Moonrise Kingdom: They Hype Surpasses the Product

MOONRISE KINGDOM (2012)

Directed by Wes Anderson

Focus Films, PG-13, 94 mins.

* * 1/2 

 

Everyone keeps waiting for director Wes Anderson to make his masterpiece. He already has–Rushmore (1998). That explains why he’s been remaking it ever since. Just as surely as a Fox News broadcast will contain a screed against “Obamacare,” a Woody Allen film will center on a hopeless neurotic played by the director (or a surrogate), and a John Irving novel will contain a bear, Vienna, and wrestling, so do all Wes Anderson films have standard elements. These include:

·      A main character (either a child or a perpetual adolescent) that is odd and misunderstood.

·      A period of trial in which the protagonist is ridiculed and presumed mentally damaged.

·      The revelation that the outcast is actually quirky, but brilliant.

·      A central dilemma that children resolve by outwitting stupid adults. A host of secondary characters whose motives and behaviors are inexplicable and improbable.

·      Bill Murray playing a droll but ineffectual character.

Some critics have hailed Moonrise Kingdom as the film we’ve been waiting for Anderson to make, but from where I sit there’s not reason to cast aside his unofficial nickname: “Mess” Anderson. Those who have been charmed by Moonrise Kingdom do have one point in their favor–it has a coherent narrative that carries us from start to finish rather than the helter-skelter randomness that made some of his other efforts feel like a Saturday Night Live sketch that got carried away. This time the setting is 1965 and we get two brilliant-but-misunderstood misfits, the pre-Goth Suzy Bishop (Kara Hayward) and an orphaned geek scout Sam Shakusky (Jared Gilman). Both kids are as out of place among their peers as Mormons in a beer tent, and each is either ignored by adults and peers or endlessly harassed by them. Naturally, they gravitate to each other.

 The setting is an isolated New England island with few permanent residents, though Suzy’s family–three oblivious brothers and la-de-da parents played by Murray and Frances McDormand–is among them. Not much happens on an island with no paved roads and a smattering of adults only slightly brighter than fireflies, though everyone is smart enough to know that Laura Bishop (the frumpy McDormand) is having it off with Captain Sharp (Bruce Willis), the island’s dimwitted chief of police. The island’s only other excitement occurs in the summer, when it is inundated by Khaki Scouts holding their encampment there, and on several adjacent islands. Unbeknown to the adults–who never seem to know much of anything–Suzy and Sam have previously met and have, for a year, been plotting to run away with each other once Sam’s Khaki Scout encampment convenes. When Scout Master Ward (Edward Norton) and Walt Bishop (Murray) discover their charges are missing, they, the scouts, Sharp, and others set off to track them down before an impending hurricane lashes the island. Sam proves a better scout and cartographer than his pursuers, so he and Suzy get some time alone in twelve-year-old paradise before their quarry hones in on them. Once that happens, the film turns into a bizarre caper film that rapidly adds cameo characters of uncertain motives to the cast: Cousin Ben, a Milo Minderbinder for scouts (played by Jason Schwartzman, who starred in Rushmore), Head Scout Master Commander Pierce (Harvey Keitel, who thinks he’s playing a WWII RAF officer), and an angular, icy woman called Social Services (Tilda Swinton) who doesn’t necessarily have Sam’s best interests in mind. I not sure anyone knows who or what Bob Balaban is playing; he simply appears on occasion, makes a remark that plugs a plot hole, and disappears.

The film has its charms, and both Hayward and Gilman are terrific. The humor is offbeat and unexpected, but mostly in its small details. (There aren’t many laugh-out-loud moments.) And, yes, its narrative is way tighter than Anderson meanderings such as Darjeeling Limited (2007) or The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004), though the latter is much funnier. (Darjeeling, on the other hand, is certainly among the worst films of the 21^st century.) To be frank, though, Anderson’s coherence is ham-handed. He telegraphs everything and, just in case you don’t get it, his camera lingers on everything prefigured for so long that even the intellectually halt and lame will proclaim “Doh!” I wanted to love this film, but the best I can offer is “meh.” I’m still waiting for Anderson to live up to the promise shown in Rushmore and suspect he may be like Quentin Tarantino before he made Kill Bill–in desperate need of changing his entire focus before he becomes a parody of himself.--Rob Weir

