdqO_d7ax_mvvFSpPA9JD8VJ3ycX0ICFBVVEi6OlnizhE/s2069/Berenice%20Abbott%20Hardware%20Store%201938%20.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1526" data-original-width="2069" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiObizxdlnHCrS_92J2sUMUiJdzjrLmDIh5OIC2aWvwNVeNwZsdzh8vdWz_8pQOUHavxyTq6IPKRaP3SqkiPvGJNeWBANFvPaB9-rt1jWTNYqMdreKXRZr9JbNCAC7ElC8pGo_b-tN6lZSZgOFdqO_d7ax_mvvFSpPA9JD8VJ3ycX0ICFBVVEi6OlnizhE/s320/Berenice%20Abbott%20Hardware%20Store%201938%20.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Berenice Abbott<br /></td></tr></tbody></table> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgblSVD9lD9vJmNWVcLVoF6TSwg91rju878KTs3OnFLxDg0IaY69vItgsN1icz6bPNdvSfdKiEjFOPalyrfNWH-fPaa4Sj7cYneK3qF_Sb-FLPvy0Q5afVrw83m_cBNOldtToxCr7bSmCmTroZCAEIyYeXGPbQuSJkMhDwg73OjvtGbCukhdfGse9qEUIPk/s4032/Thomas%20hart%20Benton%201930s.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgblSVD9lD9vJmNWVcLVoF6TSwg91rju878KTs3OnFLxDg0IaY69vItgsN1icz6bPNdvSfdKiEjFOPalyrfNWH-fPaa4Sj7cYneK3qF_Sb-FLPvy0Q5afVrw83m_cBNOldtToxCr7bSmCmTroZCAEIyYeXGPbQuSJkMhDwg73OjvtGbCukhdfGse9qEUIPk/s320/Thomas%20hart%20Benton%201930s.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thomas Hart Benton<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mt. Holyoke was ahead of the curve in collecting photography
and recognizing how it tells otherwise forgotten tales. One such shutterbug was
<b>Lewis Hine</b>, who fancied himself a reformer with a camera. His shot of a
shirtless worker inside Holyoke’s Paragon Rubber Company is dynamic, but
gritty. You can almost feel the heat and smell the raw rubber and well-worn
machines. You can also imagine how many generations of young men toiled just
like the central figure. Likewise, there’s nothing intrinsically beautiful
about a hardware story captured by the lens of <b>Berenice Abbott</b> in 1938.
Yet somehow it’s hard to look away from this potpourri of plebeian
utilitarianism. Work is celebrated on heroic scale by a 1930s work by muralist <b>Thomas
Hart Benton</b>. You might notice that some are working and some are
“supervising” or that figures on the right seem imperiled. </p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH5zEgYVqNs78kuktXruHZeEeYOv0wDViMX1zj9jBu0LXRdnomGtwYv_n6nFAkr5_CA7mRtAzpUFirlJafydGHTipi0QGy8Q8F6Rue6XDGX8QjUhiFV2UfNAbol1m15F8b-id7XYWVBOXJtena1i53DEWSQO4vtzkQUZfwH5OSdLWOf1oJVB341bXfnI8V/s3237/Ismael%20Randall%20Weeks%20Codigo%20atemporal%2057%202022.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3237" data-original-width="2810" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH5zEgYVqNs78kuktXruHZeEeYOv0wDViMX1zj9jBu0LXRdnomGtwYv_n6nFAkr5_CA7mRtAzpUFirlJafydGHTipi0QGy8Q8F6Rue6XDGX8QjUhiFV2UfNAbol1m15F8b-id7XYWVBOXJtena1i53DEWSQO4vtzkQUZfwH5OSdLWOf1oJVB341bXfnI8V/s320/Ismael%20Randall%20Weeks%20Codigo%20atemporal%2057%202022.jpeg" width="278" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ismael Randall Weeks<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP-mJpvpTRw6SYlLttolQIVGjY415wSVHmHfjakqpGvzgpJpJAg36-HA5BNLxrE_ZLgpAU-1c-ukrkStFkOrS1KoFhanQwi8g_fozWuAPgTDlT5t9KDngjFbp1lkimXqZwU4MDzw2Y0dRmU_sgDRu9f7z2BU8UFS5_Fn5s-kcQpSsgO9b4r7TxM5qORBSz/s3479/Dancing%20Ganesha%209-10th%20c%20India.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3479" data-original-width="1827" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP-mJpvpTRw6SYlLttolQIVGjY415wSVHmHfjakqpGvzgpJpJAg36-HA5BNLxrE_ZLgpAU-1c-ukrkStFkOrS1KoFhanQwi8g_fozWuAPgTDlT5t9KDngjFbp1lkimXqZwU4MDzw2Y0dRmU_sgDRu9f7z2BU8UFS5_Fn5s-kcQpSsgO9b4r7TxM5qORBSz/s320/Dancing%20Ganesha%209-10th%20c%20India.jpeg" width="168" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dancing Ganesha <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Peruvian artist <b>Ishmael Randall Weeks </b>challenges how
we see in a work titled <i>Código atemporal</i>, which means “timeless code.”
At first it’s little more than brick dust, cement, dirt, and black quartz
placed upon a beige background. Yet it too invites you to look at its
arrangement and imagine those whose hands touched the materials. Form meets
function in a dance mask from Sierra Leone created in the 20<sup>th</sup>
century to evoke older rituals. Speaking of which, how about the timelessness
of Ganesha who is still revered in both Hinduism and Buddhism. This one dates
from either the 9<sup>th</sup> or 10<sup>th</sup> century. If you carefully on
the bottom right you’ll see a mouse under Ganesha’s foot. Mice represent the
need to control ego. Maybe we should send a box of them to Congress! </p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9K3eL9Dc2ZGrFEg0NHV5tSyoRzE50CJ3paTcaVAbBwDi2wxoTO2iukJs2HOguu_rh5NuYN-Rc2I4-to07n57E-oeKIYfGV86Ru_fi4Uvu_XteMT3L229IEW9jFWsQXYKP6CCqj3tvcYD9vvP45xDfYIAWMFepEVoxGKtki_KXYUtswJMA8Xpw4oCg07sD/s4032/El%20Anasui%20Ghanian%20Bird%201992.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9K3eL9Dc2ZGrFEg0NHV5tSyoRzE50CJ3paTcaVAbBwDi2wxoTO2iukJs2HOguu_rh5NuYN-Rc2I4-to07n57E-oeKIYfGV86Ru_fi4Uvu_XteMT3L229IEW9jFWsQXYKP6CCqj3tvcYD9vvP45xDfYIAWMFepEVoxGKtki_KXYUtswJMA8Xpw4oCg07sD/s320/El%20Anasui%20Ghanian%20Bird%201992.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">El Anasui</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTf2nYEnCBO8H-Iw747P1M1Pt57-4FjklyPU9mdOjwGksb4J0YviE2qV9Cr8CH6nnhAdg0MwMMDYNOiDSYJGUIAsk2dlgt8SiJ5MqtcJV_oBQ-vW-h3tDNbb6JJkOy1h-NCrJ8SBOS8OQF2KNU-WWntjJaifoemynO0k9F0IkIfcrO_XC5YYHPceT8nxj9/s2955/Vanesa%20German%20THe%20Father%20Soes%20one%20for%20leaving%20one%20for%20coming%20back%202022.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2955" data-original-width="2808" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTf2nYEnCBO8H-Iw747P1M1Pt57-4FjklyPU9mdOjwGksb4J0YviE2qV9Cr8CH6nnhAdg0MwMMDYNOiDSYJGUIAsk2dlgt8SiJ5MqtcJV_oBQ-vW-h3tDNbb6JJkOy1h-NCrJ8SBOS8OQF2KNU-WWntjJaifoemynO0k9F0IkIfcrO_XC5YYHPceT8nxj9/s320/Vanesa%20German%20THe%20Father%20Soes%20one%20for%20leaving%20one%20for%20coming%20back%202022.jpeg" width="304" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vanesa German<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was enthralled by <i>Bird </i>from Ghana’s <b>El Anasui </b>because
it is made of wood and he is an artist I associate with giant metal “curtains”
made from discarded liquor bottle bands. I was also taken by a work from
African American sculptor <b>Vanesa German</b>. Her <i>The Father Shoe </i>has
nails and shimmery metal, each with wings. One for is for coming and other for
going. </p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4M-Orq-Wajc02MNsB5EkbLubqpCr3JieUPSr4HZ5dy2kA9L9CKGSnbUBxt_ZrMNBEuW1Ae8tH6OLS3TUqFUq_Y4oJ7Ow8dgelJFB8srf1DEwm-gDtBV2cpN5d_AJmz4N-LD45y-1erPU9AJ1EkMtihODAri-8XWooX7OEMEebR98K7O7oOTSkTvx7X8I4/s3646/Charmion%20von%20Wiegand%2042nd%20St%20NYC%201957-60.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3646" data-original-width="2873" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4M-Orq-Wajc02MNsB5EkbLubqpCr3JieUPSr4HZ5dy2kA9L9CKGSnbUBxt_ZrMNBEuW1Ae8tH6OLS3TUqFUq_Y4oJ7Ow8dgelJFB8srf1DEwm-gDtBV2cpN5d_AJmz4N-LD45y-1erPU9AJ1EkMtihODAri-8XWooX7OEMEebR98K7O7oOTSkTvx7X8I4/s320/Charmion%20von%20Wiegand%2042nd%20St%20NYC%201957-60.jpeg" width="252" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charmion von Wiegand<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <b>Charmion von Wiegand </b>asks a question we should always
consider. Her 1957 work titled <i>42<sup>nd</sup> Street New York City</i> is
lines and color blocks<b>. </b>Do we need anything else to evoke a bird’s eye
view of a city throughway? <p></p>
<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: medium; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1pt;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"> </p>
</div>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I wish I felt as charitable about work currently on view at
the <b>Mead Art Gallery </b>of Amherst College. The most interesting thing you
can there at present are galleries being readied for an exhibit of global
indigenous peoples. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Current exhibitions titled <b><i>Trópico es Politico:
Caribbean Art Under the Visitor Economy Regime</i></b><i> </i>and <b><i>Like a
Slow Walk with Trees: Alicia Grullón</i> </b>evoke adjectives such as obvious,
preachy, and boring. </p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxNfH9GTegbc_DpuM6mdIYsDj4z2HakfVCqXCpw7yrromkM7fsFsVY2XnkE21wjZi9-krDUjANxnwqFS1q6btTqjiA3K-dILSp7lMmlmHxyeoHPg0cJr7B1sElX66vYm69mFde8l1Ro0sG3wByAKMkHW0ptz61sj7H_x1wSvCZrmlaP6SE0pRsqeJAXxd/s860/Screenshot%202024-02-29%20at%205.02.12%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="808" data-original-width="860" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxNfH9GTegbc_DpuM6mdIYsDj4z2HakfVCqXCpw7yrromkM7fsFsVY2XnkE21wjZi9-krDUjANxnwqFS1q6btTqjiA3K-dILSp7lMmlmHxyeoHPg0cJr7B1sElX66vYm69mFde8l1Ro0sG3wByAKMkHW0ptz61sj7H_x1wSvCZrmlaP6SE0pRsqeJAXxd/w272-h256/Screenshot%202024-02-29%20at%205.02.12%20PM.png" width="272" /></a></div><br /> The first has juxtapositions of how people live in places
such as Panama and various Caribbean islands versus visitor pitches. Footage of
tourist advertisements are of pristine playgrounds inhabited by rich
jetsetters–casinos, white beaches, golf courses…. As you know, that’s not how
it is on the ground. Key phrase: <i>As you know. </i>It’s the kind of thing used
to drive home the built-in imbalances of colonialism and then move on to
discussion. Instead of driving home, the exhibit takes backroads and ends up
where it started.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is even more blatant and dull in <i>Like a Slow Walk
with Trees</i>. Thesis: Trees are good, people are bad. In case you don’t get
that, cosplay figures hold up signs or pose with props that <i>tell </i>you
what you are supposed to conclude.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Agitprop art delivers messages, but the most effective
invites dialogue rather than delivering a sermon. Once dogma enters the scene,
dialogue dies and we are left with just two options: acknowledge our sins or
walk away. The latter is unfortunate but the first is a dead end. Forced conversions seldom work. Add unproductive to the list of adjectives
for these exhibits. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
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} catch(err) {}</script>Phoenix Brown & Lars Vigohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12238497525529132993noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304832159039712637.post-56658328899121866172024-03-04T09:00:00.002-05:002024-03-09T14:25:15.213-05:00Try This Older Peter May Mystery
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfV9T99oEnlOCfBXvH_7lUvdEKRWEC1fk2eSS99RsOfB3IusM2mnsuH7A6RoeQrjvMyw4LgpiQ6GKMurxoyloKGlmH3NGnCxMfjdfgnroz11p6QdP3xRWaemC1inKoPQPOUercewkcXzGq9gFlkjX0n6fBoBxBy3_kddpan9u7iZcx8n76DcLdUpODA2S/s500/9781787472594.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="325" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfV9T99oEnlOCfBXvH_7lUvdEKRWEC1fk2eSS99RsOfB3IusM2mnsuH7A6RoeQrjvMyw4LgpiQ6GKMurxoyloKGlmH3NGnCxMfjdfgnroz11p6QdP3xRWaemC1inKoPQPOUercewkcXzGq9gFlkjX0n6fBoBxBy3_kddpan9u7iZcx8n76DcLdUpODA2S/s320/9781787472594.jpg" width="208" /></a></i></b></div><b><i><br /> </i></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>The Man With No Face </i>(1981/2019)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>By Peter May</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Quercus, 406 pages</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★★</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I quite enjoy the thrillers and mysteries from Scottish
novelist <b>Peter May</b>.<b><i> The Man With No Face </i></b>was an early
effort that was reprinted after May gained renown as a British television
writer, took the dosh, and then returned to fulltime writing. His Lewis trilogy
is a personal favorite. <i>The Man With No Face </i>isn’t up to that standard,
but it’s still a good read. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The centerpiece of this murder mystery is Neil Bannerman, a
journalist with the <i>Edinburgh Post</i>. Bannerman is a fine reporter, but
he’s also jaded, tart of tongue, and all-round pain in the keister. Not
surprisingly, he lives alone. He is especially cynical of Tait, an editor who
is really a cost-cutting hatchet man. Tait would love to get rid of Bannerman,
but he’s too good to dump without a really good reason. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Instead, Tait packs Bannerman off to Brussels to cover a big
EEC (European Economic Community) conference which, for an investigative
reporter like Bannerman, is akin being assigned to covering local school board
meetings. He encounters a group of smug embedded reporters who turn in stories
that differ little from press releases and are content to treat their gravy gig
as if they are at Club Med on an expense account. It takes Bannerman less than
a day to offend virtually every reporter in Brussels. That includes his contact
Tim Slater in whose apartment he is staying. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Slater is in tight with British Cabinet minister Robert
Gryffe. Bannerman doesn’t care for him much either, but things get much more
interesting when both Slater and Gryffe are found dead in the latter’s
townhouse. Local police investigate and conclude the two shot each other during
a quarrel. You don’t have to be as dogged as Bannerman to doubt that
conclusion. As it transpires, there was a hidden witness to the dual slayings,
Gryffe’s severely autistic young daughter Tania. She doesn’t speak, but she’s a
precocious artist who drew the incident. The problem with her sketch is that
the man who isn’t one of the victims has no discernible face.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Bannerman’s investigations will take him down several
unexpected paths, not the least of which is that Tania seems at ease with Neil,
whereas she goes into a shell or screams when she is in the company of anyone
of than her (now-dead) father and her nanny/caregiver Sally. About Sally, how
is it that a confirmed misanthrope like Neil finds himself increasingly
attracted to her or feeling protective of Tania? At least he can exercise his
bile toward Platt, once a promising reporter but now a loser who holds his
tongue to scrounge background assignments from other derisive reporters. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A lot happens, not the least of which is that an amoral
assassin named Kale would like to plant both Neil and Tania. But for whom is he
a contract killer? That involves following leads that might yield Bannerman a
major scoop. Every crumb he follows yields another layer of complexity. He
comes to expect that a reclusive but respected Swiss entrepreneur René Jansen
is too good to be true. Eventually he will enter a world of deadly and dirty
politics in which even the men in shadows have an overlord. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Okay, so maybe we too jaded these days to be shocked by the
idea that power, politics, and crime might be linked, but by having a lot of
threads in need of being tied together, May’s 1981 plot holds up well. I’ll
leave it to you to decide how well the twists involving Kale and Tania ring
true. Younger readers will just have to trust me when I say that once upon a
time there really were crusading journalists who wrote for pulped products
called newspapers. Oh wait, was that cynical? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb1QJ3pH5xUhExC2PqSDtqxH2avsevOZRbnHiawIqeQCkghscklydaooJh9hZ9qSypg9fvz2J9kEluKbdYNIJ4ivAo3Ehvbl7UNSs6AYwJ8Wd3VTCBqtEQVvPEu67bo7y82BSbEGfNoqX9xJi5pBnM45pTw4wYNZRMLILgI9bCxsghI86h3sU7_QQNhGZI/s640/blogger-image--125103832.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="640" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb1QJ3pH5xUhExC2PqSDtqxH2avsevOZRbnHiawIqeQCkghscklydaooJh9hZ9qSypg9fvz2J9kEluKbdYNIJ4ivAo3Ehvbl7UNSs6AYwJ8Wd3VTCBqtEQVvPEu67bo7y82BSbEGfNoqX9xJi5pBnM45pTw4wYNZRMLILgI9bCxsghI86h3sU7_QQNhGZI/s320/blogger-image--125103832.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><b><i><br /> </i></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Macbeth </i>(2015)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Directed by Justin Kurzel</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>StudioCanal, 113 minutes, R (violence, brief sexuality)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★★★</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve noted this before. Though it horrifies several of my
friends and relatives, Shakespeare doesn’t make my heart sing. I love all
things Scottish, but I recall a three-hour plus production of <i>Macbeth </i>that
was so turgid it made me want to sneak out the back and grab a plate of haggis.
