The Spirit of the Beehive is a Spanish Masterpiece

 

The Spirit of the Beehive (1973)

Directed by Victor Erice

Bocaccio Distribution, 97 minutes, Not-rated

In Spanish with subtitles

★★★★★

 

 

 

It’s intriguing that authoritarian rulers think they can manipulate media to their advantage, especially in their waning days. Spanish director Victor Erice was a bit like the character Fernando (Fernando Fernán Gómez) in The Spirit of the Beehive, a semi-closeted critic of the regime of Francisco Franco. Erice’s film is now considered one of Spain’s finest and is included in the Criterion Collection of classic films. It debuted in 1973, two years before Franco died and his fascist-style Falangist movement collapsed with him. Before he expired, Franco tried to convince a skeptical global community that artistic freedom thrived in Spain, which is how Beehive got a global audience. I doubt this is what the generalissimo imagined.

 

It was Erice who was the more clever manipulator. First, he set The Spirit of the Beehive in 1940, the year of his own birth, but also when Franco’s troops vanquished the last Republican resistance. Erice filmed in the real-life village of Hoyuelos, a remote village in northern Spain in which the big excitement occurs when film reels are delivered and the local hall becomes an impromptu theater. In this case, it’s the James Whale-directed  1931 version of Frankenstein in which Boris Karloff was the Monster. In that one, the Monster plays with a young girl by the waterside before killing her. Was Erice suggesting Franco-stein? Probably! Why else make the Monster the centerpiece of a horror/drama film whose principal is six-year-old Ana (Ana Torrent)?

 

Ana and her older sister Isabel view Frankenstein and it had a profound effect on Ana’s vivid imagination. The sisters live in one of the few bourgeois homes in the village, though both Fernando and his wife Teresa must hide their sympathies for the defeated Nationalists. Theirs is the age-old strategy of keeping their heads down and only dragging out the crystal set late at night (probably to listen to the BBC). They also hide the photo albums, lest the wrong eyes observe shared comradery with the wrong people. You’d only know this from research, but one such photograph is of intellectual Miguel de Unamuro, a fierce Franco critic who died during house arrest. How did Erice get that past the censors? My only explanation is that the film was too enigmatic to reveal Erice’s intent.

 

The film makes brilliant use of psychological terror. Chekov’s gun is a time-tested dramatic device that introduces a prop that foreshadows its future use. Ahh, but what if you fill the screen with eerie music, flashback Monster images, a remote abandoned cottage, a deep well, school anatomy lessons, dark furniture, windows that blow open and slam shut, poisonous mushrooms, a cheerless painting of St. Jerome, a creaky house, and rumors of a ghostly spirit? Anybody who tried to bring all that to bear in a single denouement would produce a messterpiece, not a masterpiece. But thanks to Luis de Pablo’s atmospheric soundtrack and the carefully angled cinematography of Luis Cuadrado, the film’s real terror occurs in Ana’s point-of-view shots, her dreams, and in the minds of viewers. One tense moment involves Isabel and serves to warn you to watch carefully and assume nothing.

 

Another character is known simply as “fugitive,” an on-the-lam former Nationalist soldier whom Ana tries to help. Is he Ana’s Frankenstein? What do we make of Ana’s disappearance? There has to be a Monster of some sort, right? It would seem so, but who and where does it lurk? And what about the title? In part it references the honeycombed windows that frame some of the screen’s tension, and it’s also a smokescreen for Fernando’s misanthropy, but I suspect we are also invited to consider what resides in the folds and crevices of the human brain. Such probing certainly affected child actress Ana Torrent, who went on to become a well known star in Spain. She is on record with saying that she was figuratively and literally haunted by the movie. 

 

It's stunning to realize that The Spirit of the Beehive was Erice’s first feature. It should be noted that it is so slowly paced that in its day, some audiences booed. Does it drag? Maybe, but it also has the effect of prolonging viewer anxiousness and apprehension. Like young Ana, I have been haunted since I saw it.