New Bedford Folk Festival Ranks Among the Best

Newport… Winnipeg… Big Muddy… Old Songs…. Fine folk music festivals each (though Newport is way too pricey), but ask me to list my favorite and the old Massachusetts seaport town of New Bedford goes straight to the top. Held each year on the weekend of (or just after) the Fourth of July, New Bedford is a bargain extraordinaire. Tell me where else you could see Garnet Rogers and Patty Larkin for two and a half days for $30. (A one-day pass is just $20.) Rogers and Larkin were 2012 headliners, sort of. One of the glories of New Bedford is that everybody gets a star turn or two. Plus your armband gets you access to seven stages. As always, it means you’ll hear some folks whose work you didn’t know very well but will be sure to check out in the future.

 

Here are some of my impressions from the weekend of July 6-8. Fell free to post your own comments on the forum if you were lucky enough to attend this year’s events.

Let’s start with this: Patty Larkin is a goddess. She looks amazing at age 61, sounds fabulous, and plays guitar like her hands are on fire. The Custom House tent was packed with hundreds of folks for her headline show and each had that mix of amazement and ecstasy on their face as Larkin made her way through some old and future favorites.  Garnet Rogers, on the other hand, was very subdued and was content to be more of a storyteller. The material, to be honest, sounded a bit mailed in, though his wit and irreverence were fine-tuned.

Watch out for Annalivia, a Boston-based quintet that blends Irish, traditional, and Appalachian material. They’ve seemed a bit tepid in the past, but they were clicking on all cylinders at Summerfest and made a lot of new fans. Here’s hoping they build off that energy.

If anyone doesn’t know the pure joie de vivre of Benoit Bourque, check him out immediately. Benoit has been playing, clogging, singing, and joking his way in every heart he touches between Quebec and New Bedford since the first Summerfest 16 years ago; this time he showed up with his son, Antoine, a peach of an accordionist who didn’t fall very far from the family tree.

It was wonderful to see so many younger performers like Antoine in New Bedford. It’s not fair to hold them to the same standards as seasoned vets, but keep your eyes peeled for the Cape Breton sisters Cassie and Maggie MacDonald. Another Canadian act on the rise is the duo Dala. In keeping with the youth theme, there’s Seth Glier, he of a falsetto/tenor voice reminiscent of a cross between Ellis Paul and young Billy Joel. At age 22 he already has a Grammy nomination under his belt. Think he might have a promising future? (My advice: Lose a few syrupy love songs and add some more grit.)

Pete and Maura Kennedy delivered my favorite performances of the weekend. Pete is a virtuoso guitar player and Maura an accomplished vocalist. Their mix of straight-up folk, rockabilly, country, and urban folk rock offers something for every taste. I was especially enamored by how well Pete orchestrated the workshops he headed. These folks are always on when they take the stage, but even though you have trouble not looking at them, they play without ego and seek to involve everyone.

It’s always hard to take in everything at a festival. Although I didn’t get to hear tons of their stuff, I enjoyed dipping into performances by squeeze box demon John Whelan, the eclectic blues, etc. of Pumpkin Head Ted, the dynamic folk of Peter Mulvey, the plaintive Appalachian music of Molly Andrews, the booming voice of shanty singer Ian Robb, and the songwriting prowess of Andrew Calhoun and Rod MacDonald. Another nice find was the Quebecois band Raz de Marée. That translates “Tidal Wave,” but the lineup actually favors subtle tunes and complex arrangements over kitchen dance tempos.

Every year I discover someone whose music was unfamiliar to me. This year it was Zoë Lewis, an offbeat woman from England who now resides in Provincetown. Some reviewers use the term “vaudeville” to describe her act, and it’s apt. You never know what Ms. Lewis will do–sing a poignant café-jazz-flavored homage to her mother, burst into scat, do a wacky ukulele-backed comic song, pick up the guitar for some folk, or sit down at the keyboards for some classic jazz.  She speaks in soft English accents; she sings in gutsy gusts. I was charmed.