I was thus recently surprised to enjoy the 2015 movie version of <b><i>Macbeth</i></b>.
I’m sure a lot of that had to do with the fact that director <b>Justin Kurzel </b>pared
it down to under two hours. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It also had plenty to do with Michael Fassbinder in the
title role. He was so intense that he made me believe in what were arguably overly
abrupt transitions in his moods and motives. (Hey, you’ve got cut somewhere!) I
was also surprised that French actress Marion Cotillard pulled off Lady
Macbeth. Her English was very good and she was excellent as a manipulative
temptress and villainess. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For those who don’t know, <i>Macbeth </i>is set in 11<sup>th</sup>
century Scotland. Kurzel doesn’t have to do much more than aim his camera at
the rugged hills and moors of the Isle of Skye to convey the wildness and
primitive conditions of the day. His characters brave the wet, the mud, the
blood, the battle scars, and the close-to-the-margins living that marked
Scotland at the tail end of what is sometimes labeled the Dark Ages. It’s not a
particularly accurate term, though it suggests the semi-tribal nature of
authority. In theory, Duncan (David Thewlis) is King of the Scots, but he
serves by nature of having defeated a pretender and only so long as he can keep
ambitious thanes (land-grant nobles) at bay. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Macbeth </i>is known for the role of its three witches
accompanied by a small girl akin to Greek oracles who utter vague prophecies.
Courtesy of Macbeth’s valor in a battle in which he loses his son, Duncan has
just defeated a recent challenger and executes the old Thane of Cawdor for
his treasonous alliance with Norsemen. Duncan bestows the title of Cawdor upon
Macbeth. The latter grows troubled, though, by the witches’ proclamation that
Macbeth will be king and his friend Banquo (Paddy Considine) the father of
kings plural. The implication is that Macbeth’s line will <i>not</i> inherit
the throne. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That and some steamy seduction are all that Lady Macbeth
needs to manipulate her husband into killing Duncan and assuming the throne.
Pro tip: If you’re going to kill a king, don’t make Macduff (Sean Harris), the
powerful Thane of Fife suspect you, or allow the king’s eldest son Malcolm
(Jack Raynor) to slip off to England to raise an army. Before you know it, you have to kill a
lot of people, including Macduff’s entire family and, eventually, send
assassins competent enough to dispatch your old friend Banquo, the Thane of Lochaber,
but not swift enough to keep his son Fleance from fleeing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Things like that can drive you crazy and there’s nothing
like a mad king to bring out the long swords. Lady Macbeth tries to keep her
husband focused but when she too starts to lose her royal marbles, you can bet
the pewter that things won’t go well. Plus, those bloody witches insist on
uttering non-specific prophecies that provide no solace whatsoever. There three
twists toward the end before none of Lady Macbeth’s damned spots will come out.
There’s never a stain stick when you need one.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Okay, I’m being cheeky. I really did like this production.
It had the right balance of skilled theatre actors–Considine, Elizabeth
Debicki (Lady Macduff), David Hayman (Lord Lennox)–and film/TV stars such as
Cotillard, Fassbinder, Sean Harris, and Reynor to mix both dignity and thrills into
the production. To be sure, it doesn’t have the skillful theatrics of the
Laurence Olivier/Vivien Leigh production, but even those who’ve never seen <i>Macbeth</i>
know the famed soliloquys, hence Fassbinder and Cotillard don’t have to match
anyone else to be perfectly competent at delivering them. Kurzel’s use of Northumberland’s
Bamburgh Castle adds another dose of sparseness to a play that, at heart, is
about ambition, murder, and lust for power for rather thin gain. Did I mention
it’s only 113 minutes?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b> </p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><br /> </i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUa_W71YfxAw_hqcBtOYJ6apHRVEl2y8dHWaQPUzko-ZJ6K8-2UbTHTI3K5CCYPDEDdiobGjXbNQuJEY9E_ZXKoMjJSvWjMUhAE2X2P5Sq0t3naR95CV-rb7KukqS_ySDVFPAkfBK5FV44xRVB-oh_dEJZ8t9TMLSFu9XX_QOYYybLiZXpdbtqa7_Igf8a/s1200/oppenheimer-header.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUa_W71YfxAw_hqcBtOYJ6apHRVEl2y8dHWaQPUzko-ZJ6K8-2UbTHTI3K5CCYPDEDdiobGjXbNQuJEY9E_ZXKoMjJSvWjMUhAE2X2P5Sq0t3naR95CV-rb7KukqS_ySDVFPAkfBK5FV44xRVB-oh_dEJZ8t9TMLSFu9XX_QOYYybLiZXpdbtqa7_Igf8a/s320/oppenheimer-header.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Oppenheimer </i>(2023)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Directed by Christopher Nolan</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Universal Pictures, 180 minutes, R (nudity, adult
situations, language)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★★★★</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Critic Richard Roeper called <b><i>Oppenheimer </i></b>“one
of the best movies of the century.” The hype is justified. Director <b>Christopher
Nolan</b> has made a film of epic proportions, social significance, and one so
expertly paced that three hours race by. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">J. Robert “Oppie” Oppenheimer (1904-67), has been called
“the father of the atomic bomb,” which is accurate and ironic for his role in
assembling the greatest scientific minds of his generation, though they were often
like unruly children in need of cajolement and discipline. Not to mention Oppie’s
own misgivings when his horrible weapon became a pawn in the arms race, not an
instrument of world peace. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Herding massive egos wasn’t easy. Oppenheimer had id issues
of his own and was probably on the high-functioning end of the autism scale.
Irish actor Cillian Murphy is letter-perfect in depicting him as overly attuned
to sound and light, literal, insensitive to others, and convinced of the rectitude
of his every decision. It didn’t help that he had skeletons in his closet, or
that many who worked on the Manhattan Project to develop the A-Bomb fell
outside the category of well-adjusted. Brigadier General Leslie Groves (Matt
Damon), the military director of the project, found it difficult to switch
between his command duties and political pressure; Rear Admiral Lewis Straus
(Robert Downey, Jr.) was a schemer; and each of the scientists were brilliant but
temperamental: Niels Bohr (Kenneth Branagh), David Hill (Rami Malek), Ernest
Lawrence (Josh Hartnett), Giovanni Lomantz (Josh Zuckerman), Izzy Rabi (David
Kumholtz), Edward Teller (Bernie Safdie)… Hans Bethe, Enrico Fermi, Kurt Gödel, Werner
Heisenberg, Roger Robb, Leo Szilard, and snake-in-the-grass Klaus Fuchs. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Oppenheimer was not a safe choice for the project. In
addition to his personal quirks, he had red flag friends in several senses of
the word. It was legal to join the Communist Party USA (CPUSA) in the 1930s and
the Soviet Union (USSR) was allied with the U.S. during World War II, but those
in high places distrusted Josef Stalin, the USSR, and American communists.
Oppenheimer probably never joined the CPUSA, but his brother Frank did (Dylan
Arnold), as did Oppie's friend Hakan Chevalier (Jefferson Hill), and Oppie’s
longtime lover Jean Tatlock (Florence Pugh). Oppie wasn’t good with people, but
he did like sex. He continued dalliances with Tatlock and another scientist’s
wife after he married Kitty (Emily Blunt), who was married three previous
times, once to a CPUSA member. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In other words, Oppenheimer’s life was as messy as the
physics theories that tortured his mind. Complicated individuals plus an
enormously complicated project equals a large cast. If your grasp of the
history of physics is weak, you could get lost in trying to keep track of who’s
who in <i>Oppenheimer</i>. My advice is don’t try. The film eventually boils
down to the competing objectives of three people: Oppenheimer, Groves, and the oily
Straus. All you need know is that everyone else in the film–including humorless
intelligence officers–align themselves according to their own agendas,
loyalties, and grudges. Know also that what was tolerated during the war changed
dramatically when the threat of Nazism gave way to a postwar Red Scare.
Oppenheimer was among those who went from hero to victim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Director Christopher Nolan signals the shift by subtly
dividing <i>Oppenheimer </i>into two chapters: Fission and Fusion. The atomic
bomb was a fission weapon that split atoms into two pieces. Metaphorically the
race for an A-bomb meant winning or losing the war. Fusion bombs such as the
more powerful hydrogen bomb “fuse” two atoms to create a third. Think Oppie
(science), Groves (military), and Straus (political ambition). </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Murphy and Downey Jr. have been nominated for Best Actor and
Supporting Actor Oscars respectively. They are deserving choices. I’m less
enthusiastic about Emily Blunt for Best Supporting Actress, but not because of
her acting. <i>Oppenheimer </i>violates the Bechdel Rule with its aggressively
male story line. Only Florence Pugh is less than an appendage to the men and
would be a better choice to be honored.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Don’t cavalierly dismiss <i>Oppenheimer </i>as sexist. Blunt’s
performance was in accordance with gender roles of the time period. Nolan’s
film is masterful for capturing the social milieu and for its innovative use of
65 mm IMAX and large-format cameras. Oppie left a contestable legacy that Nolan
incisively captures.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b> </b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">P.S. See if you recognize who plays President Truman!<br /></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrs2MIVCnxoJuzuKXLCPT7EFOehlqTd9qErWE1r-QG3o-Zytkfj828GJGQf8pOTQj4-UI4NCaxFKbtxxzJzPXeiXNy7RqmwdIi1PrOuEj2p2suWJdy0E_baUS1-I8_cRDt7HpxJtGl4x33JErJtH1N4HkNvAJMVvvOMIY0pw7Yx2H9DObAAYzkLMRb6CLG/s3240/max1396354751-front-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2175" data-original-width="3240" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrs2MIVCnxoJuzuKXLCPT7EFOehlqTd9qErWE1r-QG3o-Zytkfj828GJGQf8pOTQj4-UI4NCaxFKbtxxzJzPXeiXNy7RqmwdIi1PrOuEj2p2suWJdy0E_baUS1-I8_cRDt7HpxJtGl4x33JErJtH1N4HkNvAJMVvvOMIY0pw7Yx2H9DObAAYzkLMRb6CLG/s320/max1396354751-front-cover.jpg" width="320" /></a></i></b></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>A Man Escaped or The Wind Blows Where It Listeth </i>(1956)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Directed by Robert Bresson</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Gaumont Film Company, 99 minutes, not-rated</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★★★★</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If you’ve ever wondered why I watch a lot of classic movies,
<b><i>A Man Escaped </i></b>is your answer. The late Roger Ebert declared it
“like a lesson in the cinema” and the British magazine <i>Sight and Sound </i>listed
in among the top 100 films of all time. That’s extraordinary praise for a film whose
“action” occurs in a very short period of time.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Part of reputation of <i>A Man Escaped </i>rests upon the
amazing use of light by director <b>Robert Bresson</b>. He has been called a
“religious” director, though he labeled himself a “Christian atheist.” For what
it’s worth, the film’s alternative title comes from the New Testament Gospel of
John and one of the minor characters is a pastor. Bresson, who was once a
photographer–not to be confused with Henri-Cartier Bresson–masterfully mixed
darkness with slanted beams of light that illuminate in numerus meanings of
that term. He is considered a pre-New Wave director, but <i>A Man Escaped </i>could
be a film noir offering were it not a World War II thriller. Bresson’s camerawork
dazzles. There are lots of verticals, horizontals, and acute angles, but
Bresson seldom used wide angle lenses and preferred close shots. Moreover,
Bresson often worked with non-trained actors. That allowed him to draw viewers
into the cinematic experience rather than merely stargazing. All of these
things come into play in <i>A Man Escaped</i>, which in many ways is a
psychological drama enhanced by omniscient voiceovers. It is based on French
Resistance fighter André Devigny and is in French with subtitles, but you need
not worry: Dialogue is sparse as it takes place inside a Nazi-run prison where
talking is verboten. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the opening scene we do not yet know why Lt. Fontaine
(François Leterrier) has been arrested by the Gestapo or why he isn’t handcuffed,
but he makes his first escape attempt by trying to bolt the vehicle as it drives
along a street in occupied Lyons. All that comes of that is a blood-covered
entrance to prison on a stretcher. What unfolds next is a portrait of life on
the inside: coded tapping on walls, furtive passing of notes, the sounds of
machinegun executions, stolen conversation while washing or walking in circles
for “exercise,” and the daily grind of carrying two buckets each morning: one
to dump human waste and one for water. Unless an approved package comes,
prisoners wear the same clothing every day–a blood-stained shirt in Fontaine’s
case. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Prisoners are “interrogated” on a regular basis, though the
files over which Nazi officials pore predetermines what their sentences will be,
death in Fontaine’s case. What the Nazis have not discovered is that Fontaine is
carefully planning his escape. In snippets of conversation and nighttime
observations through peep holes, his fellow prisoners first think he’s deluded
but come to think he might pull it off, especially after he fashions a stolen
spoon that he sharpens to allow him to prise a few boards from his cell door.
You’ll have to watch to see how he hides this from the guards. Ditto how he
makes enough rope for the walls he would have to scale. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A complication arises. It’s 1943 and enough new prisoners
arrive that it is necessary to double up in the small cells. His new roommate
is 18-year-old François Jost. Rumors abound that some of the new arrivals,
including Jost, are actually Nazi spies. Fontaine, though, has just two
choices: convince Jost to escape with him or stay put and face a firing squad.
Talk about your Hobbesian choices. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Do either of them survive? I’m not telling! I will say that
seldom has such an interiorized and slow-paced film been so fraught with
tension. Everything about <i>A Man Escape</i> exudes Bresson’s genius, from its
emotion-delivering camera work to its stripped-to-the-bones script. Numerous
critics noted the ways in which Bresson discarded everything he did not need.
It reminded me of times in which I have an amazing meal with few ingredients.
How are such things possible? Observe and learn.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><br /> </i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2u7MCXSNSryOakU7-kwq_UeDFcIu6lrYLWtBGeyWEM9A3fkGrkRaE6S4KccdGD6bDht9a_SjCTTLQNMPfwj5DjOXjDLY0BN3aVSBzgfGpAg80V_3-Kg1c31fcGbY675VGHP1tjde7R0MNtXmRcbzYXwCsEBA1rOzt9HNZCbLZ6MIE3Gx7Rj03SX6Rs6_L/s512/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="356" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2u7MCXSNSryOakU7-kwq_UeDFcIu6lrYLWtBGeyWEM9A3fkGrkRaE6S4KccdGD6bDht9a_SjCTTLQNMPfwj5DjOXjDLY0BN3aVSBzgfGpAg80V_3-Kg1c31fcGbY675VGHP1tjde7R0MNtXmRcbzYXwCsEBA1rOzt9HNZCbLZ6MIE3Gx7Rj03SX6Rs6_L/s320/unnamed.jpg" width="223" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Biutiful </i>(2010)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Directed by Alejandro Iñárritu</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Universal Pictures, 147 minutes, R (nudity, drug use,
language)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>In Spanish, Chinese, and Wolof with English subtitles</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★★★★</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If you’d like to see Javier Bardem as you seldom have,
revisit the 2010 film <b><i>Biutiful</i></b>. It was directed by the now-famous
<b>Alejandro Iñárritu</b>. It didn’t do well at the box office, though Bardem
garnered the first-ever Best Actor nomination for a performance entirely in
Spanish. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Bardem’s star power aside, <i>Biutiful</i> faltered because
its surfaces were anything but beautiful. It is set in the squalid side of
Barcelona and follows the travails of Uxbal (Bardem). Capsule reviews call
Uxbal a criminal, which is technically true, but he’s mainly crushed by
circumstance and bad luck. He is the caregiver for two children as he is
separated from his bipolar wife Maramba (Marciel Álvarez), who is also an
alcoholic, prostitute, and pathological liar. To retain his shabby apartment and
keep his kids barely fed, Uxbal works numerous schemes and hustles. He does
some drug deliveries, recruits cheap labor for the semi-legal construction firm of
his brother Tito, organizes unlicensed street sales in tourist areas staffed by
illegal Senegalese immigrants, and secures work for equally illegal Chinese
workers. He pays bribes in order to operate, but if he falls behind, protection
is lifted. Nothing ever seems to go right for him. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Uxbal’s children are often tended by Ige (Diaryatou Daff) when
he is on the street. When<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he’s late with
a payment, the police round up as many Senegalese as they can catch, including
Ige’s husband, who is slated for deportation. Uxbal tries to assuage his guilt
by allowing Ige and her baby to stay in his apartment, but he is wracked by
remorse for failing to take care of those collaborating in his schemes. An
episode with Chinese workers goes even more tragically awry, and his sorrow
further saps his sense of self-worth. The volcanic and unstable Marambra hovers
about with a passel of promises she cannot keep, which touches off potential
trauma for the kids. To top it off, Uxbal has terminal prostate cancer. How can
he extend his life to make sure the children are taken care of? He's so
desperate that he is persuaded by his friend Bea to try alternative healing
methods that fall into the category of nostrums.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In other words, <i>Biutiful </i>is (mostly) an ironic title.