 

Rob Weir

The Good House: Strong Leads but Inconsistent

The Good House (2021 )

Directed by Maya Forbes and Wally Wolodarsky

Roadside Attractions, 114 minutes, R (language, brief sexuality)

★★★

 

 

Hildy Good (Sigourney Weaver) is a Type-A personality  who was once the best realtor in Wendover, Massachusetts. Courtesy of an acrimonious divorce and alcohol rehab, she has slipped to C- on the personality charts and is now the number two realtor because former protege Wendy Heatherton (Catherine Erbe) stole many of Hildy’s clients when she was on the shelf. Hildy wants to get her mojo back, but like many recovering alcoholics, thinks she can control herself, which is nearly always a recipe for failure.

 

Wendover is a moderately sized town prone to gossip. The local scuttlebutt holds that Hildy has more of a problem than she thinks. In a creative attempt to rebuild her practice, Hildy aids a young couple with an autistic son sell their home. It needs repairs and upgrades they can't afford, so Hildy contracts jack-of-many-trades Frank Getchell (Kevin Kline). He has always carried a torch for Hildy and has hopes for the future, but from her standpoint the best thing about Frank is that he works cheaply.

 

Hildy begins to think big and aims to secure a big development deal with the Santorelli brothers. She has also befriended Rebecca McAllister (Marina Baccarin), who is new in town and learns that she’s having an affair with Peter Newbold (Rob Delaney), a psychologist whom she has known for many years. This means Peter might be leaving his wife and selling his home. Peter infers that if he does, he will use Hildy as his agent. When she finds out he's actually listing his house with Wendy, Hildy hits the roof. Can Hildy stay in control, or is she too deep into her cups and too far down the path of self-deception? It’s not hard to spiral downward when she and Rebecca began to share bottles of wine.

 

From there it’s just a short slide to solo chugging several bottles a night and hallucinating. About the only thing that is working in Hildy’s life is that she has begun a romance with Frank. Alas, she thinks it’s just a fling and fails to appreciate what a thoughtful man he is. Frank bails her out of a few potentially embarrassing situations, though he learns the hard way that it’s very difficult to help someone to whom you are close. Eventually even he grows disgusted with some of her behavior and he won’t be the only one betrayed.

 

As a film about alcoholism, The Good House is neither bad nor all that great. Weaver,  however, is perfect for the role of Hildy Good. She is now a mature actress who looks great for being in her 70s but, when necessary, dons her fading rose face. Did she also channel some things that touched her personally? I don’t know about that, but Weaver certainly embodied verisimilitude. As they age, many people have difficulty adjusting to the fact that they can’t sustain a high-powered life. It’s doubly tragic if they lack the grace to accept a simpler one. You should sympathize; American society often makes it difficult for them to find new niches, which is a major reason why depression and substance abuse are common among older adults. Weaver reminds us of such things.

 

Kevin Klein is equally well cast. He was once known for his boyish charm and good looks. Kudos for making a nice transition into the role of Frank, a  crusty New Englander more at home covered in sawdust or splattered with paint than sitting around a formal dinner table. Unlike Hildy, Frank is comfortable with who he is. And why not? Beneath Frank’s roughhewn working-class exterior lies an essential decency.

 

As such movies go, several crises  push Hildy to confront reality and shuttle viewers toward a happy ending. In other words, The Good House is ultimately a bit of a fairy tale. I'm sure it happens on occasion that a single shock induces sobriety, but it’s usually a messier and longer process. In some respects, Hildy’s fall from her initial sobriety is more realistic then her sudden return to the dry wagon.

 

To reiterate, The Good House a good movie, just not an outstanding one. To make an analogy, the film’s Wendover is not really a Massachusetts coastal town. The location is actually in Nova Scotia. That's a Hollywood movie in a nutshell, illusion masquerading as goes-down-easy truth.

 

Rob Weir

 

Scapegoats, Hype, and Prospects: Boston Red Sox

Could be the Red Sox Management Team

I am a Yankees fan, but I think the Red Sox will have a faster turnaround, as they are less constrained by payroll.

 

Let’s start with this. The person who gets fired isn’t always the problem. General Manager Chaim Bloom took the fall for several miserable seasons, but he did what he was hired to do: cut payroll. In baseball, you often get what you pay for and Boston has been unwise in its spending habits. The payroll is $205 million but that’s only because they have so much deferred money on the books. (They’re still paying Manny Ramirez and Dustin Pedroia, among others.) Bloom wielded the scalpel per ownership orders. Did he help the farm system? I’ll get to that.