 Apologies to other fine musicians I simply didn’t have time to check out, but thanks to the organizers, volunteers, and sponsors for allowing me to dip into so many amazing performances.  --Rob Weir

MLB Predictions at All-Star Break

July 10 is that annual meaningless event known as the All-Star Game, this year appropriately played in a meaningless place: Kansas City. It’s time to check on my spring predictions and see how I’m doing, plus venture out on a few more thin limbs.

American League:

East:  As predicted, it’s the Yankees’ division to win or lose. It’s time to give Joe Girardi a break; he’s done a better job of juggling injuries than anyone in baseball, and don’t feed me the “Yankees have more money” line–when 60% of your starters go down and you’re in first, it’s good managing. And it’s also time for the Derek Jeter haters to crawl under a rock; he’s having the kind of year that befits one of the five greatest shortstops of all time. Even better is Robbie Cano, MLB’s best second baseman. The Yanks will be hard-pressed to maintain the pace if Sabathia doesn’t come back strong, but the Yankees should be in the postseason. Downside: The albatross contract of the grossly overrated Alex Rodriquez (now the 5^th best 3^rd baseman in the AL) makes it hard to add pieces.

            As predicted, the Rays offense is woeful. Can someone explain the attraction of Carlos Pena? The pitching is very good, but I continue to think the Rays will come up short. The Blue Jays are the opposite–their pitching has been terrible and it’s time to hang the “bust” label on Kyle Drabek, who is at AAA where he belongs. I had them for second, but I don’t think so anymore. Do we believe in the Orioles? I do not; I think they’ll gravitate toward the bottom of the division in the second half.

            This leaves the Red Sox and I confess I’m as puzzled by them now as in April. I correctly predicted the Daniel Bard meltdown, shortstop woes, and a monster year for the sublime David Ortiz. The Sox are mixing in some nice young players and, if it was my team, I’d write off 2012 and go for flesh blood. If the Sox are committed to Bobby Valentine, make it his team. This would entail cleaning house and the obvious route would be to dump the poisonous Josh Beckett, the fragile-as-glass Jacoby Ellsbury, and admit that Adrian Gonzalez needs to be in a small market. No one will take Carl Crawford; so find a permanent spot on the DL for him. Then again, this roster has enough potential to win the division. I simply have no idea what this bunch will do, though if the past is an indication, they’ll finish out of the money.

Central: I think this will come down to a two-team race between the Tigers and White Sox, though the Indians keep lurking within striking distance. Miguel Cabrera has been a beast in Motown and Prince Fielder shows signs of waking up. As I predicted, though, Justin Verlander has been mortal this year, albeit a very strong mortal. The Tigers’ problem is simple, though: no one beyond Verlander is better than mediocre, and that’s a charitable assessment. The Tigers look like their teams from the mid-1980s: good enough to mash their way to the postseason, but lacking the arms to seal the deal.

            The White Sox, as I predicted, are thriving now that Loudmouth Ozzie Guillen is gone. The Sox are a no-big-stars outfit, but they pitch well, they’re playing solid baseball, and they stole Kevin Youkilis from Boston, who will provide leadership. Don’t be surprised to see them take one of the wild card slots. The Indians will be entertaining but lack staying power. As predicted, both the Royals and Twins are awful.

West: I called it a two-team race between the Rangers and the Angels; whoever doesn’t win the division gets a wild card. The Rangers are, on paper, the best team in MLB. Yu Darvish has lived up to his billing thus far, though Matt Harrison’s emergence has been more important. Josh Hamilton shows signs of matching maturity to ability, which is bad news for pitchers everywhere. The rest of the lineup is fearsome as well. Are they an arm short? I suspect we’ll find out–in the World Series.

            That is, unless the Angels upset them, which could happen. I certainly didn’t think Albert Pujols would be an average player, but the Youth Squad (Trout, Morales, Trumbo, Bourjos) has been even better than advertised. I don’t think the pitching is good enough to win the Big Halo, but we’ll see. The Athletics and the Mariners? Neither is interesting enough to warrant an after thought.

