8/5/10

God is Not Great a Flawed but Important Book


God Is Not Great
Christopher Hitchens

New York: Twelve Books, 2009
ISBN 978-0-446-69796-6
* * * *

The thesis of Christopher Hitchens’ latest book is summed in its subtitle: “How Religion Poisons Everything.” His is an unabashed atheist’s take on religion, but no matter what your personal beliefs or non-beliefs might be, it’s a book you should read and consider carefully.

Hitchens is a well-known leftwing journalist and the author of no less than fourteen other books, numerous pamphlets, and untold numbers of essays. He’s also an extremely intelligent and articulate man. If only he had kept his penchant for glibness in check we could have called this book the thinking-person’s Religolous. I wish he had, as his numerous zingers—funny though they are—simply supply ammunition for those who would stereotype the work and dismiss it without contemplation. More’s the pity, because if you are a person of faith you’d do well to clean up the very bad act that Hitchens chronicles—the links between war and religious belief, the death toll from lunatic faith-healers, child-abusing priests, preordained sexism, anti-intellectualism, the psychological damage done through guilt inducement, stealth in the name of God, and the unconscionable justifications for poverty, oppression, violence, and boorishness.

This book will—to put it bluntly—piss off a lot of people. My advice would be to save the piety for deeds instead of words. If you wonder how someone has the gall to write such a book, open your newspaper. Hitchens presents a world in the grips of warring camps bent on proving that their god is the only god, even if they have to oppress or kill everyone who disagrees. Here’s the kicker—it’s damned hard to disagree with him. The historical track record for organized religion is bleak indeed—so bleak that Hitchens practically defies any god or gods who might exist to prove existence by smiting religious evil-doers. In the absence of a cleansing smiting Hitchens argues that at best the gods don’t care, though he’s inclined to say the cosmos designed itself. And whatever else you might think of his book, you’d be hard-pressed to refute his assertions that we’d be better off listening to scientists and the health community in all matters relating to human sexuality, reproduction, population, and controlling STDs.

Those who find Hitchens overly selective might counter that millions have been helped by religion and that living saints imbued with the spirit of holiness are the antidote to those who commit monstrous acts in the name of religion. He anticipated that. This is a screed, but it’s not an uniformed one. Hitchens waltzes us through philosophy, psychology, and history to deflect arguments that religion makes us better or that it’s necessary. His is as much an apologetics for humanism as an assault on religion, one that those who lack faith can usefully mine when attacked for having no basis for their morality.

I have a few quibbles of my own. Labor advocates used to make a distinction between “Christianity” and “Churchianity.” They had nothing good to say about the latter, but thought there might be merit in the former. That’s not a bad way to consider the differences between individual acts of religious humility and the horrors perpetuated by institutionalized religion. It may be unfair to not parse the differences more carefully.

Moreover, as politically incorrect as it is to say this, Hitchens should have been even harsher in his treatment of Islam. There is a Western reluctance to call out Islam given the touchiness with which Muslims approach all criticism and the tenuous situation around the globe. I share the view that self-selected fanatics unfairly tar the reputation of millions of faithful Muslims. That said, there’s not nearly enough self-correcting outrage pouring forth from the Muslim community. A faith that celebrates the issuance of a fatwah against Salmon Rushdie and a Danish cartoonist, but not against those who convince children to strap bombs on themselves, oppresses women, blows up World Heritage monuments, and applauds when fanatics crash planes into tall buildings—remember the dancers in Palestine after 9/11?—is in serious need of self analysis (to say nothing of leadership changes). In a word, we need to see more evidence that Islam is a religion of peace. And, yes, we also need to see Christians acting charitably instead of arrogantly, and Jews, Hindus, and Buddhists applying their views of justice and morality to their Muslim neighbors. That is, unless all the world’s religions are content to prove Hitchens right on every single point he made.