 

Pitching is the number one priority and it would be wise to stop pining hopes on older pitchers with a history of injuries. Like Cory Kluber and James Paxton for instance. If they can find a buyer for Chris Sale, they’d be wise to sell. Richard Bleir, Mauricio Llovera, and Kaleb Ort are also expendable. Insofar as the lineup goes, they need to admit that Trevor Story was an expensive mistake and move on. They got what they could out of Rob Refsnyder, but he’ll never be an everyday player. The infield needs to be rebuilt and the catching corps looks better on paper than it is.

 

I often think the Red Sox don’t have pitching smarts. They tried to move Nick Pivetta, but he’s one of their most reliable hurlers. They also need to end the Garrett Whitlock as starter experiment and put him back in the bullpen where he’s outstanding. Build around Brayan Bello, one of their best pitching prospects in some time. I’m less convinced by Kutter Crawford, but it’s early days. Any way you slice it, though, Boston will need a frontline pitcher or two to compete in 2024. If ownership foolishly pots for a win-now mindset, that would mean moving someone they’d rather not.

 

Unlike the Yankees, the Red Sox can hit. That is, if they make smart decisions. They think Justin Turner is too old, but he sure is raking now. They’d also like to move on from Adam Duvall, but he too is productive. (They should have never traded Hunter Renfroe.) More baffling still, they have buyer’s regret over Masataka Yoshida. Please, please send him to New York! Alex Verdugo is allegedly difficult, but the man can hit as long as you don’t think he’s going to put 30 homers over the wall. The future core, though, is Rafael Devers, Tristan Casas, and (they hope!) Jarren Duran and Ceddanne Rafaela.  Duran should be alright, but it’s hard to say about Rafaela.

 

Boston’s long-term future rests on the yield of the farm system. How good is it? There’s the rub; as I’ve noted elsewhere, the Red Sox are MLB leaders in hyping prospects. I’ll rank them the same way I did the Yankees: R for Real Deal; S for Suspect, and P for it will take a Prayer. Again, though, the Hype Machine makes all of this speculative.

 

·      Bobby Dalbec: R but not in a Red Sox uniform. He strikes out a lot, but he’s versatile and has power. Needs a change of scenery.

·      Marcelo Mayer: R Perhaps the shortstop of the future, though scouts think he’ll end up at second or third.

·      Nick Yorke: R He could be the one to make Sox fans forget about Pedroia.

·      Roman Anthony: S He could make Yoshida redundant, but he’s raw at present.

·      Ceddanne Rafaela: S The Sox love him, but scouts don’t. He hasn’t shown much power thus far.

·      Tanner Houck: S A prime example of hype. He was supposed to be an ace, but it looks like he’ll be a mop up pitcher.

·      Joe Jacques: S Looks promising, but the sample is miniscule. The same can be said of Josh Winckowski and Zack Kelly. I’d pick Winckowski as the best of the trio.

·      Kyle Ort: P Lots of noise around him, but most of it is from balls exploding from bats.

·      Kyle Barraclough: P Unless he’s a late bloomer, he’s a bummer.

·      Kyle Teel: P The Sox need a catcher, but this kid is no Carlton Fisk. He allegedly has power, but he hasn’t shown much. If he’s a defense-first catcher, there’s no room for him on the roster.

 

Lots of the hope is at lower levels of the minors. That places players such as Wilyes Abreu, Blaze Jordan, Louis Perales, and a half dozen others in the show-me category.

 

Minor leaguers are often at their most valuable as trade pieces. It’s imperative that Boston gets a new general manager in place soon. Young players often play winter ball and hope to attract notice. The downside is that just as often their flaws are exposed and trade value goes down. Houck and Ort are examples of that. What could you get for the pair of them? A new GM needs to develop a 3-year plan and not be afraid he or she is trading a future Mookie Betts.

 

Rob Weir  

 

 

My Medieval Summer Part Three: Hammond Castle

 

Hammond Castle

Gloucester, Massachusetts

 

  

Without conscious intention on my part, this summer involved a nostalgic trip to the past. My MA is in medieval history, but I abandoned that quest nearly 40 years and instead pursued a Ph.D. in U.S. history. Truth be told, though, I’ve always had a soft spot for medieval studies. In June, I visited Musée de Cluny and Ste. Chapelle in Paris and a few days later, ventured to the magnificent 13^th century ChartresCathedral. 