National League:

East: The Phillies have shocked me by how bad they’ve been, and the Nationals by how good they’ve been. I said the Phils’ offense would be challenged, but my God! The problems goes beyond Ryan Howard’s injury woes. The Phils will be better now that Roy Halladay and Chase Utley are off the DL, but this looks like a lost year.

            So can the Nats actually win it? Maybe. Bryce Harper and Jordan Zimmerman have matured faster than I predicted, and Stephen Strasburg looks stronger than I imagined after arm surgery. I still think they’re too young, but I’m starting to believe. On paper, the Braves should contend for the division or a wild card, but they remain as inconsistent as last year’s meltdown. I give Fredi Gonzalez until August 1 to have this team in contention, or you’ll see a new skipper in Atlanta to give Chipper Jones his final send-off.

            The Marlins have underachieved, just as I predicted. Gaby Sanchez was supposed to be a stud; now he’s in the minors, another victim of Guillen’s head games. I hate this team and revel in its misfortunes! The Mets, on the other hand, are among MLB’s pleasant surprises. Name a player on this team who isn’t David Wright. What a year R. A. Dickey and Jonathan Niese are having. I said in April that if the Mets didn’t lose 100 games, Terry Collins should be Manager of the Year. Wrap it! The Mets won’t make the postseason, but they’ll be fun and there hasn’t been much of that in Queens in the past few years.

Central: The Pirates are in first, which means you can start the Dusty Baker Death Watch in Cincinnati, where the Reds are again underachieving. The Reds ought to walk way with this division, but since they refuse to win this is a wide-open prairie of mediocrity, except for the Astros and Cubs, who are execrable. The Brewers simply lost too much to free agency and don’t have the personnel to win; they will dump salaries at the trade deadline. The reigning champion Cardinals lost Chris Carpenter for the season and without Pujols are offensively challenged, but can still be a factor. So could the Pirates actually win the Central? Nah! The competition is so poor that they might have a shot at .500, but the Reds should prevail in the end, though Baker might not be at the helm. Whoever comes out of the Central is first-round playoff fodder.

West: As predicted, it’s the Dodgers and Giants at the head of the pack. What we’ve learned about the Dodgers, though, is that Don Mattingly is no Joe Girardi; after a torrid start, the Dodgers have been unable to sustain injury challenges. Granted it’s hard to replace Matt Kemp, but a good manager finds ways to compensate and Mattingly has not yet proved his mettle. The door has opened for the Giants, whose pitching is formidable and its offense risible. These two should be 1-2 for the rest of the summer.

            The dark horse is last year’s division-winning Diamondbacks. Thus far, though, they have sustained my April comment that 2011 was a fluke built upon career years that won’t be duplicated. The Rockies are chronically short several pieces and so it shall be again this year. The Padres? No one cares and no one should.

World Series: I’m clueless about the NL champ. I’ll go out on a limb and say the Dodgers, but I do so with little conviction. In the end, though, I think this is the year the Rangers wear the bright, shinning badge. Second choice: the Yankees with Jeter as Series MVP. All of this means smart money is on the Pirates in a Cinderella upset witnessed by the 12,403 spectators who care in Pittsburgh.   

A Lazy Worker is a Productive Worker

Could this be the seminal economic text of our time? 

In 1880, Paul Lafargue wrote a 40-page pamphlet that defended the “right to be lazy.” If his name doesn’t ring any bells, he was the Cuban-born son-in-law of Karl Marx. Lafargue’s slogan was later picked up by members of the Industrial Workers of the World (“Wobblies”), especially in Australia. Aussie Wobs reprinted Lafargue’s pamphlet in 1917, and the right to be lazy soon became an IWW catch phrase. As the Wobblies saw it, humans were not born to toil. The ultimate goal of labor is to produce more free time; in fact, a life devoted to work was simply slavery under a different guise.