In the end, I suppose there is the difference between this reviewer and Hitchens. He finds religion irredeemable. Like Sigmund Freud in 1927, Hitchens sees faith as a relic from the infancy of human evolution that should be cast aside for grown-up thoughts. Maybe so—but I still have enough faith (if I dare use that word) to think that if we got rid of the principals and practiced the principles of religion, it could still be a force of redemption. Maybe.

8/2/10

Canada Could Teach Lessons on Civility


How about a tower to peace?

Imagine it if you can. Imagine visiting the nation’s Capitol. Imagine safe streets where citizens walk about all hours of the day and night, not worrying about harassment or attack. Envision a clean city teeming with restaurants, craft shops, galleries, and food stands.

Now imagine wandering over to the Capitol building when the sun goes down. A sound-and-light show will transform its edifice into a canvas upon which scenes from the nation’s history will be presented, its culture celebrated, and identity discussed. Think frank, not Disneyfied. Imagine, for instance, a scene in which whites are shown succumbing to greed and ripping off the Natives who welcomed them. Imagine another in which racial prejudice past and present is acknowledged. Now consider a scene in which a labor strike—a general strike that closed down an entire city no less—is celebrated as an important lesson in making the nation consider the plight of the working class. (Indeed, try to imagine the very mention that a “working class” exists.) Imagine that there are only two references to the military in the entire thirty-minute presentation—and war is presented as tragedy, not glory and bravado. Imagine that more attention is given to Nobel Peace Prize winners, a man who failed in his quest, rock and roll stars and protest music performers. Imagine a script in which people talk about the importance of maintaining their ethnic identity, speak with pride of the nation’s welfare system, and discuss the need to balance business development with human needs and a national infrastructure.

Guess what? If you can imagine any of this, you’re in Ottawa, Canada, not Washington, DC. And having just witnessed MozAik, the multimedia extravaganza on Parliament Hill, I came away feeling sad for my nation—for the crime- and greed-riven streets of Washington, for its filthy ambience, and for the twisted values that flow from it. One nation embraced the best it can be, the other the most it can grab. So why does the second continue to pretend that it’s the greatest on earth? Because it has the biggest guns? It seems to me that a few things are missing: civility, respect, pride, community and, yes, liberty itself. Can you even imagine walking around the U.S. Capitol after dark? And who would venture beyond the Mall, even in daylight? Since when is the ability to walk the perimeter of an armed camp freedom? And when did Americans decide they’d rather live in a Disney illusion instead of working to build a good society? Canada may be small, but it sure could instruct the United States on the difference between materialism and quality of life.

PS—The man who “failed” was Terry Fox (1958-81), whom Canadians regard in heroic terms. Fox lost his right leg above the knee to cancer. In 1980 he decided to run across Canada on his prosthesis to raise money for cancer research. He began in Newfoundland and made it 3339 miles to western Ontario before the cancer that killed him spread to his lungs and forced him to give up his quest far short of British Columbia. Canadians hold an annual Terry Fox Marathon to raise cancer research funds. They’ve also named streets, schools, trails, and fitness centers for Fox. Is it just me, or is Terry Fox more worthy to contemplate than, say, Lindsay Lohan?

7/30/10

Micmacs an Offbeat Gem


Prepare to enter a magical, weird world.

Micmacs (2009)
Directed by Jean-Pierre Jeunet
105 mins. Rated R (brief sexuality and violence)
In French with subtitles.
* * * * *

Think of a film that’s one part Oceans Twelve and one part Brazil and you’re still a few dollops of mayhem and weirdness short of the delightful French film Micmacs. It’s directed by the eccentric Jean-Pierre Jeunet, the filmmaker who gave us treats such as Delicatessen (1991), The City of Lost Children (1997), Alien Resurrection (1997), and Amélie (2001). If you know any of these films, you know that the only drummer to which Jeunet marches is one pounding the offbeat.