 

 

In September I continued my trip in the Wayback Machine (WABAC in the old Mr. Peabody cartoons) in an unlikely medieval site: Gloucester, Massachusetts. That’s where John Hays Hammond  Jr. (1888-1965) erected Hammond Castle in the 1920s.

 

 

As such things go, it began with a rich person and obsession. Hamond came from wealth and as he traveled around Europe, he collected a few things that were more grandiloquent that the tea towels, scarves, bric-a-brac, and chocolates most of us acquire in Europe. His goal was nothing less than to recreate a castle and cathedral in Gloucester based on Chartres. 

 

 

That didn't quite happen. First of all, Chartres was never a castle. Secondly, Hammond Castle is a classic mishmash: part Gothic cathedral, part medieval castle, and part French Renaissance chateaux. It houses things Hamond bought in his journeys, plus lots of stuff–like an entire shop and home–that he had shipped over. Nor did his towers and Great Hall reach the 121-foor height of Chartres, but his 81-footer is pretty impressive.

 

 

Hammond added to his collections as his wealth increased. Among other things, he was an inventor whose work in radio waves and unmanned flight pioneered in remote control devices and presaged drones. He studied with Alexander Graham Bell, idolized Thomas Edison, did a lot of work for the defense department, and was on the board of directors of RCA. 

 

 

 

The Gloucester of his days was a thoroughly blue-collar (and often gritty) fishing port. I doubt that he hobnobbed much with the locals, as he was also a bit of a bohemian. He married a female artist but was bisexual, which would not have set well with locals back then. Not that they knew; Hamond's friends and social set led lives walled off from the hoi polloi. 

 

 

Another way Hammond made money was through building concert organs. If you’re thinking, “Oh cool, Hammond organs!” don’t make the same mistake that I did. These are not the instruments used by rock n’ roll and studio musicians. His were used in much more formal settings and were more akin to what you see in cathedrals and symphony halls. He filled the wall cavities with (literally) thousands of organ pipes. What are the odds that two unrelated individuals named Hammond built organs? One hundred percent in this case! 

 

 

The photos (best viewed in full-size mode) show that Hammond Castle is an eclectic place. It’s simply a matter that John Hammond Jr.. collected bigger things than most of us and had a lot more money at his disposal. It would drive a purist crazy, but the best way to approach is to enjoy each detail in its own right and not try to imagine how it would have looked in any particular time period. It displays objects from ancient Rome through the Renaissance and that, my friends, is a whopping span of about 1,800 years!  --Rob Weir

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mike Thomas, Rembrandt Trio, Pol Brennan, Tri Nguyen: New Music for October 2023

 

 

 

Mike Thomas might be the only country artist who was actually born in Tennessee, albeit Knoxville rather than that town that begins with N. He’s also intriguing because he tried to carve out a musical career back in 2004, walked away for 13 years, and came back for another go. His new album Diamonds is a good reason to familiarize yourself with Thomas. Some reviews have noted it has a “vintage” vibe, which is the case in several ways. There’s a bit of blue-collar Merle Haggard in Thomas’ songs. “Room on the Dance Floor” opens with the line I don’t go to the parties/I don’t run with the crowd/I’m a working man/With a family now, but the song’s narrator admits he wonders what other directions his life could have taken. Discontent? Quite the opposite as it slides into a remembrance of the woman he was lucky enough to meet on that dance floor. In many ways, though, the most vintage part of the music is its evocation of gritty rock n’ roll, which is why he also draws Tom Petty comparisons. Or perhaps some John Cougar Mellencamp. On one level, “Bricks, Boards & Stones” is a country smorgasbord–tractor, dogs, God–but it’s another standup guy song–I still miss her when I’m gone–with the theme that the right decision is the hardest one to make. The title track is definitely old-style country with its pedal steel-forward arrangement, but again Thomas celebrates a working stiff who’s glad he wasn’t born rich: How would I know which way to run? There’s a lot of power and gravel in Thomas’ voice, and fire in his pen. 