It turns out that Lafargue and the Wobblies were on to something. In a recent Chronicle of Higher Education article, Edward and Robert Skidelsky reveal that obsession with hard work played a big role in precipitating the current financial crisis. They’ve looked at the emphasis capitalist economists from Adam Smith (conservative) through John Maynard Keynes (liberal) placed on leisure, and argue that theories of economic growth without a corresponding focus on leisure trap economic systems into endless cycles of boom and bust. They also found a historical correlation between healthy economies and leisurely workers–GDP rises hand-in-hand with increased leisure time. This is because mere growth divorced from purpose is inherently alienating–we don’t know why we’re working. Ultimately, labor separated from leisure becomes irrational. We might work harder, accumulate more material objects, and (in theory) create greater social and cultural opportunities, but we don’t have the time or the ethos that allows us to enjoy them. Without time off or a leisure mentality, we drive ourselves in the purposeless task of seeking wealth, a pursuit that leads us to attempt to increase output long after it is useful or possible to do so. In other words, we work until we break the system! The Skidelskys’ remedy for boom-and-bust cycles isn’t likely to taught at the Wharton School of Business in the near future, but maybe it should be: demand less of workers and channel them into more leisure opportunities. When workers know why they work–to gain access to leisure and the fruits of their labor–they become more productive and efficient on the job.

So there you have it–listen to the Wobblies instead of the capitalists. You’ve got a right to be lazy and asserting that right will make you happier and more productive when you do work. The next time the economy starts to falter, prop your feet up and take a snooze. When you wake up, head for the beach. You’ve got better data on your side than the venture capitalists, so do your bit for the Dow Jones by basking in the sun.

Boy an Offbeat (and uneven) Delight

BOY (2010)

Directed by Taika Waititi

New Zealand Film Commission, 88 minutes, in Maori and English

* * *

The lovable James Rolleston in the title role of this offbeat New Zealand film. 

1984 turned out to be the year the world danced to Michael Jackson’s Thriller  instead of cowering in fear from the arrival of George Orwell’s dystopia. Jackson eventually became a self-parodying cartoon character dogged by allegations of drug use, pedophilia, and botched plastic surgery, but in 1984 his dance moves and cultural clout made him an inspiration to people of color around the globe. Even impoverished Māori kids in a remote New Zealand pa (village) knew of Michael.

Or perhaps I should say especially Māori kids. The early 1980s were an important time for Māori identity. By then, protest movements aimed at reversing second-class citizenship had begun to bear fruit. North Americans generally know little about events and agreements such as the 1971 Waitangi Day protest, the 1975 Land March, the Waitangi Tribunal, or the 1981 Springbok protest, but each was a signal event for Māori wishing to claim their place at the New Zealand table. Think of the 1980s as akin to the sort of racial awakening experienced by African Americans during the Harlem Renaissance, or the Négritude movement among French-speaking colonials.

Do you need to know any of this to appreciate Boy, a film that had the highest opening gross of any New Zealand-made film in the nation’s history? It wouldn’t hurt, but you could just enjoy it as a quirky coming-of-age film in the tradition of Whale Rider (2002). Boy isn’t as polished, gripping, or packed with symbolism as Whale Rider but it is, in places, wildly imaginative, offbeat, funny, and poignant. Boy, its eponymous central character, is an eleven-year-old who lives amidst the stark contrasts of the storied beauty of the New Zealand coastline and the grinding poverty of the pa. Things are changing, but mostly on the inspirational level rather than the material. People in the pa are more likely to sport names such as Rocky, Chardonnay, Dallas, Weirdo, or Ju Ju as anything traditional, and they speak Māori as their second language; after all, the schools, TV shows, and advertisements are in English. Like kids everywhere, Māori youngsters live in a world that’s shaped as much by pop culture and fantasy as by reality. Boy’s brother Rocky, for instance, thinks he has superpowers, though they’re defective and only occasionally work. He also draws his sorrows–including the fact that his mother died giving birth to him–and those drawings (and Boy’s imagination) come to life–one of the film’s more clever devices.