The protagonist of Micmacs is Bazil (Dany Boon), a young man whose life started going wrong when he was just a lad and his soldier father was killed by a French-made landmine. A decade later he’s the victim of a stray bullet made by the same French manufacturer. Surgeons decide to leave the slug in his brain as it would be too risky to remove it, leaving Bazil subject to moments of odd behavior and in danger of sudden death should he take a blow to the wrong part of the cranium. All of this also leaves Bazil both seething at the injustice of a system that makes millionaires out of merchants of death, as well as eminently unemployable. Just when the future looks very bad indeed for Bazil, he runs into Placard (the delightful Jean-Pierre Marielle), a former convict who brings him to live among the weirdest bunch of misfits you’ll ever encounter. They reside in a salvage yard, but beyond the external wall of junk lies a labyrinth that’s like an Erector set assembled by Dr. Seuss and Rube Goldberg. It is the abode of others just like Bazil—intelligent, resourceful, and slightly damaged. The good-natured Tambouille (Yolande Moreau) is the den mother to an oddball troupe crew that includes a math savant, a human cannon ball, and a contortionist (Marie-Julie Baup) who has the hots for Bazil. Together they plot a zany revenge scenario against France’s two top arms merchants.

Sound weird and implausible? It is. It’s also a total gas. This black comedy is laugh-out-loud absurd in places, touching in others, and pure got-the-bastards pleasurable in all the right moments. It’s so odd that a lot of theaters had no idea how to market it. Unless you’re lucky enough to live in a town with an arts cinema and a smart booker, you’ll probably have to catch this one on video. Do so—it’s unlike anything else you’ll see outside of a Terry Gilliam film, and Jeunet is a far more consistent storyteller than Gilliam

7/27/10

Thomas Kinkade Further Ruins Christmas


The last trend in art--View and Barf.

I don’t normally wish bankruptcy on people, but when I read that Thomas Kinkade’s production company filed a Chapter 11 petition in June, I have to admit that I experienced gushes of guiltless glee. Thomas Kinkade’s art is to good taste what double-knit polyester is to high fashion. (I swear that if you put a Kinkade decal on your sweat pants it will make your ass look fat.)

Hooray! I thought—no more garish neon skies, yellow light shining in the windows of faux castles, stone-bridged s-curve creeks, or cottages that look like they were designed by bourgeois hobbits. My God! Good taste might break out right here in America.

As The Beatles sang, ‘Whoa-o-o-o I, should have known better….” Not only is Tom still committing aesthetic assault with a sabled brush, he’s just teamed up with the Bradford Exchange for a new offering that manages to sink lower than a shunned mole and be actively vile at the same time. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Kinkade’s “The True Meaning of Christmas," a composition that features jolly old Saint Nick busily at work in front of his fireplace carving crèches. This masterpiece is crowned by a painting above the mantle of “Victorian Christmas II.” It’s by the old master himself, Tomasardo da Kinkade. (Maybe the reproduction rights to “Drink the Kool-aid III” are tied up in bankruptcy court.)

Jesus, Mary, and the Reindeer!!! How many ways is this offensive? All hail the new Trinity: Santa, Jesus, and Kinkade. Isn’t it bad enough that Christmas has become an orgy of consumerism without Kinkaide rubbing our noses in it? In friggin’ July no less. If we wanted to get all PoMo (postmodernist) about it, we could speculate on why Santa and the painting are much larger than the crèche. Let’s. After all, Santa’s bag is next to him, toys and a list flowing out the top. Somehow I doubt that Jack through Matti are on the must-have-manger list and the carving is too large to fit in the “Mrs. Claus” stocking. Guess the crèche must be destined for the next person on the list. Maybe “Mitt.” Mitt Romney’s actually a Mormon, but he’s willing to become a born-again if you promise to vote for him. (He’s be willing to become a gay raccoon-juggler from Seti Alpha VI if you'll vote for him.)

But wait…there’s more. Not only do we get nearly 11 inches of “lifelike” hand-painted resin, flip a switch and the painting illuminates. Push a button and hear minstrel Tom himself “narrate the Christmas story.” Which one, I wonder—the one told in the New Testament, the poem by Clement Moore, or the story by Charles Dickens? To really get in the correct spirit it should be the script from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, or maybe NLCV II to provide symmetry with “Victorian Christmas II.”