The Rembrandt Trio is a bit of a sly joke as it is anchored by a Dutch pianist named Rembrandt Freichs. To add a few more punchlines, he is trained in jazz and classical music and sometimes plays tunes so artfully structured they evoke that other Rembrandt. Freichs doesn’t like to be tied down, though, so his band has four members counting himself–another little bit of whimsy?–and includes two Iranian musicians that make sure he doesn’t go too longhair on us. One is vocalist Mohammad Motamedi whose keening is definitely not classical or Dutch. The latest project is titled Intizar–Songs of Longing, the first part of which is a Turkish word that means wait. Intizar uses urgent piano notes to frame Motamedi’s expressive vocals that skirt the boundaries of operatic intonation. By contrast, “Az Khoure Javanan”(roughly, the priest is good) places Freichs at the keys of an organ for a somber song that feels like it was torn from a 14^th century songster. Mohamedi sings in Arabic, his voice adorned with laryngeal vibrato to produce an effect that’s somewhere between a Marian chant and a Muslim call to prayer. “In the Middle of the Garden” is a 15-minute composition that is equal parts meditative piano, background bass, understated percussion, and lung-emptying vocals. If you’re the kind of person who appreciates ensembles capable of sharing musical space with symphonic orchestras, there are astonishing moments on this record. 

I recently attended a farewell concert from the Donegal band Clannad. I reckon after 50 years it’s time to come off the road. Of course, musicians never actually retire. If you know Clannad, you are aware that it’s a Brennan family band–Enya is the little sister. Flautist Pól Brennan has been a Clannad mainstay, but he has also had an active solo career that involves film scores and collaborations with musicians around the globe. You can now add composer and arranger of orchestral suites to the list. The Irish Revolution is his take on events that took place between 1919-21 that ultimately gave rise to the Irish Republic. The cost was that predominately Protestant Ulster remained part of Great Britain. (Partitions are generally fraught, hence “The Troubles,” clashes between Catholics, Protestants, and their allied armed groups.)  The Irish Revolution is reminiscent of the compositions of Shaun Davey (The Brendan Voyage, Granuaile, The Relief of Derry, etc.) That is to say, it is an instrumental work that seeks to evoke moods that take us from the decision to revolt to the partition. It’s tricky, as the composer has to match sounds to what an audience is likely to infer. Quick, frantic-sounding string notes and pounding drums are perfect for “The IRA Goes to War,” as is the drumming that alternates from sounding distant-to-near. “Volunteers and the Brigade” has a more mournful and ominous edge to it, an effect achieved by using darker-toned violas and cellos. “War Grinds On” is a combo of the previous two with repeated bass notes and background timpani and metal sheets creating thunderous effects that drive home the feeling of a constant slog. Is it a bit heavy-handed to use vaguely villainous tones for “Ulster Unionists?” Probably, but there are few neutrals on the subject. Or on “Partition,” which is literally a tragic air followed by piano and violin that’s both hopeful and melancholy.   

 

Since I’m on the topic of instrumental music, let me give a shout out to Vietnamese pianist/composer Tri Nguyen. He also plays a Vietnamese zither called the dan-tranh, which he has mounted in such a way that he can switch between the two instruments akin to how splits his time between Saigon and Paris. On Duos Alone he crosses East-West borders musically. I have seldom heard a pianist who plays the high, plinky white keys as much as Tri Nguyen, but he uses them to draw upon the higher-pitched sounds one often hears in Vietnamese music. Another reason for doing so is that it frees his righthand to roam the lower parts of his instrument. I’ve not seen supporting material for this assertion, but I imagine it helps him establish the album’s seemingly contradictory name; that is, it sounds at times as if two different pianos are at work when it’s really just him. I’m going with the sentiment that if my take isn’t true, it ought to be. “Weeping Mango Leaves” has a splash of zither to go with the piano; if you listen carefully and if you close your eyes, you can imagine rainwater running off a forest canopy. Its flirtation with bent notes is deliberate; after all, even steady rain changes. You’ll hear more zither on “Scent of the River,” but as soon as he puts his hands on the keyboard, you’ll notice that Tri Nguyen has a definite affinity for water. It’s a lovely piece made all the more so because its delicate melody doesn’t always go where we’d expect Western music to wend. Bach fans will be intrigued by his take on one of Johann’s arias in a variation Nguyen calls “Sigh of Sorrows.” Most of the music on Duos Alone is quiet and mood–it was composed as tribute to his departed mother, which might be his reason for the album title–but classical fans will also hear some echoes of Ravel and Vivaldi. 