Bardem is bedraggled, not a sexy hunk; Barcelona is a social underbelly, not a
Mediterranean jewel; and the storyline is downbeat drama, not fairy tale redemption.
Yet there is a reason why Bardem garnered an Oscar nomination and won several
acting prizes, including a BAFTA trophy.* He plays Uxbal as a man deeply haunted
by his mistakes. The film’s namesake beauty is actually
Uxbal’s inner desire and character. Yes he lives on the wrong side of the law, but each time
we see him fall we understand that he is sucked into a greater pool of societal
corruption. In essence, it defines his world to such a degree that Uxbal’s better angels desert him one by one. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Alejandro Iñárritu won a Best Director Oscar in 2014 for the
quirky <i>Birdman</i>, a film I really liked. In many ways, though, its offbeat
comedic touches were something of a departure. Much of his work has been like <i>Biutiful</i>,
psychological slices of the darker side of the human condition. Think of films
such as <i>Amore perros, 21 Grams</i>, <i>Babel, </i>and <i>The Revenant</i>.
The first three made up his “Trilogy of Death,” and the last, which also won a
directorial Oscar, was a fairly brutal 19<sup>th</sup> century retelling of frontiersman
Hugh Glass (Leonardo DiCaprio) set in the American West. If you know that film,
you might recall that the ending features a revenant (ghost). Iñárritu paved
the way for this in <i>Biutiful</i>. Pay attention to its prelude and final
shots, which feature Uxbal’s father, an anti-Franco refugee. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Biutiful </i>will leave you shaken, but there’s no
escaping its raw power. What could be more tragic than a film about a man who
would be good, but can’t be. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> <br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">*British Academy Film and Television Awards<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8afGz7ZORTvmiYfYYGu8Tv_sLzIydywJgFkMYiGuOHjGFHnyfwBminFTJdqwqwW6t51IQNyLnHsLNvmBSCcknXhMv7zHCrDVryP4hTgxa3vGJQHUa__yh_HJqdiWEJSqi3fFXGiieZwTXePFrZ-uAApcIu6jyCiFa3aWl96OeefjC-0LqX4QqRW0Ko7m9/s450/9781612199887.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8afGz7ZORTvmiYfYYGu8Tv_sLzIydywJgFkMYiGuOHjGFHnyfwBminFTJdqwqwW6t51IQNyLnHsLNvmBSCcknXhMv7zHCrDVryP4hTgxa3vGJQHUa__yh_HJqdiWEJSqi3fFXGiieZwTXePFrZ-uAApcIu6jyCiFa3aWl96OeefjC-0LqX4QqRW0Ko7m9/s320/9781612199887.jpg" width="213" /></a></i></b></div><b><i> </i></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Jamie MacGillivray: The Renegades’ Journey </i>(2022)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>By John Sayles</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Melville House, 696 pages.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★★</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If you have seen a <b>John Sayles</b> film, you know that
he's a riveting storyteller. He's not as strong as a novelist, but he certainly
brings raconteur sensibilities to the page. His </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">latest literary protagonist is Scottish. <b><i>Jamie MacGillivray</i></b>
is a sprawling novel that begins in 1754, during Scotland’s disastrous Battle
of Culloden.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The buildup to Culloden is complicated. In brief, England
had become a Protestant nation under King VIII. In 1603, King James Stuart VI
of Scotland became King James I of England and merged the two countries. Alas,
future Stuart monarchs were inept, one was executed, and the openly Catholic James
II was deposed in 1688. Many Catholic Highland Scots found a champion in “Bonnie
Prince” Charles Stuart. His return from France in 1745 rallied them, but the
dreams of a Stuart restoration died at Culloden where his forces were routed by
English and pro-English Scottish troops led by the Duke of Cumberland.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Many history books move on at that point, but for Jamie MacGillivray,
the combatants that survived, and those who got in the way, the page turned to
new tragedies. English subjugation of Scotland was brutal. Untold numbers of
Scots were thrown into filthy prisons to await “trials,” though guilt was often
predetermined and the only question was: execution or deportation? Even that was
sometimes settled by lottery.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jamie was educated in the law in France, spoke several
languages, and didn't actually bear arms but he was an unrepentant patriot,
which was enough to warrant hanging. I won't say how he avoided it, but he is
exiled. That was also the fate of Jenny Ferguson, a lovely lass seized after Culloden
for the crime of being poor and suspicious. She was clamped in chains and thrown
into a creaky ship whose voyage was marked by sickness and deprivation. Before Sayles’
long novel concludes, readers will visit numerous overseas colonies. Sayles has
long been a champion of the underdog, thus Jamie and Jenny are strong
personalities. Both, however, undergo adapt-or-perish challenges, which isn’t the
same thing as triumphing. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The story of North American colonies is just as complicated
as deciphering the Battle of Culloden. Scotland's “Auld Alliance” with France was
played out in North America among the French, the English, exiles like Jamie,
Indians, German immigrants, and African slaves. The novel bounces from Scotland
and the Caribbean to Maryland, Virginia, Pennsylvania, the contested Ohio
Valley, and Lower Canada (now Quebec). Jamie’s deepening anti-English zealotry
will eventually carry him to Quebec City’s Plains of Abraham. There, in 1759, General
Wolfe’s troops subdued those of General Montcalm, thereby placing French Canada
fell under English control. (It was an episode in what got labeled the French
and Indian War.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Believe me when I say this is a mere skeletal outline of <i>Jamie
MacGillivray</i>. In many ways Jenny’s tale is even more remarkable, a series
of unexpected rises and setbacks depending on the fate of her paramours of the
moment. “Moment” is the right word at a time in which fortune and life were contingent
upon forces beyond the control of those caught up in them.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There was much to like about <i>Jamie MacGillivray</i>. Sayles
did his homework and makes history come alive in small details that seldom
appear elsewhere. If his were a nonfiction book, we’d call it history from the
bottom up. As a novel, though, Sayles populates it with all manner of colorful
characters. The Scots run the gamut from pious to ribald, and from from
plebeian poets to savage warriors. Even the warriors pale in comparison to
Lenape leader Shingas the Terrible, a real person.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is not the literary equivalent of an action movie. Sayles’
characters often speak in dialect and slip into and out of English, Gaelic,
French, and native languages. Sayles <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>gives enough clues to get the gist of the
dialog, but he seldom translates. I don't think he's showing off, but I do believe
he got so immersed that he often demands too much from readers. Overall, <i>Jamie
MacGillivray</i> could have benefitted from a stern developmental editor to
impose clarity and concision.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That said, <i>Jamie McGillivrary</i> is worth wading
through. Who wants a just-the-facts past? Without its detail and “story,”
history is just a list. Like Jamie, I'd rather howl than yawn.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b> </b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Note: I bought this book when Sayles did a reading in South
Hadley. Ask your local library to order it. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b> </b></p>
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<p class="Standard"><b><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";"><br /> </span></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVTisnZv_5Ld03b4_D9l_F4BoOTvneLHQOfWr1EqM_UuMMvgEU5mJO42fiTiim8Fx-djJ3t6zB7GDkUncRTAeyM3fEWY3GLhDdh3FOGoOQ6qnsOjaZIWkdCVCnQ_hLs8PNjyUYG-eyDhLWTZdy4c2NNocAzWwUV7NHD0KO3sl50JBdUVqZxHcqyIO1MJSs/s500/9780593469163.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="323" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVTisnZv_5Ld03b4_D9l_F4BoOTvneLHQOfWr1EqM_UuMMvgEU5mJO42fiTiim8Fx-djJ3t6zB7GDkUncRTAeyM3fEWY3GLhDdh3FOGoOQ6qnsOjaZIWkdCVCnQ_hLs8PNjyUYG-eyDhLWTZdy4c2NNocAzWwUV7NHD0KO3sl50JBdUVqZxHcqyIO1MJSs/s320/9780593469163.webp" width="207" /></a></div><p></p><p class="Standard"><b><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";"> </span></i></b></p><p class="Standard"><b><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";">The Shards </span></i></b><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";">(2023)<i></i></span></b></p>
<p class="Standard"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";">By Bret Easton Ellis<i></i></span></b></p>
<p class="Standard"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";">Alfred A. Knopf, 594 pages.<i></i></span></b></p>
<p class="Standard"><b><span lang="ZH-CN" style="font-family: SimSun; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">★★</span></b><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";"></span></b></p>
<p class="Standard"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";"> </span></b></p>
<p class="Standard"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";">Once upon a time, <b>Bret Easton Ellis </b>was a zeitgeist
writer and the hottest thing going. That was then; this is now. The problem
with zeitgeist writers is that they seem self-indulgent when the zeitgeist
changes and they don't.<i></i></span></p>
<p class="Standard"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";"> </span></i></p>
<p class="Standard"><b><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";">The Shards </span></i></b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";">is another semi-autobiographical work with Ellis
at the center of things that <i>sort of </i>happened. It takes us back to 1981
when Ellis was a senior at Buckley, a private prep school for bright, privileged
kids capable of doing stupid things. It also revolves around a serial killer
that’s a mash up of Los Angeles monsters such as the Hillside Strangler (1979),
William Bonin, the Freeway Killer (1980), and possibly West Side
rapist/murderer Brandon Thalmer (1981-83) and/or the Manson Family.<i></i></span></p>
<p class="Standard"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";"> </span></i></p>
<p class="Standard"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";">The sanguinary aspects of the novel notwithstanding, <i>The
Shards </i>is instantly unlikable because of a cast defined by obscene
materialism and cluelessness. Kids at Buckley drive to school in their BMWs,
Mercedes, Jaguars, and Porches. They think nothing of dressing in Gucci and
Armand, lunching at eateries frequented by celebrities, and living in homes
with butlers and cooks. Although all are underage, they drink at posh bars and
hone their decadence by smoking clove cigarettes, popping Quaaludes, snorting
cocaine, or tripping on LSD. Their pool parties are orgiastic affairs that cost
more than a public school's monthly budget and feature hook-ups, vomiting
(that the help will clean up) and Pablo Escobar quantities of coke. As for
parents, many are separated, divorced, or out of the country, and the ones who
are present are as bad as their offspring. Buckley is a real place, by the way,
and I doubt it is flattered by a portrait of students as feral elites in
training.</span></p>
<p class="Standard"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";"> </span></i></p>
<p class="Standard"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";">Bret is in a relationship with Debbie Schaeffer, though he's
secretly having sex with Matt Kellner and other young men, and will eventually
also fall prey to Debbie's hotshot Hollywood bigwig father Terry. Hey, it's a
small price to pay for the possibility of a script. Bret’s friend Thom Wright is
the main squeeze of the drop-dead gorgeous Susan Reynolds. Senior year takes
place against a backdrop of disappearances and murders that involve bizarre
preludes and mutilation of animals and humans. Sounds charming, doesn't it? Buckley
life is further disrupted by a late transfer, Robert Mallory, who is hunky,
though Bret finds him disturbing and untruthful. Bret is pretty sure he saw him
with one of the women who was murdered, though Robert denies it.<i></i></span></p>
<p class="Standard"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";"> </span></i></p>
<p class="Standard"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";">Matt's murder sends Bret into paranoia territory. A beige van is
seen in the area and rumor holds that it's associated with The Trawler, who may
or may not be in tight with the cult-like Riders of the Afterlife. Bret comes
to suspect that Robert might <i>be</i> or know The Trawler, and he knows that
Robert is a liar. His Buckley clique simply don't believe him and defends
Robert, especially when they learn something of his life before coming to Los
Angeles. Susan even seems to be falling for him, which launches Thom into a
jealous rage. That, by the way, might be the only actual teen-like reaction in
the book.</span></p>
<p class="Standard"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";"> </span></i></p>
<p class="Standard"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";">All of this sets up a violent showdown of sorts. That “sort”
would be of the histrionic, clich</span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif">é</span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";">d,
and improbable variety. We read to find the solution to the mystery, but Ellis
disappoints. Who is The Trawler? Robert? Bret? The Riders of the Afterlife? An
unknown? Is Bret a hero, a pariah, or a monster? Is there any point to a
mystery that doesn't tell us? I'm a fan of ambiguity, but if I read 594 pages I
want more than Ellis offers.<i></i></span></p>
<p class="Standard"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";"> </span></i></p>
<p class="Standard"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";">The Shards </span></i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";">is really about how Ellis embraced being
gay. This is 2024, so it's not as if justification is necessary. The novel is
quite graphic in describing both hetero and homosexual trysts, and even more so
in detailing acts of violence. One is left with the sense that Ellis has
written a hybrid pornographic/horror novel. Mostly, though, it seems that Ellis
wants us to look at him. Sorry dude, your ship has sailed. Find other subjects.
His insistence of putting himself front and center reminds me of how Woody
Allen did the same in movies long after his neurotic sex-driven self was past
its expiration date. The last thing we need is a recycled gay Woody Allen.<i></i></span></p>
<p class="Standard"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";"> </span></i></p>
<p class="Standard"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";">Rob Weir<i></i></span></b></p>
<p class="Standard"><b><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";"> </span></i></b></p>
<p class="Standard"><b><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans";"> </span></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>The Heiress </i>(1949)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Directed by William Wyler</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Paramount, 115 minutes, Not Rated.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★★★★</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1YX3g90Te8YFYdHbSrhIgMd_NWylZV4NtXuegLJVWn0uWeSbFeNghEPL3p-yTm9l9PJbrJj3opDpUr9kgnCmUmHKzHGzOBcKRifV0McRJQtEuj-fHc3mEX5aCKcNuNbVCiYwDC6DtlhaDLPJnwB3vRTf40WRQZhHGxiza8slIp0MhudbA8de4-zbLjOnn/s408/The_Heiress_(1949)_poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="290" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1YX3g90Te8YFYdHbSrhIgMd_NWylZV4NtXuegLJVWn0uWeSbFeNghEPL3p-yTm9l9PJbrJj3opDpUr9kgnCmUmHKzHGzOBcKRifV0McRJQtEuj-fHc3mEX5aCKcNuNbVCiYwDC6DtlhaDLPJnwB3vRTf40WRQZhHGxiza8slIp0MhudbA8de4-zbLjOnn/w216-h305/The_Heiress_(1949)_poster.jpg" width="216" /></a></b></div><b><br /> </b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b> <br /></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When I rewatched <b><i>The Heiress</i></b><i>,</i> I initially
gave it four stars. It stuck with me and I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>upgraded to a five. Reconsideration is par for the course for this <b>William
Wyler </b>film. It got a tepid reception when it first came out and lost money.
Numerous critics, however, heaped praise upon it and at Oscar time it got more
nominations than any other film. Olivia de Havilland took away the hardware for
Best Actress and it is now considered one of the best films of Hollywood’s
classic era. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The film version was based on a 1947 play–a favorite undertaking
of Wyler’s who did this a dozen times–but both play and movie are based on the
Henry James novel <i>Washington Square</i>. That might have had something to do
with box office hesitation, as conventional wisdom held that James’ novels were
unfilmable. Wyler noted, though, that “the emotional conflict between two
people in a drawing room can be as exciting as a gun battle….” Wyler stuck to
his guns, as it were. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>The Heiress </i>is about a woman, Catharine Sloper (de
Havilland), who learns to stand up for herself and become the mistress of her
destiny, her toxic family notwithstanding. She is the only child of the widowed
Dr. Austin Sloper (Ralph Richardson), who bullies and belittles Catharine. As
she enters womanhood, she looks mousy, is painfully shy, and accepts her
father’s assessment that she is ugly, dull, and unintellectual. Her aunt,
Lavinia Penniman (Miriam Hopkins), sometimes takes her side, but she’s more </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">meddlesome than effective, an unwitting contagonist in
Catharine’s desire to break her father’s iron will.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That desire comes in the form of Morris Townshend
(Montgomery Clift), a dashing but poor man who pays attention to Catharine and
tells her she’s none of the things her father claims she is. Catharine falls
deeply in love with him and he proposes. Dr. Sloper refuses to give his
consent; in his mind, Townshend is just a gold digger trying to get his hands
on Catharine’s eventual inheritance. Is he right? Was it the right thing to do
to convince Catharine to put off her plans, go to Europe to learn about culture
and gain sophistication?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>The Heiress </i>is often as barbed and insidious as the
(not-so) good doctor. At one point Catharine is accused of being uncharitable.