Boy and Rocky live with a herd of cousins with their grandmother–Dad was sent to prison for petty theft when each was too young to remember him clearly, but not long ago enough to prevent Boy from constructing fanciful images of the old paterfamilias. The film follows a single week, when Gran leaves the kids alone to attend a funeral and Alamein, the father, unexpectedly appears at the pa. How much damage can he do in a week? Quite a lot as it turns out. Alamein–named for a World War II battle and played by director Taika Waititi–is a perpetual adolescent. He dresses like a mash between Super Fly and a dime-store Michael Jackson, and fancies himself the leader of Crazy Horse, a two-person posse that’s possibly the most incompetent group of criminals in New Zealand history. Alamein has enough flash to dazzle amidst the poverty of the pa and to give a to Boy glimmer of exotic hope, but he lacks the intellect or substance to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes for very long.

The film’s strengths are its fine performances, especially by the thoroughly lovable James Rolleston in the title role, and of Te Aho Aho Eketone-Whitu as younger brother Rocky. Waititi is also delicious fun as the father–who wouldn’t love getting to chew as much scenery as he does? Like Waititi’s previous film Eagle vs. Shark  (2007), the movie’s plot can best be described as a likable, often predictable mess punctuated by periods of occasional genius. I’ll merely note that a goat, a village idiot, an offbeat aunt, buried loot, and marijuana factor in. For all of the film’s obvious flaws, it is often reach-for-the-tissues sad, laugh-out-loud hysterical, and thought provoking. Moreover, it’s the best kind of coming-of-age film in that it offers no easy answers or cheap resolutions, but leaves you with just enough insight into Boy and Rocky to give you hope that they will escape both Jackson’s 1984 and Orwell’s. --Rob Weir  

  

Leave It to Beavers

Building better ecosystems--one beaver at a time! 

I live in an expanding western Massachusetts town that’s short on available housing stock. As in all such towns, this has sprouted new developments on lands that for centuries have been meadows and forest, many of which are bounded by wetlands. New suburbanites generally like the idea of living in sylvan developments, but they often have trouble with the reality of deer munching their rhododendrons, foxes carrying off Fluffy the cat, or black bears taking down bird feeders and frightening little Joey. But nothing seems to inspire their ire quite like beavers, those buck-toothed, pancake-tailed varmints who build domed dams that  (very occasionally) cause water levels to rise to the point where suburbanites living nearby get wet basements. God forbid the trunk of a prized magnolia–a non-native invasive species–ends up on the dam. That leads to demands for poisoning the beavers. (Note to complainers: Install a sump pump or move to an in-town condo!)

I live on a street that was once woodlands, so I steadfastly refuse to sign all neighborhood petitions for any sort of wildlife control. That certainly extends to beavers. Hell’s bells, developers cut down thousands of trees to build the houses on my street and those that adjoin it, so it would the height of hypocrisy to get bent out of shape by a few rodents taking down some saplings. Courtesy of the Spokane-based Lands Council, I now have ammunition at my disposal other than principled crankiness the next time the Beaver Posse comes to my neck of the (radically thinned) woods.

These days we speak of the “environmental” movement. I’m fine with that, but back in the late 1960s the term of choice was “ecology.”  Ecology is a stronger word in that it sees the earth as a series of interconnected systems, not merely a mindset about nature. Ecological research shows that each species–plants and animals alike–live in interdependent relationships within specific natural environments. Those of you who are science fiction fans (or anthropologists) have no doubt encountered some variant of the “butterfly effect,” which derives from ecology. In simplest terms it says that you can’t change one thing within a system without inadvertently changing a whole lot of other things. To boil it down ecologically, you shouldn’t mess with Mother Nature, and Mom likes beavers.

The Lands Council has pretty convincing data–some of which goes back to the 1920s–that shows that removing beavers from an ecosystem increases the likelihood of erosion, drought, and floods. The latter was an eye-opener. To put it in suburban terms, all those wet basement homeowners who want to run Bucky the Beaver off the pond are actually increasing the odds of devastating floods. Beavers not only prefer wetlands, their dam-building activities build and preserve them. Those wetlands, in turn, retain rainwater and snow melt, and give them somewhere to go when they come in abnormal amounts. They also raise the water levels that sustain vegetation. Therein lies the irony; remove the beavers that are chewing your trees and you’ll eventually end up with fewer trees, not more. Your grass, bushes, and flowers won’t grow as well either, and your soil will deplete its nutrients. Shrink the watersheds and all that water once absorbed in them will find a new home. Ask Smith College, which responded to beaver damage by cutting down hundreds of trees along Paradise Pond, which is now silting at alarming rates due to bank erosion. Ask New Orleans, which drained wetlands decades ago that would have diverted much of the floodwater unleashed by Hurricane Katrina in 2005.