All of this is yours for $99.99 plus $14.95 for shipping and handling. How much to contribute to the creditors’ fund in the bankruptcy lawsuit? Santadamn it! I want Kinkade to be sent to the seventh layer of hell where he will be body painted by elves for eternity.

7/24/10

NEW BEDFORD SUMMER FEST A SWEET TREAT


Sloan Wainwright--Best in Family!

New Bedford Summer Fest
July 2-4, 2010


It’s a great mystery to us why New Bedford Summer Fest continues to be unknown to most people more than an hour from Boston—it might well be the very best music festival in all of New England, and just $15 per day gives you access to a lot of the same people you’d spend well over a hundred bucks to see at Newport. It’s better run than Falcon Ridge, more creative than Old Songs, more diverse than Champlain, and easier to get to than the Boston Folk Festival. What is it? New Bedford?

If you’ve never been to New Bedford, give it a try. Think Gloucester without Moonies or Yuppies. It’s an old whaling town and is gritty in places, but the downtown, where Sumer fest is held, has been redone with cobblestone streets, small museums, galleries, and cafes. The town’s jewel is the Whaling Museum operated by the National Park Service—with more than you ever wanted to know about the leviathan hunt days of yore.

As for Summer Fest, it’s seven stages dispersed among vendor-lined streets. The July 4 weekend was clear, bright, and low humidity, the latter a rarity this summer. Lots of festivals have multiple stages but obvious choices as to who needs to be seen at what time. That’s not the case at Summer Fest; the lineup is so impressive that you have to make hard choices. Here are our highlights, though we didn’t even get to see some old favorites such as Susan Werner, Vance Gilbert, Little Johnny England, or The Kennedys.

Jack Amerding is a name to know, a talented guy who’s like a younger version of John McCutheon. Amerding dazzles on fiddles, frets, and vocals with a repertoire that runs the gamut from bluegrass to Celtic.

We had not heard Caroline Aiken very much before and man does she sizzle! She reminds us a bit of Bonnie Raitt in her blues personae, Janis Joplin when she airs it out, and of a white griot when she tells tales of her Southern girlhood

We laughingly call Benoit Bourque “the happiest man in folk music.” Check out his clogging, his perpetual smile, and his good-time Quebecois repertoire.

John Gorka was once the goofy rising star—now he’s the consummate pro. His rich baritone voice, smart songs, and trenchant observations make him a must-see no matter who else is on the bill.

Anne Hills was on hand to remind us of folk music’s link with social change, the joys of group singing, and the pure magic that comes from one guitar and one clear-as-a-bell voice.

Had it with stupid people and dumb songs? Check out old friend James Keelaghan, a poetic voice from Canada who writes some of the smartest lyrics around. Very few people can put tale to song like James.

We've only been mildly moved by the recordings of Peter Mulvey, but he sure does put on a heck of a show, one that traipses through Tin Pan Alley, dresses up in some blues, and waltzes around the Americana stage.

One of the promising new lineups coming out of Scotland is The Paul McKenna Band. McKenna’s tenor voice has unique light qualities and he and his band studied with Brian McNeill at the Royal Scottish Academy, so you’ll hear echoes of early Battlefield Band.

Po’Girl is a real mash-up—four members and a stage full of instruments that run from the expected (acoustic guitars, dobro, piano) to the say-what? (clarinet, glockenspiel, gutbucket bass, bicycle bell). Think folk with a gospel feel, some blues, and bohemian sensibilities.

The brightest star in the constellation? That would be Sloan Wainwright, who delivered killer sets everywhere she appeared and with everything she sang. If you’re going to cover Marvin Gaye, you’d better have chops. She has ‘em, alright. Talk about your family trees! She’s the sister of Loudon Wainwright III, the sister-on-law of Kate McGarrigle, her nephew is Rufus Wainwright, and her nieces are Martha and Lucy Wainwright. Believe us when we say that Sloan is more talented than any of them! She does it all—soul, pop, acoustic folk, jazz, rock…. and boy does she get into it. If you don’t know her you might be tempted to say that she’s stagey, but it’s genuine—the woman simply loves to sing. And so would you if you had a contralto voice like hers. Imagine what Celine Dion would be if she know how to sing. She still wouldn’t be as good as Sloan Wainwright.