She replies, “Yes, I can be cruel. I’ve been taught by masters.” Don’t bet on
anything resolving the way paint-by-the-numbers drama romances do. This is a
film of betrayal, comeuppances, insults, denied forgiveness, and lots of
psychological tension. It ends with a score-evening moment that is at once
apropos, mercenary, and revenge served cool and cold. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Cinematographer Leo Tolver worked closely with Wyler to make
the Slopers’ Washington Square posh home alluring in a covetous way, yet also a
claustrophobic prison. They did so with adroit mixes of short and long shots
that suggest that the lens is a personified voyeur. The two also manipulate
black and white tones in ways suggestive of a film noir crime flick. Though no
one literally dies in <i>The Heiress, </i>psychological slayings occur. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Each of the three principal actors is brilliant. De
Havilland is chameleonic in her three transformations (naïve, dawning wisdom,
caustic). Her Oscar harks back to the days in which they were doled out for
truly outstanding performance, not popularity and name recognition. Apparently
she and Clift couldn’t stand each other on the set, but they mesh on the
screen. His performance so deftly walked the balance between sincerely and
conmanship that in the end there is room for doubt over whether he was indeed a
grifter or a man overcome by circumstance. Richardson is easy to hate, though
the deeper you dig, the more you come to see that he is damaged goods. That,
however, could be the tagline for just about anyone in this film. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>The Heiress </i>is thus neither a poor little rich girl
film, a take-that revenge fantasy, or a triumph of right over wrong. When your
grandparents say they don’t films like this anymore, this is the sort of thing
they mean!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b> </b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ug_YEYP4edJIaOghgVfoWxIqSnqigzvRBApgw3Ih9Ud3aY-W8k0L_R1aZEqIov1AArEsnuCNE3KQLTiUwhk_ilUvD6kJZwpmfwUfH6QmqdMpskHz35wlfcMXUXSMR8frvHNjY0Pc1rJ4ugRJVvFCC2nNw93ok7jX7T1O7yJrDlDulLHDWdSwdzP8q5fw/s880/Smoking%20BAmbino%20cover.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="880" data-original-width="874" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ug_YEYP4edJIaOghgVfoWxIqSnqigzvRBApgw3Ih9Ud3aY-W8k0L_R1aZEqIov1AArEsnuCNE3KQLTiUwhk_ilUvD6kJZwpmfwUfH6QmqdMpskHz35wlfcMXUXSMR8frvHNjY0Pc1rJ4ugRJVvFCC2nNw93ok7jX7T1O7yJrDlDulLHDWdSwdzP8q5fw/w255-h257/Smoking%20BAmbino%20cover.png" width="255" /></a></b></div><b><br />Smoking Bambino </b>is the stage handle for Catalan singer/songwriter
Esteve Saguer Costa, whose newest record <b><i>Lampigots Bufarandes </i></b>is
an intimate album churned out during three intense days in the studio.<b><i> </i></b>The
first word means lightning but don’t rush to your Catalan dictionary for the second one; Costa
made it up. “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kDHjjHEJ4qw ">Nit”</a> (Night) suggests the vibe at which he is aiming. His baritone
voice has hints of gravel, but his tones are as understated as the shadows of a
backlit video with a cigarette burning through. We can make out a wine glass, a
woman’s laughter, and dancing but the rest is left to your imagination. “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tydJ9ue62GA">Animal de bosc</a>” (Animal of the Forest) is café-like with its quiet keys and gentle
melody/vocals. The keys and voice in “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tydJ9ue62GA">He escrit et teu nom</a>” (I Wrote Your Name)
feel as if Costa wandered into an empty room and sat down at an old upright. His
voice goes to a smoky rasp that again invites us to write our own story. Even
if you have not a word of Catalan, you might be able to surmise that Bukawsky
and Keroauc are among his literary heroes and that Costa has spent time singing
in small late-night New York City venues. This recording proves once again that there is poignancy
is keeping things intimate and raw.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> <b> <br /></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujenhyphenhyphend4iLw1J6eJZzjSjRgEQU1V0shlG2KYykDA-3kl0TYTF5XyqZw1ljv_NhGZeCddt0eIIMGWqrkHtcbNlSk0ywNwLEU6-BOoAP8VtJ4J1uDnr2_QOjzI0scNGOldU8XASX6q04bOpPorUGCQkiW_9K1uQMn-lH51ASBElckSOS9PSeEwasKehTIgD/s640/sully%20bright%20cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujenhyphenhyphend4iLw1J6eJZzjSjRgEQU1V0shlG2KYykDA-3kl0TYTF5XyqZw1ljv_NhGZeCddt0eIIMGWqrkHtcbNlSk0ywNwLEU6-BOoAP8VtJ4J1uDnr2_QOjzI0scNGOldU8XASX6q04bOpPorUGCQkiW_9K1uQMn-lH51ASBElckSOS9PSeEwasKehTIgD/w176-h176/sully%20bright%20cover.jpg" width="176" /></a></b></div><b><br />Sully Bright </b>hails from the Blue Ridge of North
Carolina and, as songs such as “<a href=" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lbIJwiHXsc8">Appalachia</a>” and his faded Ektachrome
slide-like videos reveal, he retains a bibbed overalls nostalgia for those
days. <b><i>Darling Wake Up </i></b>is a bluegrass-influenced acoustic album.
He accompanies his light tenor with banjo, piano, guitar, and mouth harp.
According to his bio, he struggled emotionally for a time. “Dark” has hints of
anxiety, but song such as “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CT19MTZK9do">It’ll Be Alright</a>” and the away-from home love song
“<a href=" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mY9bG4D9Y_k">Oh Honey</a>” bring back the light. The record could use more energy and
diversity, but is also exudes a sense of honesty in its bare feet. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiS8uBCOYrT5i4u4ixeVavzE0WeUIowEhupTG2R-1vGH5z2jgaG0dAuEaRkV-YZf6emPMxS_LTOI5XuKskfAUhmfwA0TaPOImbRcPMUWlwx2gpQd-3zAAnqMGrJAPLzrm7dr6uecEG1U4Cp7lsTYAMf7uc8IBj5EA40XtflLRYl1tYIJB-vC23q8Mm6UVE/s480/13%20-%20Galeet%20Dardashti%20-%20Monajat%20Album%20Cover.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="480" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiS8uBCOYrT5i4u4ixeVavzE0WeUIowEhupTG2R-1vGH5z2jgaG0dAuEaRkV-YZf6emPMxS_LTOI5XuKskfAUhmfwA0TaPOImbRcPMUWlwx2gpQd-3zAAnqMGrJAPLzrm7dr6uecEG1U4Cp7lsTYAMf7uc8IBj5EA40XtflLRYl1tYIJB-vC23q8Mm6UVE/w270-h270/13%20-%20Galeet%20Dardashti%20-%20Monajat%20Album%20Cover.jpeg" width="270" /></a></div><br />To say <b>Galeet Dardashti </b>has musical cred is an
understatement. She comes from a musical family, has fronted the band Divahn,
holds a Ph.D. in anthropology, teaches at NYU, and is the granddaughter of
famed Persian Jewish singer Younes Dardashti. That’s his image on the cover of
Galeet’s new album <b><i>Monajat</i> </b>and we hear his recorded voice on the
album. That’s appropriate because <i>Monajat </i>is an album of Selichat
prayers Galeet<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>learned from him. Selichat
are candlelight services for forgiveness sung the Saturday before Rosh
Hashanah. “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ODZ4DEswo7k">Adon Haselichot</a>” (Master of Pardons)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>is an amazing track featuring layered instrumentation of doumbek (drum),
ney (flute), oud, fiddle, bass, and hammer dulcimer that creates a mix that’s
almost psychedelic. Listen as Dardashti keens, ululates, implores, and
powers her way through. “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eO_S2XIBokU">The Awakening</a>” uses the ney to invoke a Middle Eastern
call to prayer before oud and other instruments set the pace for demanding
vocal tonal shifts. “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bPp-eMMa1UM">El Norah Alilah</a>” (God of Awe) is both hypnotic and energetic
with background singers following Dardashti’s lead in response fashion. This is an
impressive record no matter what your faith or lack thereof. If all that’s not
enough, Dardashti also likes to weave multimedia art into her music. Poke
around on YouTube and you’ll find examples. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4yqyfJRYGmbmKB-nRLyGEXZWvISw9J5NTWkNyUQMK_-GF-dKvP6r4FnHe8XZPyuFNMtmXg9an1Ai0FUVpTRQc_f0Co6hijqP6vr1qsf2E7TUF3NhNNmBfiWiqirQqBlNN4XKjElR1MekjaOPpSMjzTQGMBe0xieZ5_jeu5EJiRpHd8sD4LdRxbPT6d3om/s640/ab67616d0000b27378e2288009af28e988dc75ac.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4yqyfJRYGmbmKB-nRLyGEXZWvISw9J5NTWkNyUQMK_-GF-dKvP6r4FnHe8XZPyuFNMtmXg9an1Ai0FUVpTRQc_f0Co6hijqP6vr1qsf2E7TUF3NhNNmBfiWiqirQqBlNN4XKjElR1MekjaOPpSMjzTQGMBe0xieZ5_jeu5EJiRpHd8sD4LdRxbPT6d3om/w245-h245/ab67616d0000b27378e2288009af28e988dc75ac.jpg" width="245" /></a></div><br />In the Monty Python cheese shop sketch, a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>bouzouki player inexplicably plays by the
door. At one point a frustrated John Cleese screams to shut up the “bloody
bouzouki player.” I doubt you’d feel that way about the playing of <b>Dimitris Papageorgiou
</b>whose <b><i>Greek Bouzouki Classics </i></b>is far from an archival
rendering of old songs. He is known in the U.S. for his TV and film scores and
he brings that sensibility to old tunes that he updates. “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mBdpuN0ZWj0">Sundance</a>”
has the strong cadences that inspire people to dance, but it also moves crispy
and has a modern flair. “<a href=" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qQNq_3QXUdU">Minore of Greece</a>” has a quirky frame but Papageorgiou’s
runs and precise picking incorporate classic elements and bouzouki virtuosity
that would induce envy among the finest mandolin players. “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwgMNIsKjYs">Te Lemonadika</a>” also
pulls a switcheroo, its plinky almost childlike opening notes sliding
easily into a sunny swaying tune that suggests an ouzo is in order rather than lemonade.
Another tune is titled “Play in Athens” and that’s exactly what you’ll wish to
do upon hearing it. Stay away from the cheese shop and snack on this album
instead.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRa2Ywf7M6JvpM1UrJYcWWlHlB_M6ByY2oPfhW2gLWiWcxt8MpT1f4-UQE74YacbRHpiTXDBknN44E8bHpg_ANFCIeXvv83EoLoCY29ghUnYofFLT1ti7pjME7LmZdG5iITYrGOLo_Tb-xFjj6nTWiPoFve7xG67-bpScuqc4g6hgQF0rtuz29z41_BWwq/s341/NXW76166-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="341" data-original-width="341" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRa2Ywf7M6JvpM1UrJYcWWlHlB_M6ByY2oPfhW2gLWiWcxt8MpT1f4-UQE74YacbRHpiTXDBknN44E8bHpg_ANFCIeXvv83EoLoCY29ghUnYofFLT1ti7pjME7LmZdG5iITYrGOLo_Tb-xFjj6nTWiPoFve7xG67-bpScuqc4g6hgQF0rtuz29z41_BWwq/w205-h205/NXW76166-2.jpg" width="205" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>I had mixed feelings about <b><i>Seeking the Divine</i>, </b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a solo guitar project from <b>Jason Carter</b>.
Like Peter Blanchette, Carter plays an arch guitar. As you can tell from “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ub_uuKxkTdA">Guten Morgen Mein Engel,</a>” Carter is very talented. Like this one, though, I found my
attention drifting in segments that put me in mind of New Age music. I much
preferred more lively tunes such as “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ExSTKz9bs0">So Small</a>” with its stronger bass and
melody lines. It both enthralled me and made me understand some of the potential
of his instrument. I grant that six-minute explorations like “Letting Go” are
introspective and mysterious, but I much prefer the pieces like “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F29Cj_Jlnz8">The Colour of Silence</a>” that evoke images over the contemplation. By the way, “The Colour
of Silence” was recorded <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in Finland;
Finnish is one of four non-English languages the British Carter speaks. And I’ll
cut him a break, as part of the record was filmed in Sri Lanka where he played
for the children at a tsunami-damaged orphanage.
</p><span> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjihVmBALPw-9dgDArWrCC9S497V9jwMHm-9qIAl2Th-RDsIMgqd6BZSTCV1htY6REyUituQCnHAhn-NTsCmlXuwpwNOF3C_LzeHeVJOsotGmokg69ySKJ7HdkijZviL-6KGsojXGPbEI7ZYuY8N3Wqj2vSnLLw3WFv3TtD9LjhkRCGWOIx9FbFuMbD1290/s640/The-Invisible-Hour-A-Novel-Hardcover-9781982175375_021e0b34-80c8-45bd-8b83-a34d8930b2be.8dabf7a60ce2b186041497092efe5594.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjihVmBALPw-9dgDArWrCC9S497V9jwMHm-9qIAl2Th-RDsIMgqd6BZSTCV1htY6REyUituQCnHAhn-NTsCmlXuwpwNOF3C_LzeHeVJOsotGmokg69ySKJ7HdkijZviL-6KGsojXGPbEI7ZYuY8N3Wqj2vSnLLw3WFv3TtD9LjhkRCGWOIx9FbFuMbD1290/w281-h281/The-Invisible-Hour-A-Novel-Hardcover-9781982175375_021e0b34-80c8-45bd-8b83-a34d8930b2be.8dabf7a60ce2b186041497092efe5594.webp" width="281" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>The Invisible Hours </i>(2023)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>By Alice Hoffman</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Atria Books, 252 pages.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Few authors delve into the mysterious as often as <b>Alice
Hoffman</b>. At her best, she’s so spellbinding she makes us suspend disbelief.
Occasionally, though, she writes a headscratcher like <b><i>The Invisible
Hours.</i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It starts with great promise. Ivy Jacobs is 16, pregnant to
an irresponsible Harvard jerk, and is castoff by her Beacon Hill family. An
erstwhile friend takes her to the western part of the Commonwealth, where she
falls under the spell of and marries Joel Davis, the leader of an intentional
community. There she gives birth to red-haired Mia, but “The Community” is more
of a cult than a commune. Numerous reviewers have made comparisons to <i>The
Handmaid’s Tale </i>and/or Puritan Salem, but those who know Western
Massachusetts will find great similarity to the Renaissance Community that
thrived in the Gill/Turners Falls area in the 1960s into the 1970s, before
founder Michael Metelica succumbed to megalomania akin to what you read in
Hoffman’s novel.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Davis lays down strict rules, among them repressive gender
roles that confine women to nurturing tasks, limit their educational
opportunities, arrange their marriages, demand their children pay obedience Davis,
and limit contact with the outside world. The high-spirited Mia chafes under
such conditions, especially when she discovers literature in the village
library–especially Hawthorne’s <i>Scarlet Letter</i>. Mia is punished
periodically, as is Ivy for birthing such an obstreperous child. Mia’s attempts
to runaway only lead to more trouble–she even wears letters commensurate to her
misbehavior–and considers suicide. Instead, Mia outsmarts Davis and finds a
rescuer in the form of Sarah, the town librarian, who spirits her away to
Concord and the care of her friend Constance with whom Sarah is in a classic
“Boston marriage.” Mia grows up and thrives. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Alas, the novel disintegrates in absurdity. Davis, who
spirals deeper into obsession and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>mental
instability, searches for Mia to bring her back to The Community. Most are
foiled because–ready?– Mia is often missing in time. Her studies of <i>The
Scarlet Letter</i> make her so sympathetic that a visit to Hawthorne’s grave opens
a portal between past and present. Hawthorne's melancholy leaves him unable to write.