 

Rob Weir  

 

The Singularities a Complex Swan Song?

 

The Singularities ( 2022) 

By John Banville 

Alfred a Knopf, 307 pages 

★★★★

 

 

Some physics postulates rest more on reason and incomplete observation than incontrovertible evidence. Singularities like black holes–distortions in space-time–are said to be infinitely dense, but how do we prove that? Quantum entanglement–two linked particles that react spontaneously even when separated by vast distances–remain mysterious. The multiverse? Of course, a singularity is also a unique thing. 

 

You don't need physics to read The Singularities, just appreciate entangled lives and how altered circumstances distort human time. This is John Banville's 20th novel* and perhaps the 77-year-old Irish literary giant’s swan song. Dedicated Banville readers will  recognize Freddie Montgomery, the antihero of a past trilogy. In The Singularities, he emerges from prison after 25 years for a murder he committed during a burglary gone wrong. Freddie’s a hoodlum, but he never intended murder. He felt he deserved his time in the penitentiary; he did not enjoy it, but neither did he detest it, even if that meant buggery, violence, and boredom non-disciplined minds would perceive as black holes. 

 

It's time for a new identity: Felix Mordaunt, a surname suited for his altered straits. Though his intellect is keener than most, he’s no kingpin anymore and must leave town by squeezing into a Sprite lent by a former crime partner who now presents as a respectable auto dealer. Mordaunt drives to Coolgrange estate, which was once his but is now called Arden. It is owned by Adam and Helen Godley, he the son of a deceased famed/infamous mathematician of the same name. Adam the elder’s  Brahma theorem postulates that, “knowledge of the nature of reality” alters it, because “each glowing new discovery... brings about an equal and opposite darkening, the punching of the hole and the wall of the great sphere that is time and space.” This has implications for multiverse theory, hence Godly was either a towering genius or anathema depending on how academics line up.  

 

William Jaybee—the name a lampoon anagram of the author's birthname of John William Banville—is a professor at an Oxbridge-like university. He is among those who views Godley as an abomination. When we first meet Jaybee, his opinions about Godley are deliciously arch and vicious. He's in good company; none of Banville’s academics have high regard for anyone other than themselves! 

 

Felix secures diminished employment at Arden, the new owners unaware of his identity, but his entry isn't as debased as Jaybee’s. When Godley’s son approaches the portly prof to write his father’s official biography, he is dismissive. But unfettered access to Godley's papers, assurances he can write whatever he wishes, residency at posh Arden, and scads of money lead to reassessment. The fact that Jaybee is besotted with Helen–a fanciful vanity–also helps. 

 

These entanglements are the tip of the iceberg. There’s also Mourdant’s perverse pleasure in annoying his nosey landlady and his compromised cover when Anna Behrends appears. She’s a former mistress and crime partner who also slept with Freddie's deceased wife. Adam the younger is sullen and haunted by his sister’s suicide, and both Anna and Helen fancy some under-the-sheets activity with Freddie/Felix. The game is afoot! 

 

Banville walks the tightrope between mystery and comedy with great aplomb and never tips his hand if we are to see his novel as a satire on manners or an exploration of theoretical geometry and physics. Jaybee is the Falstaff of the piece, but other clown princes abound. 

 

Banville has mastered the art of literary snark. Imagine Jaybee’s crisis when maybe he can’t eviscerate Adam Godley. The Singularities also has a lot of such tragi-comedic moments. Not to fear though; Freddie’s the top dog when it comes to misanthropy. The opening chapter in which he leaves jail is an absolute masterpiece of mixed messages, one that induces you to laugh aloud, but suspect that Freddie is about to shove a stiletto into someone's back. 

 

The novel occasionally lags. Banville’s venture into arcane theory would have been more accessible in small splashes rather than deep dives. All we really need is the rudiments of the Brahma theorem controversy; too much produces tone changes that feel like showing off rather than illuminating our protagonists. But to reiterate a point I've made elsewhere, I prefer books that are too smart over those too dumb. In his own fashion, John Banville has created a multiverse even when he stays in this dimension. 