7/21/10

The Secret in their Eyes Decent but Not Great


The Secret in their Eyes (El Secreto de Sus Ojos)
Directed by Juan Jose Campanella

Argentina (2009); In Spanish with subtitles.
127 mins. Rated R (nudity, rape, violence, language)
* * *

When the Oscars came around last spring we had seen almost every nominee except the foreign language entries. As it turns out, this was the most controversial category. Odds makers had The White Ribbon (Germany) as the prohibitive favorite with The Prophet (France) as the dark horse. The winner, Argentina’s The Secret in their Eyes was a shocker. Those who would dismiss the Oscars as irrelevant should consider--The White Ribbon, which is a masterpiece was only in theaters long enough to down a box of Raisinets before heading to DVD, while Secret, a middling film, is still selling tickets. It’s been at our local cinema for six weeks, which is where we finally saw it.

Many critics liked the film, including Roger Ebert, but quite a few hated it. Wesley Morris of The Boston Globe averred that it “has the high, slightly nauseating stink of perfume on garbage.” Great line! But inaccurate. So too is Ebert’s praise. The Secret in their Eyes is something in between a classic and a dog—call it a stylishly done run-of-the-mill thriller. It attempts to graft a film-detective formula—a decades-old unresolved mystery—to a cliché posing as wisdom: that the eyes cannot conceal or lie.

The film also breaks out the shopworn tool of a man late in life feeling the need to exorcise old demons by writing a book about them. In this case we meet retired judge Benjamin Esposito (Ricardo Dario) in 1999, who is haunted by the 1974 murder that he solved when he was still a court investigator. It involved the brutal rape and murder of a pretty school teacher and the eventual conviction of a creep she knew from her youth. Already we’re on clichéd ground and director Campanella adds a few more: Pablo, Benjamin’s drunken-but-loyal sidekick (Guillermo Francella); Ricardo, the widower husband determined to solve the murder on his own (Pablo Rago); Irene (Soledad Villami), the new judicial officer for whom Benjamin yearns; and a jumbo-sized popcorn bucket full of corrupt politicians. The latter describes most of Argentina’s ruling elite during the 1970s, but this is no Missing (1982) and Campanella is no Costa Gavras. (Okay, so Missing was set in Chile, but Argentina’s Peronistas were no better. Campanella’s passing reference to the Perons is ham handed.)

The eyes are the key. Benjamin is determined to break the case when he sees the pain in Ricardo’s face. Irene reads guilt in the killer’s eyes and sees Benjamin’s yearning for her in his. Benjamin reads Pablo’s besotted intelligence beneath his Beatle-cut brow, and--for reasons never quite explained--reads Irene’s longing for him but averts his eyes. Etcetera…. Twenty-five years later there are still some secrets that need to be cleared up. Can Benjamin still reach a person’s soul through their gaze? For the record, I believe that the eyes can tell tales—I can often identify an intelligent student by an ineffable spark I see in the iris—but there’s a reason why we have expressions such as “poker face.” Campanella would have use believe that the eyes are better than sodium pentothal and that it’s never too late to start all over. The degree to which you believe these things will pretty much shape to degree which you find his film compelling versus contrived.

The film has a classy look to it—almost as if it’s a 40s film noir shot in color. The acting is also very good, especially Dario as Benjamin exuding approach-but-don’t-touch buttoned-up reserve. Villami is also superb as a nobody’s fool woman who’s equal parts competent, desirable, and cool as ice. The film also has a creepy resolution that invites contemplation of the word “justice.” In all, it’s a film that’s worth watching, but for heavens sake, don’t buy into its hype.
Postscript: We finally saw Michael Haneke’s The White Ribbon. We wholeheartedly concur with Lloyd Sellus’ review on this site. Put this one on your Netflix queue immediately. What if the testimony of the children in the Salem witch trials had never been repudiated? Put those kids in a repressed Protestant German village in 1914, the kind where everyday brutality passes as improving character. Talk about the “secret” in the eyes! You can almost see swastikas shooting out like time-delayed bombs in the pupils of the village offspring. This isn’t a good film—it’s a contender for best of the century. Too bad Hollywood was dazzled by Campanella’s bling and was blinded to Haneke’s steely glare.