For reasons too contrived to mention, Mia must “save” Hawthorne so he actually pens
<i>The Scarlet Letter</i>. Mia eventually befriends his sister Elizabeth and eventually
becomes close to Nathaniel. Can she stay? Would that alter history? The less
said about Mia’s own daughter, the better. Isn’t the idea of Mia saving
Hawthorne’s mental health and career far-fetched enough? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hoffman had plenty of material with which to work if she
simply rewrote more of the sad saga of Michael Metelica. Sometimes what
actually happened is so weird that attempts at “improvement” cheapen it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifhYoxfICmCADsJOqTOAxT3I4_q9ImNqjM1DqQ7BYxp_ke5zdpbdoHQUS5SxhXYkylb4F4oOb4HT83cM61O25KUop2Qp7616_LdMs8jpffVQmp1SqZuGj4GjbUv5i19B9AdM4uf0hCFKxXzzi3P7w4r1Yh1eZ4PNrturyyjzq8nVK2Pej5Fhzbedp_Fawe/s475/s-l1200.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="289" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifhYoxfICmCADsJOqTOAxT3I4_q9ImNqjM1DqQ7BYxp_ke5zdpbdoHQUS5SxhXYkylb4F4oOb4HT83cM61O25KUop2Qp7616_LdMs8jpffVQmp1SqZuGj4GjbUv5i19B9AdM4uf0hCFKxXzzi3P7w4r1Yh1eZ4PNrturyyjzq8nVK2Pej5Fhzbedp_Fawe/w167-h273/s-l1200.webp" width="167" /></a></div> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>The Drowning Season</i> (1979)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Plume/Penguin, 212
pages.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★★</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b> </b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I needed to read a good Alice Hoffman and plucked <b><i>The
Drowning Season</i></b><i> </i>from a neighborhood giveaway box. It’s not a
great book, but this, her second novel, suggests that sometimes small doses of
fanciful storytelling are better than a whole lot. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It follows an unorthodox family that skirts incest were it
not for a toss-away plot that its matriarch, Esther the White–her hair
color–was adopted. It begins in Russia where Ester and her two brothers, Mischa
and Max, a dwarf, live with such horrible parents they conspire to run away. Their
journey involves pilfered jewelry, a lusty tattooed man, selling Max to a
circus–yes, that sort of thing actually happened–moving to England, and settling
along New York’s Long Island Sound. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mischa and Esther marry and raise a son (of uncertain fatherhood)
named Phillip. They own a complex called The Compound but they, and eventually his
alcoholic wife Rose, must keep a close watch on Phillip. Each summer, he falls
into a sort of stupor and would drown himself were he not locked up. Esther is also
furious with Phillip because he named his daughter Esther, a major no-no among
Ashkenazi Jews. Esther the White is acidic towards Esther the Black. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It's an intriguing tale that also involves a Russian caretaker
who protects Esther the White and pines for her, a determined fishing
community, a developer, Max’s return, Esther the Black’s moody defiance, a punk
rocker, and reconciliation. It has a splash of magical realism and is a ghost
story (of sorts).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some readers wanted
more, but it felt welcomingly spartan to me.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b></p>
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<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b> </b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedLd0bA-n-tKGas1puHtjmvcgWjtbNTkLSVkB5hV9J891CEj8C6NFlq7Ctqnh6Grrn_lyNJ5wggRVBD8mv6j10cjAnY1nn7PxJ51EeW4vki_vkA4psuren2-hEw2aQUuz9pHRjeMLIGrKaXIPOYKLJ7q-7MYF83PHgP0iAstIAF8KHH3R7BOePZIChyphenhyphen_d/s650/64d0c56a3a5f1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="365" data-original-width="650" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedLd0bA-n-tKGas1puHtjmvcgWjtbNTkLSVkB5hV9J891CEj8C6NFlq7Ctqnh6Grrn_lyNJ5wggRVBD8mv6j10cjAnY1nn7PxJ51EeW4vki_vkA4psuren2-hEw2aQUuz9pHRjeMLIGrKaXIPOYKLJ7q-7MYF83PHgP0iAstIAF8KHH3R7BOePZIChyphenhyphen_d/s320/64d0c56a3a5f1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> Allegedly, some 200 million people will watch the Super Bowl
today. I suspect millions will be girls and young women hoping for glances of
Taylor Swift, but still…. I will not be watching; I find gridiron football
boring. It’s too slow, too hyped, and non-strategic for my tastes. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I do, however, have a tale about my favorite Super Bowl. I
was a Fulbright scholar posted in Wellington, New Zealand, when George W. Bush
was about to take office in the United States. Back in New Zealand, Dubya’s
team was throwing its weight around and trying to erase the presence of outgoing
U.S. Ambassador Carol Braun Mosley. She was enormously popular among New
Zealanders, so the Bushwhackers were anxious to show some good ‘ole Texas
hospitality. Let’s just say they started off on the wrong boot. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The New Zealand staff was—key word—<i>ordered </i>to attend
a Super Bowl party at the United States Embassy. So too were all American
Fulbright recipients in the country, both senior scholars such as me, and those
undergrads and graduate students designated as junior Fulbrighters. By gum, everyone
was going to be treated to hot dogs, beer, potato chips, hamburgers, and all
the fixins. All flown in from the US of A. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Among New Zealanders, football is soccer and they didn’t
know gridiron from a waffle iron. In January, a summer month Down Under, attentions
are focused on Union Rugby and the fate of its national team, the All Blacks–named
for their uniforms. Jonah Lomu was the big star there and, at 6’4” 265 pounds, he
was <i>literally</i> a big one. Nor is a group of academics and wannabes
exactly your average red-meat gridiron crowd. The Bush advance team was ensconced
in a side room watching the game on what was then<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a rare big screen TV. They were screaming
their heads off, while the rest of us awkwardly milled about by the food and
wine table. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I decided to break the ice by walking into a crowd of New
Zealanders and introducing myself. I was charmed when one senior liaison asked
me, “Whom do you prefer in the gridiron match?” I replied that I didn’t care
for U.S. football, didn’t know who was playing, and had come to learn about and
from New Zealanders. The ice melted. Soon, other Americans joined in and a
lovely transnational conversation broke put. We were having so much fun that we
strategically decided that we would pair up and take turns entering the TV room
to make our presence known. This would mask the “jolly good chinwag” we were
having at the expense of the clueless Yanks engrossed in the game.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One of the topics of hilarity was the food. Hot dogs are not
a thing in New Zealand and, as it transpired, the rolls didn’t arrive in time
so the embassy ordered what they hoped would be an approximation from a
Wellington bakery. Epic fail! They were about two inches too long on each end,
had about a five-inch diameter, and an overbaked biscuit-like texture. My new
friends declared that the “sausages” were “interesting,” but wondered if Americans
always placed them in “buns.” That was their polite way of saying they were terrible.
We explained the miscalculation and had another good laugh. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I had no idea who won that day, though I was surprised that the
team from Baltimore was called the Ravens, not the Colts. My highlight was
meeting New Zealanders, hearing about Jonah Lomu, and discussing politics and lifestyles.
Later, a gentleman I met there took me to a rugby match to see Lomu in action. He
was everything he was cracked up to be, as dominant in rugby as Secretariat was
in horse racing. Outside of the America, many have called him the greatest
athlete in sports history and I surely not dispute it. (Lomu tragically died of
kidney disease at age 40.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Let the record show that the Ravens won that Super Bowl, a
fact I looked up on the Internet as I didn’t see a score in the <i>Wellington
Post</i>. No matter, no one at the National Library where I posted said a word
about the “match.” Actually, I’ve not seen a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>football game since the early 1970s. Nevertheless,
every Super Bowl day I smile and think of my trip to the U.S. Embassy in
Wellington, where I learned the magic that comes from making cultural connections
rather than presuming an Americentric world. Go All Blacks! </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here’s a highlight video of Lomu in action.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OsXTa7UCGlk&t=2s">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OsXTa7UCGlk&t=2s</a>
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The haka, which is performed before each All Blacks match. I’d
be quaking. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yiKFYTFJ_kw">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yiKFYTFJ_kw</a>
<i></i></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Orbital</i> (2023)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>By Samantha Harvey</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Grove Press, 209 pages.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span face=""Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★★★★</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihgKH8IFqs9FhB4Q4YYZnKgoKPH7JAMDuv9THqEL0ndEq7r3Shp6zqOwmcAmgLhuk75YE8CNI279trPjboNwj2eImhSCy5nTK7KLBk2JfgdkxTcZGtXBSx7opzRWgg3YdpfDHMyJN-cNRUWWiCjyH8Cv8li00KkDsJvJL8FB52OUlPgSVONBX2O3kElBS4/s1000/81JiggNWaVL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="681" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihgKH8IFqs9FhB4Q4YYZnKgoKPH7JAMDuv9THqEL0ndEq7r3Shp6zqOwmcAmgLhuk75YE8CNI279trPjboNwj2eImhSCy5nTK7KLBk2JfgdkxTcZGtXBSx7opzRWgg3YdpfDHMyJN-cNRUWWiCjyH8Cv8li00KkDsJvJL8FB52OUlPgSVONBX2O3kElBS4/w192-h282/81JiggNWaVL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="192" /></a></div> <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Do you ever imagine yourself on a spaceship speeding through
the universe at warp speed? If you've ever watched <i>Star Trek</i> or <i>Star
Wars</i>, I suspect you have. The closest thing we have to that kind of
experience today is service aboard the International Space Station (ISS). What
would it be like to spend months floating 250 miles above the earth?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Samantha Harvey</b> gives us as good of an idea of what all
but a few will ever experience. Her book <b><i>Orbital i</i></b>s
officially a novel, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but it's a well-researched
one that jives with accounts of what those who have been aboard the ISS say.
Like the old TV show <i>Dragnet</i> used to proclaim, “only the names have been
changed to protect the innocent.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Floating is the wrong word. The ISS streaks across the sky
at a clip of 17,000 mph, though near-zero gravity inside makes it seem like a
gentle drift. <i>Orbital</i> gets its name from the fact that each 24 hours
those on the station witness16 different sunrises and 16 different sunsets.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Harvey's remarkable novel reads like an extended prose poem.
I call it “remarkable” because in many ways, life aboard the ISS is one of
repetition and tedium. Her invented crew consists of two Russians (Anton and
Roman), two Americans (Sean and Nell), an Italian (Pietro), and a Japanese
woman, Chie. Harvey imagines what goes on in their minds and how they cope with
what happens back on earth as they orbit. For instance, Chie’s mother dies
unexpectedly and her grief is magnified by not being able to attend her
cremation. Sean and Nell engage in an ontological debate. When she looks out of
the portal at the vastness of space it makes her doubt the intentionality of
any sort of creator. When she asks Sean how he can still believe when he looks
at what she sees he replies, “How can I not?” Another watches an enormous
typhoon gathering in the Indian Ocean and worries if a kind fisherman he
befriended can survive it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Being aboard the ISS commands mental and physical courage
as well as the ability to adjust levels of awe, desire, and acceptance. Imagine
donning a spacesuit to exit the station to spend hours doing repairs while wearing
thick gloves knowing that one wrong move or the tiniest piece of space debris
could puncture your pressurized suit and asphyxiate you before you could be
reeled back inside. Most are nonchalant about that possibility and speak of
their willingness to die to advance science. They know also that returning to
earth has its perils. There are more than 200 million pieces of space junk–lost
tools, cameras, rocket stages, exhaust particles–orbiting our planet at 25,000
mph. Not to mention that the crew <i>are,</i> in many ways, dying for science.
The toll of weightlessness ages their bodies 5 to 10 years for each six months
they are on board, cancer risks rise dramatically, and muscles atrophy though
they vigorously exercise.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Even the mundane challenges. They must recycle and treat
their own urine for drinking water, tether themselves in order to sleep, and
box their waste to send back to earth on resupply ships. Flying across the ship
to fetch a dropped chopstick or spoon requires dexterity and there’s no real
way to tell up from down.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My admiration for such brave men and women soared as I read <i>Orbital</i>.
So too did my regard for Harvey; she made her novel heart-throbbing thrilling,
though not much actually happens. Above all, it made me think humans better
start taking care of the planet. Those board the ISS saw themselves as training
for the possibility that humans might one day need to abandon earth. I don't
think many of us could handle such a journey.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Modesty Died When Clothes Were Born:</i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Costume
in the Life and Literature of Mark Twain</i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Catalogue by Lynne Bassett</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Lincoln Financial Group Foundation, 64 pages.</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt-qIpf-rRtVT6tVs7MQQfLVA7m6evTNaXUaMg4nZOYzqrU1Nq3yq7MZdLnQwcYB4i5Ih6ynaWKZaEV35JCVkcECoPURuyM8CEn7qLVdWa6dA1ZSowRLQX0W8_80bkkXMDE-MCwd7MoiSErd0JQFl5-qeysTtAmfOwKD-CGxegqo-otI3YrmKKq0KDJnsU/s1000/91LN10bYZeL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="756" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt-qIpf-rRtVT6tVs7MQQfLVA7m6evTNaXUaMg4nZOYzqrU1Nq3yq7MZdLnQwcYB4i5Ih6ynaWKZaEV35JCVkcECoPURuyM8CEn7qLVdWa6dA1ZSowRLQX0W8_80bkkXMDE-MCwd7MoiSErd0JQFl5-qeysTtAmfOwKD-CGxegqo-otI3YrmKKq0KDJnsU/s320/91LN10bYZeL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="242" /></a></b></div><b><br /> </b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b> </b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I seldom review an exhibition catalogue, but I make
exceptions when Samuel Clemens, aka/ Mark Twain, is concerned. In my mind he is
the most “American” of all authors and <i>Huckleberry Finn </i>is the
quintessential great American novel. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I won’t rehash his extensive biography except for a few
spartan details. Clemens–always “Sam” to his family and friends–was born in
Missouri to a father who churned through money, a harbinger of Twain’s own problems
holding on to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As most know, he was a
man of the frontier West for much of his youth. He acquired his pen name from
his days as a steamboat pilot on the Mississippi River, worked for several
papers of minor renown, performed manual labor, dwelt in a cabin for a time,
and lived up (or down) to the title of one of his earliest novels: <i>Roughing
It</i>. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When he moved East, he fell in love with Olivia “Livy”
Langdon, the daughter of a wealthy industrialist, and married her in 1870 after
two years of determined courtship. Livy’s parents were not in favor of the
match. They viewed him as uncouth, bombastic, and uncivilized. They were not
entirely wrong! Sam promised Livy he’d wear decent clothing, and quit swearing,
drinking, and smoking; he (mostly) managed three out of four. But not even Livy
could tame Sam entirely. She adored him, but Sam had a positive knack for
embarrassing her. Livy was a Victorian clotheshorse who loved fashion, new
frocks, and all the trimmings. Sam fell into the category of you can dress him
up, but you can’t make him take it seriously. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Bassett’s catalogue for a show at Hartford’s Mark Twain
House is both a serious and mirthful look at fashion illustrated with
photographs and several drawings of either actual dresses or types of dresses
worn by Livy and daughters Suzy, Jean, and Clara, and accoutrements worn by
Sam. (Some come from collections in Northampton.) Sam could put on airs, but
his often unkempt red hair and sometimes unruly mustache betrayed him, as did
the fact that his two favorite costumes were an Oxford academic robe awarded when
he received an honorary degree and, of course, his famed white linen
suits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Those interested in couture will enjoy reading about Victorian
gowns, though they’re likely to cringe at what elite women had to go through to
be fashionable–the bustles, corsets, layers, and changes of clothing up to four
times a day. Livy was slight, but do you think she had a natural 18-inch waist?
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Because Sam loved Livy he tried to show an interest in
clothing, but this witticism pretty much sums up his attitude: “Clothes make
the man. Naked people have little or no influence in society.” That’s among the
barbs you’ll find in this slim volume. He paid enough attention to be able to
discourse on clothing and their particulars, but he could only go so far. Who
but Twain could write of that “Miss C. wore an elegant <i>Cheveaux de la Reine</i>
…and a Garibaldi shirt” set off by a head-dress “crowned with a graceful <i>pomme
de terre</i>,” or assert that the Empress Eugenie “dresses in buckskin?” When
wry comments failed him, he simply invented terms that presaged Dr. Seuss. One
of my favorite puckish moments came when Livy berated his coarseness for
calling upon neighbor Harriet Beecher Stowe without wearing a cravat. He
promptly had a servant deliver a box containing a cravat to Stowe with a kind
request that she pen a note acknowledging that she observed that he actually
owned one. Stowe perhaps understood wily Sam better than Livy on this score, as
she played along. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As noted, Twain had a complicated relationship with money.
He liked having it, but managed to lose it in bad investments such as his own
publishing house, a typesetter that never worked, and plasmon, a milk food
product that by all accounts was awful. It must have been hard on Livy and the
girls when he invested away a fortune and they could no longer afford luxuries.