Idaho is embarked on a project that would cause some of my neighbors to see red: it’s parachuting beavers into ecosystems in an attempt to rebuild colonies. Washington has reestablished 50,000 beavers in the eastern part of the state. Mountainous areas of New Mexico hope to do the same. My town recently had the good sense to build a few water-diverting culverts that appeased the Beaver Posse at one of the new developments. Let’s hope that practice continues here and everywhere else; the fate of our ecosystems rests (in part) in the paws of Castor Canadensis.  

Okay for Now: A Teen Novel, or Just a Good Book?

Okay for Now.

Gary Schmidt

New York: Clarion Books, 2011.

* * * *

Joe Pepitone, Aaron Copeland, and James Audubon are three names that are unlikely to occupy a lot of space in the average teenaged consciousness. Given that all three are major tropes in Gary Schmidt’s Okay for Now, one wonders whether it’s accurate to call it the “young adult” novel it’s marketed to be. I’d say probably not, but it’s a pretty gripping story no matter how one labels its genre.

The novel is set in 1968, the year fourteen-year-old Doug Swieteck and his family are uprooted from their home on Long Island by their shiftless father and plunked down in the hamlet of Marysville in the Catskills. Doug’s old man is a violent, hard-drinking, no-account loser, as is his bad boy middle brother, a petty thief and fulltime sadist. Older brother, Lucas, is in Vietnam–one of the many working-class poor kids sent as jungle fodder for American imperial ambitions. Relocation to “stupid Marysville,” as Doug calls it, removes him from two of the three things he loves: his closest friends, and the hope of attending a game at Yankee Stadium. Young Doug is a diehard Yankees fan whose one moment of glory in an otherwise dire teen life was a chance encounter with first baseman Joe Pepitone, who gave Doug his hat. (Which his brother stole and destroyed.) Call Doug’s worship of Pepitone a metaphor for Doug’s life–the chronically underachieving Pepitone was the face of the franchise of really, really bad Yankees teams of the mid- and late-60s. (He hit just .251 with 13 homers and 64 RBIs in 1967, the year of his fictional encounter with Swieteck.) The other thing Doug loves is his mother, a kindly woman who tries her best to insulate Doug from his father’s wrath and bears the marks of his violence. Doug also literally bears a cruel stigma of his affection for his mother, not to mention the scars of delayed educational and social development.      

It would be a gross understatement to say that Doug doesn’t have much going for him. As it turns out, though, “stupid Marysville” has some surprises in store. Despite his father’s brutishness and class-based oppression psychosis, Doug will encounter some people who will change his life–his father’s paternalist boss, a gym teacher with demons of his own, an eccentric writer with a fondness for art and music, and a caring teacher. Above all, he’ll find Lil Spicer, who becomes a serious 7^th grade crush, and a librarian who introduces Doug to the works of John James Audubon. In sketching Audubon’s birds Doug finds hidden talents, a positive outlet for his long-suffering patience, and metaphors for his life.

As I said, not exactly the sort of fare one would expect the average young person to consume.  I would, however, expect teens to relate to Schmidt’s prose. He simply nails the attitudes, language, and carriage of burgeoning adolescence. Schmidt’s ability to paint a portrait of the interior of teenaged minds rivals that of novelists such as Mark Haddon, Muriel Barbery, and Nick Hornby. He also describes Marysville and the Audubon prints with such clarity that they animate and become characters in their own right. This would be a wonderful book to read and discuss with a young person. It would take some adult input to explain (and perhaps mutually explore) some of the references in the book, but adults will also admire this book and parts of it will take them back to their own frightful junior high days. (The junior high principal alone will make your skin crawl.) High marks for Schmidt for writing a book that’s equal parts tough and hopeful, smart and easy to read, compelling and real.