7/19/10

Ruth Reichl Book Lightweight


Ruth Reichl
For You Mom, Finally

Penguin Books
978-0-14-311734-6
* *

In the academy where I work, scholars still worry about genres and outdated ideas like the literary cannon. That’s really quite quaint when you think about it, as our students live in a world of mash-ups, category-crossing, and genre-smashing. And lord knows they don’t read very much. I’ve long been an advocate of replacing all literary genres with just two: good books and bad books, a “good” book being that students will read, and a “bad” one that which you can’t bribe, cajole, or force them to read. If that makes Kurt Vonnegut a more important writer than Jane Austen, so be it. (Confession: I think Vonnegut is way better than Austen!)

This brings me to Ruth Rechl’s memoir For You Mom, Finally. Bad book! One reviewer hailed it as a “feminist manifesto.” Good grief! If this is all that feminism has to show in the 47 years since The Feminine Mystique, it’s time to reexamine its assumptions. My reading of this breezy 120-page over-simplification of women’s lives suggests that it’s less a feminist tract than a work aimed at the pseudo-genre of “chick lit.” Given how I feel about scholarly categories, you can imagine what I think of pseudo genres.

Reich is a food critic and TV celebrity, not a literary powerhouse. She has a good story to tell, but she filters it through the nostrums, glib asides, and easy-to-digest analyses suitable for TV rather than asking the harder questions historians would ask. It’s a shame because her story could be compelling. Reichl muses on the meaning of her mother Miriam’s life¬—that of a woman who wanted to become a doctor but yielded every step of the way to the bourgeois gender expectations of the twentieth-century. She studied music, though she was not good at it; took low-level clerical jobs that bored her; and ultimately became a homemaker, though she had no aptitude whatsoever for it. Miriam (“Mim”) never stopped dreaming of being a doctor and moved through life with a spacey detachment from reality that led from one domestic train wreck to the next—think the character of Sylvie in Marilynne Robinson’s superb Housekeeping. Along the way Mim gets lots of bad advice and loads of pharmaceuticals.

The arc of Mim’s tragedy is familiar to those who’ve studied women’s history; in fact, it’s quite similar in many ways to what drove Betty Friedan into the arms of feminism. But those who want to give similar heft to Reichl’s volume are seeing things that aren’t there. Reichl claims to have assembled part of the tale from a cache of her mother’s letters, but there’s no way of telling whether these are actual documents, or a literary device. If they are actually letters, they need to be put into the hands of a critical-eyed scholar. And when a book opens with the admission that “my mother was a great example of everything I didn’t want to be” (7) we must wonder at key moments whether the motives being described are those of Mim, or those imposed by Ruth. Moreover, Ruth admits that her mother’s frustrated ambitions justify her own workaholic lifestyle. When asked why she labors so hard she replies, “Because I can.” (10) But she has no answer for the woman she met at a book signing (117) who asked her why anyone would want to toil as hard as she. (I wonder what Reichl would make of the old Industrial Workers of the World campaign for the “right to be lazy?”)

Herein lies the tale not told. My reading of feminism is that it’s about choices in the plural, not a simplistic either/or selection. Reichl had an opportunity to tell a complex tale of the forces shaping women’s lives; instead she wrote a justification for her own life choices. It is a story filled with enough—as she calls them—“Mim Tales”--to tantalize and suggest, but at every step of the way she opts for cheap emotionality instead of depth. There are several moving passages, but her Kleenex-box approach to writing is classic chick lit to be consumed in a setting no more thought-provoking than the beach.