Suzy died in 1896 and Livy in 1904. In 1906, Sam donned white suits all year
round simply because he wanted to. As the expression goes, pick up this charming
book and read all about it. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b> </p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTPjbHx35XnpOKGIcGsnzNJ1f-1pQwjnY-N7CzH1PWBhkdOdUJT3e7T1hBCBSIddyv_NMsy-FpDVLO9ZF4X8H7HnlhXvQoXKtrs0sBHstNi0NVA8-8RL61t-bGCpkte_pmK2Mgu54bWqRra7KN6jfjOecg4egzkFGMQRZGbRo5ubscltAOukOWQElpo_a7/s500/51AdjigihfL.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="329" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTPjbHx35XnpOKGIcGsnzNJ1f-1pQwjnY-N7CzH1PWBhkdOdUJT3e7T1hBCBSIddyv_NMsy-FpDVLO9ZF4X8H7HnlhXvQoXKtrs0sBHstNi0NVA8-8RL61t-bGCpkte_pmK2Mgu54bWqRra7KN6jfjOecg4egzkFGMQRZGbRo5ubscltAOukOWQElpo_a7/s320/51AdjigihfL.jpg" width="211" /></a></i></b></div><b><i><br /> </i></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>After Annie</i> (2024)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>By Anna Quindlen</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Random House, 304 pages.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★★★</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s not easy to pen a novel in which the protagonist is
AWOL, but <b>Anna Quindlen</b> pulled it off with aplomb. The titular character
of <b><i>After Annie</i></b> is Annie Fonzheimer Brown, a 37-year-old
Pennsylvania “super” wife and mom to husband Bill and their offspring: Ali
(Alexandra), Ant(hony), Benji, and Jamie. She is a natural organizer who orchestrates
the chaos of living in the too-small house owned by her difficult (and often
spiteful) mother-in-law Dora, provides care for residents at the nursing home
at which she works, and birddogs her needy best friend Annemarie. But, one
winter’s night right after dinner, Annie falls to the floor and dies of an
aneurysm. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In other words, Quindlen’s novel is exactly as its title
implies: <i>after </i>Annie. It is a winter-to-winter tale that closely
parallels the five stages of grief famously outlined by Dr. Elizabeth
Kübler-Ross: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. The problem
with such easy-to-comprehend formulae is that they fail to tell us how and when
individuals manifest those stages. Quindlen appreciates the messy complexity of
grief and that no two people experience it exactly the same way. Bill, for
example, is an in-demand plumber who depended on Annie to keep the family and
his business running smoothly. (He also never wanted four children!) His denial
shows in his feelings of hopelessness and in his reliance on his barely
teenaged daughter Ali to step into Annie’s shoes. Benji, though, maintains the
fiction that his mother is in the hospital and will be home soon. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The stages of grief also fail to consider other external
pressures–like Bill’s imperious mother who dislikes pretty much anything and
anybody that is contrary to her preferences and solipsism. This includes her
older daughter-in-law Kathy, Annie alive and dead, and Annemarie. Bill isn’t
too sure of Annmarie either. She and Annie have been bonded since girlhood, but
in ways that only close friends understand or share. It would be safe to say
that no one grieves for Annie more than Annemarie. Annie was literally her
lifeline, the person who cut through her self-delusion, was the rock solid counterpart
to Annemarie’s addictive personality, and wasn’t afraid to apply tough love
when necessary. Even Annie’s patients who regularly observe death are shattered
by her passing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In a nutshell, the problem for the survivors of all ages is
that a person as beloved as Annie seems irreplaceable. Quindlen subtly
heightens the sense of loss via flashback conversations and present tense
prose. Bill tries to disappear vocationally and emotionally, while Annemarie–who
built a business of acting as a middle person in retailing and distributing Amish
and Mennonite handicrafts–struggles to remain engaged in either her work or her
marriage. Nor are the children thriving; Ant is angry, for instance, and Ali,
though externally evolving to mirror her mother’s competence and physical
features, has too much on her plate, including the gnawing fear that her best
friend is hiding a dark secret. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">How long does one grieve? There’s no magic formula for that,
but tell it to the young widows, divorcees, and singles who see Bill as a hunky
standup guy who would make a good partner. He certainly embodies those
characteristics, but it’s safe to say that he also has unresolved issues. One
of them involves the need to nurture his children, not just provide for them.
Another is to redefine his life on his own terms, a process that entails
accepting help without biting off more than he wishes to chew. Can he, for
example, prevail upon realtor Liz Donahue to extricate him from Dora’s house
without giving her false hopes? Ali faces similar pressures. She knows she
needs support her father can’t give, but what could possibly be more
problematic among peers in an insular town than speaking with a counselor?
Especially Mena Cruz, a small Filipina woman who grew up in Puerto Rico. (Ali has to remind Grandmother Dora that Puerto Ricans are Americans!)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One could tag <i>After Annie </i>as five stages of grief in
five seasons. But if you’re expecting any sort of conventional happy ending,
Quindlen has written a tragic drama, not a fairy tale. Most people recover from
loss, rather than overcome it. Put in Kübler-Ross’ terms, they come to
acceptance, not amnesia. To reiterate, Annie Brown remains a living presence,
even after death. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Yellowface </i>(2023)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>By R. F. Kuang</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Harper Collins, 323 pages</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★★</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzOeCiffPzmei6d8aRyve2mhA0vU74uK95lqwWdgE4InieacHIvebOXz6Ryy3lJsu8yRb-rJIENwSzZv2KMTY9RgESOnQ2GyJt-JOtAIlD8kAK-D12v65Ssf-W3gFEgbuJG2QYRXQR68LyppVneEdNalOEm75d97xkm_2ktiBP6Xc1bsVNvAkU28OIhhRB/s1000/61pZ0M900BL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="663" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzOeCiffPzmei6d8aRyve2mhA0vU74uK95lqwWdgE4InieacHIvebOXz6Ryy3lJsu8yRb-rJIENwSzZv2KMTY9RgESOnQ2GyJt-JOtAIlD8kAK-D12v65Ssf-W3gFEgbuJG2QYRXQR68LyppVneEdNalOEm75d97xkm_2ktiBP6Xc1bsVNvAkU28OIhhRB/w185-h280/61pZ0M900BL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="185" /></a></b></div><b><br /> <br /></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Given that <i>Babel </i>is
one of my favorite novels of recent memory, the next novel by <b>R. F. Kuang</b>
had to be a letdown. That happened with <b><i>Yellowface,</i></b><i> </i>though
not for the reasons<i> </i>I anticipated.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There is still much to recommend, so let's start with that.
First, it blows the lid off the viciousness of the publication business,
especially agents, editors, marketers, legal teams, and social media trolls who
can make or break a book. <i>Yellowface</i> details how the previously
mentioned invent more than the writers. In other words, not all the fiction is
on the page.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Is a writer’s life glamorous? Kuang presents it as a lonely
profession of toil, rejection, self-doubt, turf protection, endless rewrites,
negotiation, and for the chosen few, ephemeral success. The book that gets
published is seldom the one that the author set out to write; it is shaped by
market-driven publication teams that claim mystic knowledge of what readers want,
what's unique, and what's too outré. As is often the case, they want books to
conform to the world they helped create. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Yellowface</i> also makes us contemplate the definition
of plagiarism, as well as who has the right to tell a particular kind of story
and who was guilty of cultural appropriation. Enter jealousy, the cancel
culture and just plain nasty troublemakers.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And its heart are two 27-year-old writers, Athena Liu and June
Song Hayward. Athena had a book deal before she even graduated from college. She
is hailed as a generational voice in Asian American literature, is attractive,
owns classy digs in Georgetown, and has money galore. What she lacks is friendship.
She is a self-absorbed loner with cloaked contempt for critics, readers, and
publishers. For some reason, Athena occasionally wants a girls’ night out with
Hayward. June doesn't really like Athena much, but she appreciates her talent
and her complimentary remarks about June's writing. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Secretly June envies Athena's success, as her own writing has
garnered decent reviews but not much gain. One soiree at Athena’s apartment ends
with a bout of laughter in which Athena chokes, June's attempts at the Heimlich
maneuver fail, and by the time ET's arrive, Athena is dead. On impulse, June
lifts a completed manuscript from Athena's desk and spirits it away.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It's not quite what you think. June is shocked that Athena
considered it finished. There are a few golden sentences and there is possibility
in the story of Chinese conscripted labor in World War II, but it’s a boring,
rambling mess filled with asides and dense detours few readers would wish to
navigate. June painstakingly does her own research, creates characters, imposes
narrative coherence, and completely rewrites it until all that's left is the
general idea.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Whose book is it? June shops as her own, has a spat with one
publisher, and lands another who promises it will be the year's literary
sensation. But if you think June did surgery, the publishers have much more in
mind, including adding romance and heroic white characters. They also decide to
put the name of Juniper Song on the cover because it sounds faintly Asian. June
never pretended to be Asian, but she's cowed into going along with dropping her
surname. (Her middle name Song is merely a melodic <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>family name.) Her publisher assures her all
will be fine.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The book is indeed a big hit, but her photo leads trolls to
question where a white chick gets off donning yellowface to write about Asians.
The publisher doesn't care as long as the sales roll in, but social media
explodes when proprietary trolls insist that nobody who isn't Asian could write
such a book. They drop the charge that she stole it from her dead friend. Did
she? As the sharks circle, things get very complicated.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Yellowface</i> shifts from conscience-wrestling to a
thriller and it's not a smooth transition. Kuang is a skilled storyteller but–and
it’s <i>big</i> but–the tale she tells is very analogous to Jean Hanff Korelitz's
<i>The Plot</i> (2021). The externals are different, but the manner of reworking
a dead author’s ideas are quite similar. To be clear, I’m not suggesting the
P-word, as Korelitz didn't exactly invent the scenario. However, <i>The Plot </i>is
more consistent in tone and the psychology of its protagonist. I was, however,
disappointed that Kuang published her book so soon after Korelitz’s novel
appeared. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b></p>
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<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>Best Concerts:</b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b> </b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Okay, so I got a little preoccupied, forgot to fix a broken
link, and didn’t get around to finishing my (personal) best of 2023 lists.
Belatedly, here is my list of favorite concerts<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>and favorite art exhibits.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQANsErFT5EoH639PMU-x5w0-hInYvKkSNTDDGlaAo1Cyg6rEC1Hl-KZ9abNN4q3Vzg6SRN1PFbkXdrstfYT5p8Txk0SpoLevJTGMpOmxN-6oaG8jxDsS_JKbAgUT7UlRNDiWo4mSShdj5fqZ5l1KDLAOGfwCUFJm12Gt8N2mkSGf2BDTgT707Z84S9yw9/s1920/TomPaxton_SliderBackground_2018.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1920" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQANsErFT5EoH639PMU-x5w0-hInYvKkSNTDDGlaAo1Cyg6rEC1Hl-KZ9abNN4q3Vzg6SRN1PFbkXdrstfYT5p8Txk0SpoLevJTGMpOmxN-6oaG8jxDsS_JKbAgUT7UlRNDiWo4mSShdj5fqZ5l1KDLAOGfwCUFJm12Gt8N2mkSGf2BDTgT707Z84S9yw9/w303-h152/TomPaxton_SliderBackground_2018.jpg" width="303" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tom Paxton<br /></td></tr></tbody></table> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I saw numerous concerts last year, but several stood out.
First, a shout to one at the end of 2022 at the Whately Town Hall. <b>Tom
Paxton </b>turned the packed venue into a giant living room that felt so much
like a farewell tour that there were many moist eyes as audience members sang
along to their favorites from an icon of the Folk Revival.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ggY8Aweswn57kGjpLtl1-WpEDSp3qeYer1o8dDHCZ9Qydf0RGRAq8TQwuS81oNkoUsJxC5CH6Wj8O8gOGQp7nP_W1MLOuoDfCfH0-4m5ign0r2GH8t61dp3T2ku86dsHVrXMZwZ7JEsISR3cVx5ZHmIIrHb6Rwe66q899k6cNI5-LL0-6FSh_OzIQU53/s1200/attachment-mary-chapin-carpenter-2023-tour-dates.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ggY8Aweswn57kGjpLtl1-WpEDSp3qeYer1o8dDHCZ9Qydf0RGRAq8TQwuS81oNkoUsJxC5CH6Wj8O8gOGQp7nP_W1MLOuoDfCfH0-4m5ign0r2GH8t61dp3T2ku86dsHVrXMZwZ7JEsISR3cVx5ZHmIIrHb6Rwe66q899k6cNI5-LL0-6FSh_OzIQU53/w282-h188/attachment-mary-chapin-carpenter-2023-tour-dates.jpg" width="282" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mary Chapin Carpenter<br /></td></tr></tbody></table> <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The best show by far came from <b>Mary Chapin Carpenter</b>,
who appeared at Northampton’s Academy of Music in August. The AOM is not a
great venue for amplified music, but MCC’s sound crew squeezed out the best
sound I’ve ever heard there. She is also the consummate pro who knows how to <i>sing</i>
a song, not just scream it. </p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaULILAbxp135PgAPEGdRBvY-vDmP84MHqp1VW70n1GbSbCOKVZ720ODvmHunPbno5xlZ206NW3JpZ5-aAjQhhVlzmZ2bY1VBWzW8kap-D2g75yLa40eTDB21U1GlgPT1wjQqddJ-dQzjsw-0OCrwl0OMuupUAKP99Htr0xG_q3EwwJBj9Gxm1__5rfpW1/s1920/1614594530858472c5e13e672311ca3a6.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaULILAbxp135PgAPEGdRBvY-vDmP84MHqp1VW70n1GbSbCOKVZ720ODvmHunPbno5xlZ206NW3JpZ5-aAjQhhVlzmZ2bY1VBWzW8kap-D2g75yLa40eTDB21U1GlgPT1wjQqddJ-dQzjsw-0OCrwl0OMuupUAKP99Htr0xG_q3EwwJBj9Gxm1__5rfpW1/s320/1614594530858472c5e13e672311ca3a6.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breabach</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Close on MCC’s heels were five Celtic shows at Bombyx in
Florence: <b>Altan </b>has been around since 1987, but the band breathed new
life into their performance rather than just mailing it in like so many veteran
acts do. I had heard recordings of the Scottish band <b>Breabach</b>, but I was
pleasantly surprised by how energetic and exciting they were on stage. Speaking
of which, Ireland’s <b>Lunasa </b>has long been an instrumental group but
they’ve added singer/guitarist Colin Farrell (no, not <i>that</i> guy) who
allows the band’s repertoire to expand. It was a great show. If you’ve never
seen fiddler extraordinaire <b>Eileen Ivers</b>, you don’t what Celtic music
sounds like when it melds with other musical forms. Ivers plays with passion
and fire. I also caught the farewell tour of <b>Clannad</b>, who are coming off