 

Rob Weir 

 

* He wrote others under nom de plumes. 

 

Small Mercies and Big Trouble in Lehane's Latest

 

Small Mercies (2023)

By Dennis Lehane

Harper, 320 pages

★★★★

 

 

 

I stayed from Dennis Lehane for a time because I was tired of Boston mob novels. I went back after dusting off The Given Day (2008), which is about the 1919 Boston Police Strike. I’m still maxed out on mob tales, but Lehane’s latest has intriguing twists. Small Mercies is set in mobbed-up South Boston, but amidst the Boston busing crisis. Plus, some of the sleazeballs obtain an unlikely enemy in the person of Mary Pat Fennessy.

 

Small Mercies occurs in 1974, the beginning of a 14-year battle to desegregate Boston’s public schools. Massachusetts enjoys a reputation as a deeply liberal state, but that wasn’t always been the case, and Boston still hasn’t lived down the racism that once bloomed like a corpse plant, especially in “Southie.” It was controlled (in order) by big-time thugs, smaller thugs, the Catholic Church, Irish Americans, compromised cops, a local populace that knew what not to notice, and on-the-level police. It was a tossup if the biggest domestic problem was teenage pregnancy, alcohol abuse, or the “brown scourge” (heroin). But at least it was lily-white and black folk–not called that!–knew to stay away.

 

Mary Pat goes to mass, but she’s divorced, her Vietnam vet son died from heroin, she smokes like a coal mine fire, and daughter Jules is often AWOL and probably doing some hooking. Mary Pat certainly disapproves of her  boyfriends, but what can she do? She takes some solace in her job at the old folks home and likes “Dreamy” Williamson, a black coworker. Do they really connect, though? Mary Pat doesn’t know that her real name is Calliope or that she and her husband live a far more respectable life than her Southie neighbors. In fact, when Augie Williamson is killed in Southie, it initially doesn’t dawn on Mary Pat that he was Dreamy’s son.

 

Jules’ disappearance sends Mary Pat on a frantic search. After beating the crap out of a guy she assumed was Jules’ boyfriend, she turns to the head of the Southie mob, Marty Butler–think Whitey Bulger–for help. Because Mary Pat is making too much trouble and noise, Marty promises he’ll investigate. Yeah, sure he will! He just doesn’t want light shone on him or his ‘hood. It’s bad enough a couple of cops he doesn’t own are sniffing around. They get nothing from Mary Pat. That’s not how things are done in Southie.

 

When Mary Pat learns that Jules was with the son of one of Butler’s lieutenants, Mary Pat is pretty sure that Jules is dead. She’s positive of it when Marty gives her a sack of cash and tells her to go to Florida while he takes care of things. Mary Pat isn’t a 100-watt bulb, but she can read a runaround. She’s so desperate she even pays a visit to her ex, who lives in Cambridge. That might as well be another galaxy for someone like Mary Pat. His new domestic life is equally shocking to her, but not as much as the revelation that Jules might be involved in Augie’s death.

How on earth can Mary Pat find the truth or take on the mob? Her determination put me in mind of the two mothers who crusaded against violence in Northern Ireland. Before long Mary Pat has half of Southie wanting to get rid of her, but she’s surprisingly resourceful. Don’t get too excited; Lehane is all about grit, not the warm fuzzies. One passage sums up the cancerous effects of hate in Vietnam-era Boston: “Call them gooks, call them niggers, call then kikes, micks, wops, or frogs…. You can get kids to cross oceans to kill other kids, or you can get them to stay right here and do the same thing.”

 

Lehane is an engaging storyteller who seldom pulls punches, which is why he doesn’t shy from rubbing reader faces in hate speech. You will probably be shocked to discover the book’s namesake “small mercy.” Can a tigers change their stripes? It’s tough to do so in a place where even racists divide ideologically–the loudmouthed Louisa Day Hicks makes a few appearances–and “the only law and the only god is money.” So what if Southie is also a dumping ground for all social ills? Vendettas and mobsters have their own logic. Both play their hands in Small Mercies.

 

Rob Weir