the road after 52 years. You’d never know they’re in their geriatric years! </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That’s a segue to mentioning <b>Judy Collins</b> who
appeared at the AOM. She’s 84, but still sings like an angel. Every now and
then you hear her shift to a lower register, but she recreated her album <i>Wildflowers
</i>and transported us back to 1967. How she can still sing like that is like
asking how Catherine Deneuve still looks gorgeous. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The AOM saw another goodbye in its <b>John Prine Tribute </b>lineup
as part of the Back Porch Festival at the AOM. A solid lineup of local
musicians formed a band that fronted various guest artists to celebrate Prine’s
life and amazing repertoire of songs poignant and funny. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Finally, <b>Lisa Bastoni’s </b>show at the Parlor Room was
simply a warm throwback to the days when folk music didn’t need more than a
guitar and a sweet voice. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If you’re wondering if I saw any bad shows, yeah, one. <b>Lisa
Lambert </b>at the AOM, which was like an LGBTQ version of <i>Hee Haw</i>. She
has some chops, but her voice also audibly broke and strained. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>Best of the Art
World:</b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This needs to be broken into several categories. Some of our
most joyous moments took place behind our computer listening to the amazing
talks from <b>Jane Oneail, </b>founder Culturally Curious (<a href="https://iamculturallycurious.com/">https://iamculturallycurious.com/</a> )Jane
makes you understand and care about art you never thought you’d like.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpvTe0FXgnfzU8fokp5A2-i6IqP_JCJKAviVMDR1wPYE2ejIzzXfH1_pGWJOTLAWeI8uSAE0A4rqnl3FUOe9zA0VbVwgXnfM3UaLzDuZnJNXctv_Vu_WY0pjSU22j9c9uRklDUsWwjJvFB9NGrcFC-FeCqgm9TFwW0h8CygRrkMfe1GmIVin-sbVhu91sX/s3120/DSCF0384%20copy.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="2080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpvTe0FXgnfzU8fokp5A2-i6IqP_JCJKAviVMDR1wPYE2ejIzzXfH1_pGWJOTLAWeI8uSAE0A4rqnl3FUOe9zA0VbVwgXnfM3UaLzDuZnJNXctv_Vu_WY0pjSU22j9c9uRklDUsWwjJvFB9NGrcFC-FeCqgm9TFwW0h8CygRrkMfe1GmIVin-sbVhu91sX/s320/DSCF0384%20copy.JPG" width="213" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKyQusmVuwl7Jt-4PEyL3ApafhtRX0tBeJKbUp9AFs11_Fg0BdbDvfTJ3v39EaZChxkGKCNEPC9mCURGo4SK9cOy4gfr1wYZOBYh74L6x6V7TNIAroNQm6z_gGMFtT1-izZHeNBITMP1z-McFuPyMFvF3Oq6F8-SkbTsF93_uqzysaIY-WRgD-JZ0rOLr/s4032/IMG_6646%20copy.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKyQusmVuwl7Jt-4PEyL3ApafhtRX0tBeJKbUp9AFs11_Fg0BdbDvfTJ3v39EaZChxkGKCNEPC9mCURGo4SK9cOy4gfr1wYZOBYh74L6x6V7TNIAroNQm6z_gGMFtT1-izZHeNBITMP1z-McFuPyMFvF3Oq6F8-SkbTsF93_uqzysaIY-WRgD-JZ0rOLr/s320/IMG_6646%20copy.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal">But I really need to parse the shows because we were lucky
enough to be in Europe in May. It’s hardly fair to compare our favorite
experiences to gallery shows Stateside. If you’re ever in <b>Lucerne,
Switzerland, </b>a must go is the <b>Sammland Rosengart</b>. (It’s not the city
art museum.) In the private Rosengart Collection you will see voluminous
numbers of canvasses from <b>Pablo Picasso </b>(above) and <b>Paul Klee </b>(below) and I liked
both immensely. In fact, I liked the Klees in Lucerne more than what I saw in
Bern’s Paul Klee Museum.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8hxyvqZHnUKPZVUn88soJzbewEg5HcLjBiPILgwE7jvJJMQvE5FUlJQ8-RPalV7pxUtCyGEcIvUdEgJu3x00jWUYgoEpX6-tgrj43c185hYZBfYTHc9I34e23uOpn3YddHcfoj9yoht1eGnijzfUxfNgy1rGulYI3q-upqn2jPR6OL6hWbfAaYVNfveh_/s1146/DSCF0373%20copy.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1146" data-original-width="992" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8hxyvqZHnUKPZVUn88soJzbewEg5HcLjBiPILgwE7jvJJMQvE5FUlJQ8-RPalV7pxUtCyGEcIvUdEgJu3x00jWUYgoEpX6-tgrj43c185hYZBfYTHc9I34e23uOpn3YddHcfoj9yoht1eGnijzfUxfNgy1rGulYI3q-upqn2jPR6OL6hWbfAaYVNfveh_/s320/DSCF0373%20copy.JPG" width="277" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi29IeCYwAEtEfMTo-nJI5sZuMGvwq8Fnn6wQ2ZVacsEY5YMaMQQ7-ygRqWZRx-xm760MRRrE_IDqdjiUATvNPh8y70Jdz44tZb0jMvzSH0AGc3BwMr3ThEAS6Bluo3UxP-_jpkWivyU0gbdYtROqwr0p8dyyF-MuOsbnuASpZxtp9bRl0jiDpLITHHRjXp/s3120/DSCF0380%20copy.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2080" data-original-width="3120" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi29IeCYwAEtEfMTo-nJI5sZuMGvwq8Fnn6wQ2ZVacsEY5YMaMQQ7-ygRqWZRx-xm760MRRrE_IDqdjiUATvNPh8y70Jdz44tZb0jMvzSH0AGc3BwMr3ThEAS6Bluo3UxP-_jpkWivyU0gbdYtROqwr0p8dyyF-MuOsbnuASpZxtp9bRl0jiDpLITHHRjXp/s320/DSCF0380%20copy.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If you consider medieval churches art–and you should–<b>Chartres
</b>might be the best of France given that Notre Dame is still under
reconstruction. If not Chartres, then certainly the jewel box <b>Ste. Chapelle </b>in
Paris.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4f1a-4InVeLtKucMVAL8ihWuEU_bFs5EYcXH9QDww8TN8f4rom-r-UliDUMNGkv0_s-5X_IG1BRALUjeBLKpiookq97jHRYJQ6HvBZhJRwyqi45DOhN51yOKLLIFrm90FBEsOoGxfrKzgCQlWPjpOVzIEjk8B-Gg4MGs9lXiUFDqCWJetiaeZx5kyzUjc/s2817/DSCF0174%20copy.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2069" data-original-width="2817" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4f1a-4InVeLtKucMVAL8ihWuEU_bFs5EYcXH9QDww8TN8f4rom-r-UliDUMNGkv0_s-5X_IG1BRALUjeBLKpiookq97jHRYJQ6HvBZhJRwyqi45DOhN51yOKLLIFrm90FBEsOoGxfrKzgCQlWPjpOVzIEjk8B-Gg4MGs9lXiUFDqCWJetiaeZx5kyzUjc/s320/DSCF0174%20copy.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chartres</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYVMQPACzxaHkpdhD888QwTKVJtGgB7kIyF9WLFJwxiaenYLZa8nRxDCV7H6b2jzkZ6xVRe7Hk_C1qltGAcmbmx9kQ9x64T1xlXr2gD4w0w6xuAuVNNy52-NUrGuWDHlgLrjrBNkXTI9kXyTb5jJJ2o75CUIrUnuruolZNcAphZzjJd_GYdlNcH1MVty0/s3120/DSCF0316%20copy.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2080" data-original-width="3120" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYVMQPACzxaHkpdhD888QwTKVJtGgB7kIyF9WLFJwxiaenYLZa8nRxDCV7H6b2jzkZ6xVRe7Hk_C1qltGAcmbmx9kQ9x64T1xlXr2gD4w0w6xuAuVNNy52-NUrGuWDHlgLrjrBNkXTI9kXyTb5jJJ2o75CUIrUnuruolZNcAphZzjJd_GYdlNcH1MVty0/s320/DSCF0316%20copy.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ste. Chapelle<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The above said, of all the repositories I’ve ever entered, <b>Musée
D’Orsay </b>in Paris might be my favorite. If you like Impressionism, Fauvism,
Post-Impressionism, or pretty much any other kind of art, sculpture, or
photography from the years 1848-1914, it is <i>the</i> place to go. Even the
revamped train station that houses it is spectacular. The only thing
restricting your enjoyment is that it’s so rich that your brain might explode
from trying to take it all in.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnjpUpGBRwvPbL-WDA0gmFHix2VCX56zpoy8bLy4mGUyHARf9o0tEXzejQrXkCxRZwovS-PeVDfQYk1pAw_jl6F5lu_U-q52D99X2hTbRt3VqilLtvFUpe55xflYAYr6HJUyv-XhZYapVMPRUbMQtDmYyvkyeo94tbJbcIQRqf106HZKtzZWdmLiExHXWo/s1797/Cezanne%20The%20Card%20Players%20copy.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1509" data-original-width="1797" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnjpUpGBRwvPbL-WDA0gmFHix2VCX56zpoy8bLy4mGUyHARf9o0tEXzejQrXkCxRZwovS-PeVDfQYk1pAw_jl6F5lu_U-q52D99X2hTbRt3VqilLtvFUpe55xflYAYr6HJUyv-XhZYapVMPRUbMQtDmYyvkyeo94tbJbcIQRqf106HZKtzZWdmLiExHXWo/s320/Cezanne%20The%20Card%20Players%20copy.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cezanne</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9KTzL7A2zBhYQZBkJeeTuDgcKR1z6kxFz6EVYgP-lKBuOBia43cpmJR4cREa4XQzjxtr9Aos1-a-IA7vp1tjvesWi4FtoXDm2c-YSuY-BkRprzZVHOuWHDCr20P5giJP5uYNLBKGzE9g20SyUO5px-QEa3Ej3MeoJ1HQpOFb6N-KMeQL3S9RQwhm3UjU/s1932/MonetJPG%20copy.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1595" data-original-width="1932" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9KTzL7A2zBhYQZBkJeeTuDgcKR1z6kxFz6EVYgP-lKBuOBia43cpmJR4cREa4XQzjxtr9Aos1-a-IA7vp1tjvesWi4FtoXDm2c-YSuY-BkRprzZVHOuWHDCr20P5giJP5uYNLBKGzE9g20SyUO5px-QEa3Ej3MeoJ1HQpOFb6N-KMeQL3S9RQwhm3UjU/s320/MonetJPG%20copy.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monet</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3c45fQy9HOQe587Dul79wgWJtYT73bU3ZvZEod4Pnr8R_pjzVqQdyGOVF13J3SY42iMAsM2rZaSH5S_XtUgzVIdr19erng70k5sl_ZGy2MRjfz9CtdJqHmv6hpf3FovkFh9C5wrndK_f7Yq2fw2zIziwbnyuRkfOvSIDAiA_Gktiqc4gg4CGfTI5XTWCW/s1852/Paul%20Signac%20copy.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1419" data-original-width="1852" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3c45fQy9HOQe587Dul79wgWJtYT73bU3ZvZEod4Pnr8R_pjzVqQdyGOVF13J3SY42iMAsM2rZaSH5S_XtUgzVIdr19erng70k5sl_ZGy2MRjfz9CtdJqHmv6hpf3FovkFh9C5wrndK_f7Yq2fw2zIziwbnyuRkfOvSIDAiA_Gktiqc4gg4CGfTI5XTWCW/s320/Paul%20Signac%20copy.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paul Signac<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNc_GWVrXMlkWtNJ86urnL-W45_dSbZLetdHnmRrwIzZCPtnmuiMyJNHJ5Wxh_nG0KjXtcHDI5EM2UpgH2KDa9OUvkiQFywkM5pEp2a9bMw51ZyQZD4AjC2N6mxSG9QP3yEKiQwwVR8FykfXBptush12GD-ylLCeNvUrHcW9PRguz3SqmZ_maKerH3UCom/s3120/Van%20Gogh%20copy.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2080" data-original-width="3120" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNc_GWVrXMlkWtNJ86urnL-W45_dSbZLetdHnmRrwIzZCPtnmuiMyJNHJ5Wxh_nG0KjXtcHDI5EM2UpgH2KDa9OUvkiQFywkM5pEp2a9bMw51ZyQZD4AjC2N6mxSG9QP3yEKiQwwVR8FykfXBptush12GD-ylLCeNvUrHcW9PRguz3SqmZ_maKerH3UCom/s320/Van%20Gogh%20copy.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Van Gogh<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSCZtRpIwnD-0GOTXZja9oOQbp0f_kY1g8beyPS3HqMBpkBQiEVUrU9nm6tKkLERnJ7rQ5DNa34wQdKrDJVEUuP4Wtw0s9x-K5k43aSOFqhalCTL-xUYC4ClLQCao2xeJIZydL0MOHZJ0qY4gYN9qEsQSOcJJJaTieLpJ-DCZvFzKLcFxgp8Tq3gdWKqst/s3120/DSCF0289%20copy.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2080" data-original-width="3120" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSCZtRpIwnD-0GOTXZja9oOQbp0f_kY1g8beyPS3HqMBpkBQiEVUrU9nm6tKkLERnJ7rQ5DNa34wQdKrDJVEUuP4Wtw0s9x-K5k43aSOFqhalCTL-xUYC4ClLQCao2xeJIZydL0MOHZJ0qY4gYN9qEsQSOcJJJaTieLpJ-DCZvFzKLcFxgp8Tq3gdWKqst/s320/DSCF0289%20copy.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There are huge galleries on both sides & 3 floors<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We saw some fine shows back home as well. Three stood above
the rest. A show at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts devoted to <b>John Singer
Sargent </b>and fashion was sprawling and amazing. A trip to the <b>Cloisters</b>
in New York City, where I hadn’t been in decades, was almost as good as
visiting <b>Cluny </b>in Paris. But I give a slight # 1 nod to a show of <b>Edvard
Munch and Nature</b> at the Clark Institute of Art. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI51lqhIjpAf4VfdPoPCnHa6ogkvWUNI3h3ycuXeyuERBo_FyQGc8z3adW5a5dCLlBEeQvYjTHuYCyjlk3wyIidKiNMd7pJnzAdFVbNe0bYl7AIZdZ4lVpfSkrDYTP4e55j8g2icXDJs0J2l8sSuLvJ6AHqtq2qCtwOyVMODdLiBEoZ77SoROTvya04UtM/s2524/Starry%20Night%201922%20copy.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2524" data-original-width="1921" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI51lqhIjpAf4VfdPoPCnHa6ogkvWUNI3h3ycuXeyuERBo_FyQGc8z3adW5a5dCLlBEeQvYjTHuYCyjlk3wyIidKiNMd7pJnzAdFVbNe0bYl7AIZdZ4lVpfSkrDYTP4e55j8g2icXDJs0J2l8sSuLvJ6AHqtq2qCtwOyVMODdLiBEoZ77SoROTvya04UtM/s320/Starry%20Night%201922%20copy.JPG" width="244" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Edvard Munch's "Starry Night"<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /> <br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We didn’t actually see any disappointing exhibitions, large
or small. As for the latter, if you’re ever in the area, pay a visit to the <b>Brattleboro
Museum of Art </b>in Vermont. When you don’t have a huge endowment or permanent
collection, clever curators can do a lot with limited resources. Few do it
better than, in New England parlance, the folks “up to Brat.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidV8yH7DgufR5w897ANH1LZ3GRiObn4jmR6MX1MxFqW4fUQ2Of8ZZ0j9RqLkc6iaubl9wuxBnrTnDeJnmzD0NQJl_bkvh621oWDRFJZoC9B3wXTr5ADgJ-41QEn1UXz4aeH1jBOzLyV6uFwWr7a3gi9qxVYWJ9ExWV-vtBGP2hhXzJB4PDYMaGv8J8tjxb/s1200/share.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidV8yH7DgufR5w897ANH1LZ3GRiObn4jmR6MX1MxFqW4fUQ2Of8ZZ0j9RqLkc6iaubl9wuxBnrTnDeJnmzD0NQJl_bkvh621oWDRFJZoC9B3wXTr5ADgJ-41QEn1UXz4aeH1jBOzLyV6uFwWr7a3gi9qxVYWJ9ExWV-vtBGP2hhXzJB4PDYMaGv8J8tjxb/s320/share.jpg" width="320" /></a></i></b></div><b><i> </i></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Barbie </i>(2023)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Directed by Greta Gerwig</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Warner Brothers, 114 minutes, PG-13</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span face=""Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★★</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span face=""Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If you told me on January 1 of last year that I would watch
a film about the doll Barbie, I would have suggested you check yourself into
rehab. But, as almost everyone on the planet knows, <b><i>Barbie</i> </b>the
movie actually happened. It had a big budget–more than $125 million–but <b>Greta
Gerwig</b> as director and cowriter (with Noah Baumbach) made a film
that has raked in $1.4 billion and counting.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">How to review such a cultural powerhouse? I know practically
nothing about Barbie beyond what I saw in TV ads that interrupted my boyhood
Saturday morning cartoons. In my generation, any boy with a Barbie invited
ostracism and even those with a G.I. Joe were suspect. No apologies or regrets,
it’s simply the way it was. Thus, I am not qualified to say what Barbie dolls
meant or did not mean to little girls of my era or to the women they are now. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I can comment on <i>Barbie </i>as a piece of filmmaking. The
set designs of Sarah Greenwood and Katie Spencer are fabulous. They took
inspiration from the mid-century modernism of Palm Springs and built a Barbie
fantasy land bathed in pink with aqua accents. The sets tiptoe the line between
toy world and the sort of sharp lines-meet-garish colors often associated with
1950s architecture. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Equally impressive were the costumes from Jacqueline Durran
and the hair/makeup efforts of Ivana Primorac. I have no idea how many Oscar
nominations <i>Barbie</i> will garner, but I’d not be surprised to see it sweep
all things production and style related. (I hope that doesn’t happen with
music, much of which I found annoying. Then again, it’s not the sort of thing
you’ll find on my playlists.) </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A surprising admission: I found <i>Barbie </i>fun to watch.
Its two leads–Margot Robbie as Stereotypical Barbie and Ryan Gosling as Beach
Ken–were well cast and clearly enjoyed chewing up the scenery. Robbie was
especially an inspired choice. At one point in the movie she is so depressed
that she feels “ugly.” We hear Helen Mirren’s snarky voiceover telling Mattel
that if they want someone to look ugly, “don’t cast Margot Robbie.” That’s for
sure! She’s simply stunning physically, but also throws herself into her role
and isn’t afraid of self-deprecating humor. (Ditto for a buffed up Ryan Gosling,
who apparently can sing.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here's the rub. It’s simultaneously a satire, an extended
commercial for Mattel, and has a storyline that is too often cloying. After we
revel in Barbieland–where every female not named Skipper is a “Barbie” from Mattel’s evolving product line (Black Barbies, professional Barbies,
plus-sized Barbie)–the movie confronts the need to impose a story of some sort.
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Some sort indeed. All the males are named Ken, except for
the dumped product Allan (Michael Cera), and most are in love with
Stereotypical Barbie, especially Beach Ken and Tourist Ken (Simu Liu). It’s
futile, of course, because every day is exactly the same in Barbieland and
nobody has genitals. (There are some funny, if cheap jokes about that.) But
when Stereotypical Barbie asks if anyone ever thinks about “death,” it’s an
indication that there is a rip in the barrier between Barbieland and the real
world that Weird Barbie (Kate McKinnon) insists must be fixed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Robbie and Gosling set off to the real world, a shocking and
awkward encounter that will involve going to Mattel headquarters in Los
Angeles, where CEO Will Ferrell and his all-male board are horrified to see
Barbie. This sets off a heavy-handed caper/chase film that covers terrain such
as Ken’s discovery of patriarchy, a tween who hates Barbie (Ariana Greenblatt),
her mother who doesn’t (America Ferrera), philosophy lite, meeting Barbie’s
creator (Rhea Perlman), major trouble in Barbieland–rebranded as Kenland–a
showdown between Kens, dealing with the rupture, Barbie’s Pinocchio-like
desires, and a hysterical ending line. It sort of/kind of works, but it’s also
undeniably hackneyed. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To its credit, <i>Barbie </i>raises themes and questions
about patriarchy, femininity, feminism, materialism, mortality, the meaning of
beauty, and a few other things. But don’t worry; like Barbie dolls it’s more
gloss than substance. This is in part because Mattel Films was involved in the
production. Mattel deserves credit for poking fun at itself, but like all
things in the movie, it’s a gentle jibe designed to help its bottom line.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><br /> </i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i> </i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGeDGpZiSdj4Chv-UBFTWQShPoHJbr5qf019bN42w7uUKGh6yj6Pw5tBwnTTdqW-BACma1odHtRZIFGqrVsL41C3T1-T_zLMAhJTG2xGLx-0y60fEGvZscdBn8l80TTahG4sl6c5HexDJh1kl15K3InCkmBDW7ozCsgBBFN0RjI7Z94Lte13ekHrerQs3U/s1000/81UM8ohQFTL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="624" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGeDGpZiSdj4Chv-UBFTWQShPoHJbr5qf019bN42w7uUKGh6yj6Pw5tBwnTTdqW-BACma1odHtRZIFGqrVsL41C3T1-T_zLMAhJTG2xGLx-0y60fEGvZscdBn8l80TTahG4sl6c5HexDJh1kl15K3InCkmBDW7ozCsgBBFN0RjI7Z94Lte13ekHrerQs3U/s320/81UM8ohQFTL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Early Morning Riser </i>(2023)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>By Katherine Heiny</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Borzoi Books, 317 pages</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span face=""Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";">★★★★</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span face=""Segoe UI Symbol",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol";"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Early Morning Riser</i> </b>is touching, funny, and
occasionally tart. Author <b>Katharine Heiny</b> reminds readers that
relationships only need to make sense to those in them. There’s a backdoor
shout out to advice columnist Ann Landers (1918-2002) whose favorite
instruction to busybodies was “MYOB.” That’s “mind your own business” for the
text abbreviation crowd. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jane Wilkes is a 26-year-old second-grade teacher who has
recently moved to Boyne City, a real place of around 4,000 people in northern
Michigan. Several actual places, including the ice cream/candy store Kilwins
factor into the story. Heiny’s Boyne City is a friendly place, but also one
prone to gossip and to nosy parkers who give advice whether you want it or not.
Locals think Jane is a wonderful teacher, but they try to warn her off of
42-year-old local carpenter Duncan Ryfield. Much of the population love Duncan or,
more accurately, <i>has</i> loved him. He’s a free-spirited cowboy/Lothario
type who, aside from a dissolved marriage to the realtor Aggie, has had brief
flings with most of the single women in the town and adjoining region. When
Jane starts to fall for him, the locals as well as Jane’s bossy mother Phyllis,
(metaphorically) line up to take bets on how long she will last.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The weird part is that most of Duncan’s ex-lovers think he’s
a great guy who is resourceful and treats women with respect. That includes
Aggie, who Jane suspects still carries a torch for Duncan. But she’s now
married to Gary, a State Farm agent and a seriously odd guy that we suspect
isn’t all there. Among Duncan’s good deeds is throwing work to Jimmy Jellico, a
seemingly mentally challenged guy very reminiscent of Rub in Richard Russo’s
North Bath, New York<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>novels. Jimmy’s
favorite lines–which he repeats ad nauseam–are “How about that? Isn’t that
something?” Like Rub, Jimmy has a very unusual relationship. He is besotted
with Raylene, who works at Kilwins, and is either pretty or ugly as sin,
depending on who you ask. She’s twice divorced, lives in a trailer park, is
decidedly lower class, and seems to have a boyfriend. Duncan figures this is
nobody’s business and goes out of his way to involve Jimmy in socializing. Jane
easily falls in line with that. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We quickly catch on that eccentricity rules in Boyne City.
Some of the local color includes a mandolin player, a lush who falls in love
late in life, an almost wedding, and some other relationships that make those
of Jane, Aggie, Duncan, and Gary seem almost normal. A tragedy and a scam will
throw Duncan, Jane, and Jimmy into an intentional family. Jane will even become
a mother. The crisis about that is that Duncan has to wrack his brain to come
up with a girl’s name that isn’t that of any woman he once dated! </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As you can see, <i>Early Riser </i>is an unconventional
novel. One of its finest virtues is that it calls into question the very
definition of convention. It has many screamingly funny tidbits, not the least
of which are Jane’s career day classes in which she invites guests to share
what their work entails. I shall say only that some of it is certainly not what
you’d expect second graders to hear! Taco Tuesdays are another sometimes
bizarre occasion. On a more serious note, Jimmy is officially “dull normal.”
That’s a term that’s still used, despite the fact that it’s an oxymoron that’s
roughly as clear as a murder of crows at midnight. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Comedian Lenny Bruce once said, “I hate small towns because
once you’ve seen the cannon in the park there’s nothing else to do.” I guess
Lenny never visited Boyne City. He would have found a lot of surreal material
for his act in the small towns abutting Lake Michigan.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHV1KYn60j-rftv0wj6B5HeARBhdITrlKdtnpfnRW-zcI2l0NHPsCJ5eocYHl7YEz1hGiK9xDY-DfYKnLTRsloQFfMtG_-e_sncoMgrJP-oty6JNnbg8z22i-c9JdDQpnBTzhhHGqMwgVLi4HmooDn2ATlm7JcMDIrW4-17WnyProoxNHso9LEPNzKUfcJ/s640/ab67616d0000b2730b4539161d8c5e5ca1b71a07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHV1KYn60j-rftv0wj6B5HeARBhdITrlKdtnpfnRW-zcI2l0NHPsCJ5eocYHl7YEz1hGiK9xDY-DfYKnLTRsloQFfMtG_-e_sncoMgrJP-oty6JNnbg8z22i-c9JdDQpnBTzhhHGqMwgVLi4HmooDn2ATlm7JcMDIrW4-17WnyProoxNHso9LEPNzKUfcJ/w218-h218/ab67616d0000b2730b4539161d8c5e5ca1b71a07.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Afro-Canadian/Mohawk <b>Julian Taylor </b>has put out so
much good music of late that I consider him to be my artist of the year for
2023. If you’ve not yet heard him or want to get up to speed, he has released <b><i>Anthology
Volume 1</i></b><i>,</i>18 tracks from his back catalogue that capture him in
his various guises: folk singer, rocker, solo artist, band rat, and Canada’s
answer to Motown blues and soul. It’s no exaggeration to say that he’s
masterful in each genre. “<a href=" City Song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xy324ATqfCc ">City Song” </a>is a bittersweet reminder that a
musician’s life on the road is pitted with perils. His journey takes us from
Regina to Quebec City and New York. He tells us he “fell down,” but not out for
the count. He keeps things simpler but in the same vein on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dn_rFBQYWfE">“Ballad of a Young Troubadour,”</a> goes full soul man on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ez6A0-KF6vY">“Be Good to Your Woman”</a> (complete with some
retro keys), splashes us with drops of Carib vibe on “J<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HMtmcbYA7Wc">ust a Little Bit More,</a>”
and offers some roadhouse funk in “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YE6K8RTttMs">Zero to Eleven.</a>” No matter how it’s sliced
or diced, Julian Taylor is a master musical chef.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyxvqh3f9v7gwzNMBa0AC_Gu2ecW83BRJ53vTT9yFoKVMS_wl3NdFGBc0-g40uZKXIzGznf3QVESCupQg7Q6ZI-njDZliSj-1OpoApAr5J4-9lF0v8GQbVDz9biqh_cEhgvLXSFVA6_VvDExWuaUcHwGGB4aCsY9_QXJ0BZLwWt1d6S6Fv4KwXuIpBZqSf/s320/mqdefault.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="320" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyxvqh3f9v7gwzNMBa0AC_Gu2ecW83BRJ53vTT9yFoKVMS_wl3NdFGBc0-g40uZKXIzGznf3QVESCupQg7Q6ZI-njDZliSj-1OpoApAr5J4-9lF0v8GQbVDz9biqh_cEhgvLXSFVA6_VvDExWuaUcHwGGB4aCsY9_QXJ0BZLwWt1d6S6Fv4KwXuIpBZqSf/w301-h169/mqdefault.jpg" width="301" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><b> </b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Dogo du Togo </b>is a singer, a band, and an homage to Dogo’s
homeland. For those whose geography skills are rusty, Togo is a West African
nation tucked between Ghana and Benin. Dogo is the smooth lead vocalist of a
movable feast band that includes guitarists, a bass player, various backup
singers, and all manner of drums and clicking percussion. Dogo now resides in
the Washington, DC area but the band is pure West Africa. Think hypnotic
rhythms, bright guitar riffs, call-and response vocals, and music that makes
you sway. The album, simply titled <b><i>Dogo du Togo</i></b>, mostly
spotlights festive songs. Try “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UiIs6rZrPZM">Obligation”</a> and “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQ6QM7ii3Jc">Soké Wo</a>,” which features a
women’s backing chorus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you these–and
I like them a lot–seek out Dogo du Togo on Bandcamp and other musical
platforms. They will bring sunshine into your gray winter.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj6-QTOwt0SCkUD2mkoQrUXLZA10FqlZBDFAtEN3trZbwvZx88IcQy318vMquFo3GNjorx0EuxZhyafdJCQ9woyVinvnepJLnO1SWA_0wUDVI-wZDqRkzwr7xFlb7MiRjxiPGhkb9KvNJzXOh6Ib21A0p-mf8JNRYWnLPZ5zOBlhGmEfAUG2aVn1t5r4wz/s600/Emilie-Clepper_cover-album_THE-FAMILY-RECORD_SMALL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj6-QTOwt0SCkUD2mkoQrUXLZA10FqlZBDFAtEN3trZbwvZx88IcQy318vMquFo3GNjorx0EuxZhyafdJCQ9woyVinvnepJLnO1SWA_0wUDVI-wZDqRkzwr7xFlb7MiRjxiPGhkb9KvNJzXOh6Ib21A0p-mf8JNRYWnLPZ5zOBlhGmEfAUG2aVn1t5r4wz/w242-h242/Emilie-Clepper_cover-album_THE-FAMILY-RECORD_SMALL.jpg" width="242" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Emilie Clepper </b>lives in Quebec City, where she spent
much of her youth, and she identifies as Canadian. That said, <b><i>The</i> <i>Family
Record</i></b><i> </i>probably isn’t what you think. It includes her father
Russell (Porch Brothers), who is as Texan as the Brazos is wide. This album
crosses three borders. “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NTqb2fdMkqw">Pablo’s Mandolin”</a> gallops across the southern line into
Mexico and takes a Texan twang with it. “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XiAQQhLl3eg">Texas Sunshine”</a> also has giddyap, this
time through the blue bonnets. So Emilie is a PQ cowgirl, yes? Well… what do
you want to do with “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CVYW_NEaCOcL">La Valse à Gaètan,”</a> which sounds like Texas is a ‘burb of
Quebec City? Speaking of which, Emilie also sings a vibrato-heavy <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aZLCKPk4kos">“Streets ofQuebec.</a>” I guess it goes to show you shouldn’t judge an album by its cover.
This one grew on me more every time I listened.</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br />
</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEDgPYRcRNbiheJJbf_inVr-Ht6RaFp52gwUEjyKAeDIUOjC_8GNyFcspCQxT-VbFn1oJOeV05jY7ir_z4241WYuOxKSqWL4YS-v3z6TD18mNUdFGYWCPU1xxoU4zZkiKK0qXKm2LxoMjfOr7nCRcXvI9GP1jglt5PX_r_7Jl7twHevQJpMU1AU0K5w6A1/s3000/Lori%20Triplett.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="3000" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEDgPYRcRNbiheJJbf_inVr-Ht6RaFp52gwUEjyKAeDIUOjC_8GNyFcspCQxT-VbFn1oJOeV05jY7ir_z4241WYuOxKSqWL4YS-v3z6TD18mNUdFGYWCPU1xxoU4zZkiKK0qXKm2LxoMjfOr7nCRcXvI9GP1jglt5PX_r_7Jl7twHevQJpMU1AU0K5w6A1/w243-h243/Lori%20Triplett.jpg" width="243" /></a></div> <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Staying in the unexpected vein, don’t be surprised if <b><i>When
the Morning Comes</i></b>, the latest release from indie Nashville-based <b>Lori
Triplett</b>, is her breakthrough. It officially releases in March but can be
pre-ordered now and is an excellent blend of folk-based singer/songwriter tracks
and Nashville production. Check out <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s7Ry7UPiyc8">“Hollow White Oak” </a>with its ghostly
nostalgia feel and you’ll know right away that Triplett has chops. On the
sweeter side of things, try the piano-led “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w05IdrWqQc8">Things I’m Letting Go Of.</a>” A few of
the songs are drenched in too much production and would benefit from dialing
back the atmospherics, but Triplett can definitely air things out. It’s not on
the new album, but if you want to get more of a sense of her talent, listen to
her cover of Joni Mitchell’s <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zg1kZrhMC0U">“River.”</a> There’s only one Joni, but I didn’t turn
off Triplett’s version of one of my favorite songs of all time.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0aw-t03W4A05XzZ5gOhbRkqBklsQDQ6XQuT1dDLVrOYvfiYVSrWNjSv1l4todabGz38b0Cv1gMH05N5o7cyQARq-Sfayvk44iBFaEkT8J_cdS7zrf_BZIGWNEUbOb-dUSvJnz5ND72gg3C3Eq1_uJetlFy4MaElHZqXGRtMsYH4wdl149m0RLHn8tJc6/s1040/foreverhome.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="457" data-original-width="1040" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0aw-t03W4A05XzZ5gOhbRkqBklsQDQ6XQuT1dDLVrOYvfiYVSrWNjSv1l4todabGz38b0Cv1gMH05N5o7cyQARq-Sfayvk44iBFaEkT8J_cdS7zrf_BZIGWNEUbOb-dUSvJnz5ND72gg3C3Eq1_uJetlFy4MaElHZqXGRtMsYH4wdl149m0RLHn8tJc6/s320/foreverhome.png" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><b> </b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Shadwick Wilde </b>has squeezed a lot of experience out
of his life, not all of it good. He grew up with an activist mother and has
lived in San Francisco, Havana, and Amsterdam. He came out of his punk rock
phase and went into addiction rehab. <b><i>Forever Home </i></b>is a 360º turn
from the punk ethos, a mellow album (with powerful vocal transitions) that signal
a man who has found some peace but understands that love and life are fragile.
In the album’s <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c21YgW7ezjA">namesake track”</a> Wilde sings, <i>You are my forever home/I think
I’ve always known.</i> But such is his love that were she to decide upon a
”better home,” <i>I would burn it all down so you court start anew</i>. The
high piano keys, ringing tones, and gentle melody are emblematic of most of the
record. His <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_8qEiFi4an4">“Easy Rider”</a> is an easy glide, not a wild ride. He promises, <i>Your
precious cargo is safe with me</i>. On another track we understand that cargo
to be “Two Girls with Hazel Eyes.” Lest you think Wilde consumed by
sentimentality, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SUkeKPQZ2x0 ">“Floating Away”</a> contains both a metaphor of floating like water
and hoping <i>we end up in the same sea, </i>but also acknowledges that <i>it’s
not up to me</i>. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDkIqdvqz3TN8LRYhmiVx_y-oTk39qoywUcIpBhsZfUcXCcoV_yZjhPpW4F-lDc1DY_rjTIzwBkEGjoBGVU7evCCBXUe4weFqh53UiRimgcKomKieQQPXn8ASMpYHs4qWgTLpO8VfkRKKTGcte_TSLQFrL_owJ4W8NsE-YzvH5EO7Iw-XU-5iFR31IlxiQ/s1200/a0229115030_10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDkIqdvqz3TN8LRYhmiVx_y-oTk39qoywUcIpBhsZfUcXCcoV_yZjhPpW4F-lDc1DY_rjTIzwBkEGjoBGVU7evCCBXUe4weFqh53UiRimgcKomKieQQPXn8ASMpYHs4qWgTLpO8VfkRKKTGcte_TSLQFrL_owJ4W8NsE-YzvH5EO7Iw-XU-5iFR31IlxiQ/w191-h191/a0229115030_10.jpg" width="191" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Viv & Riley </b>(Vivian Leva and Riley Colcagno) are
a 20s-something bluegrass duo based in Durham, North Carolina. Their <b><i>Imaginary
People</i> </b>album builds off the title song to probe the various ways in
which we idealize ourselves. Needless to say, there’s sometimes a gap between
perception and reality, as Viv informs us in <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzDDmrTKt7s"> Imaginary People</a>, which is disguised as a self-confessional.
She has a sweet voice and carries most of the leads; Riley takes a few, but
mostly he harmonizes and adds really fine fiddle, banjo, mandolin, and guitar. (Some
might recall his days with the band The Onlies.) Riley does take the lead on “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FX4WXPW1rk8">Is It All Over,</a>” which is <i>not</i> a breakup song; it’s an ethereal little piece
that probes climate change and consequences of denial. <a href="ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8n_nrW1w0Rc">“Kygers Hill”</a> is a pop-infused
slice of nostalgia inspired by Viv’s Blue Ridge Virginia childhood home frontloaded–a
pun if you listen to the lyrics–with all the stuff you miss and all that sent
you running away. If that’s too Top 40ish for you, check out their cover of the
old timey standard “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KbMNhcDeRgw">The Blackest Crow.” </a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Rob Weir</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
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