Days of the Generals Dawning in the Middle East

New masters of the Middle East? 

I have seen the future of the Middle East and it looks a lot more like pre-1990s Latin America than the Iranian Revolution of 1979. Out with the mullahs and welcome to Days of the Generals. Although only fools and the U.S. State Department associate the terms “junta” and “human rights,” the silver lining for the Middle East is that military government is preferable to theocracy.

Readers of this blog know that many months ago I predicted what occurred on July 3: the military ouster of Egypt’s Mohammed Morsi. They also know that I have been ultra critical of what is still incongruously referred to as the “Arab Spring” uprisings of 2010-11, and of Westerners cheering those events. (They also know that I view support-from-afar as an unpalatable mix of closeted anti-Semitism and magical thinking.) It’s time to fess up to the truth that Arab Spring was little more than an attempt to wrestle power from the Old Masters and put it into the hands of the New Theocrats. Neither group should be confused with men of the people or forces of peace, though the Old Masters at least had the common sense to know that anti-Israel ranting was best contained to political speeches, not actual policy. Like former Egyptian President Sadat or Jordan’s Hashemite rulers, they made loud critical remarks, and then more quietly signed side deals with Israel. For all of his bluster, it’s what Bashar al-Assad has done in Syria; the Saudis are the undisputed masters of it. The generals like this sort of thing–it justifies their budgets without sending them off to inglorious defeat on the battlefield.

Never has the time been more ripe for such policies. The dream image held by most erstwhile theocrats is a combination of Gamel Nasser and the Ayatollah Khoemeni–war against Israel abroad and secularism at home. That ship has sailed and it came home with an empty hold. Both Nasser and Khoemeni were, in their own ways, a product of the Cold War; they played off the West against the Soviet Union to stave off full-scale interventionism. They also fared badly when their ravings prompted them to send their generals off to war–Egypt was clobbered by Israel in 1948 and 1967 (and didn’t do very well in 1973, either), whereas Iran came within a whisker of defeat at the hands of infidel Saddam Hussein in the 1980s (and probably would have lost if that damned idiot Ronald Reagan hadn’t authorized shipments of weapons to Iran.) Arab Spring has been little more than an attempt to turn back the clock militarily and socially.

It won’t work. The days of veils, beards, misogyny, and hatred of Jews must end if Arab (and Turkic) states are to have a future. The Cold War is over and globalism had ushered in a new reality. One can certainly debate the (im)morality of global capitalism, but the hard truth is that the world is now a big market and if one shopping mall is unsavory, one simply goes to a different one. Egypt discovered this in a big way. What does Egypt offer the world? Not bloody much! The Suez Canal is a relic of days when goods didn’t move in airplanes and oil tankers could squeeze through it. (It will ultimately become an antique in the coming post-petroleum age.) Is the world pining for dates and palm oil? In truth, Egypt’s most saleable commodity is tourism and travelers simply stopped heading for a land controlled by men shouting “Death to infidels!” Believe the generals when they say they don’t want to rule Egypt. They’ve no plan to replenish the country’s depleted coffers, but you’ll soon see them guarding the tourist routes and in villages ferreting out Islamists. Amnesty International and Western liberals will rent their collective garments and the tours will fill.

I’m not defending violations of human rights, but haven’t we learned by now that pursuit of profit is (at best) amoral? And haven’t we also learned that religious fundamentalists of all stripes are, by nature, even more prone to acts of barbarism than global traders or generals? (Only ethnicity-based uprisings are bloodier.) Places that can’t keep their religious fanatics in check–Lebanon, Libya, Pakistan, Palestine, the U.S. South–are finding themselves shut out of the global market. Such back-to-the-future behavior is ultimately self-defeating.

Ask Iran. Although Islamist “Guardians” still hold the upper hand there, the writing is on the wall in a nation in which the bulk of the population was born after the 1979 evolution and have grown weary of zealotry. Like young people everywhere, modern Iranians are more interested in electronic gadgets, pop stars, and good times than turbans, beards, and veils. Although new President Hassan Rohani is a cautious man who gets along with the Guardians, his very election shocked the religious establishment and was a repudiation of the provocative madness of Ahmadinejad.

Iran is probably years away from major political turmoil, but keep your eyes on Turkey, which may well be the next Egypt. Protests are gathering against the Erdoğan government, which represents the interests of conservative religion. His policies are viewed (correctly) as antithetical to the staunch secularism embedded in the Turkish constitution since the founding of the modern Turkey by Kemal Atatürk in 1923. Turks desperately long to join the European Union and it’s simply not going to happen until Turkey gets its finances in order and its Islamists out of power. Kemalists are waiting in the wings and they have historically leaned on the military.

The bottom line is this: Change is coming to the Middle East, but it’s more likely to wear a medal festooned uniform than a robe and a beard. 

Lord Mouse Rocks the Calypso World--From Germany

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LORD MOUSE and the KALYPSO KATZ

Go Calypsonian

Piranha Musik

* * * *

There was a time in which Caribbean music was a lot more fun and a lot less performer-focused. For most of the 20^th century, music from the islands was unabashed party music filled with blaring horns, swaying rhythms, and unpretentious musicians that emphasized having a good time over virtuosity and weren’t afraid to pour on the schmaltz if it made the party livelier. Enter Lord Mouse and the Kalypso Katz, who take us back to such days. Close you eyes on “Monkey Bop” or “Limbo Song” and it could be a Havana nightclub in the mid-1950s, where a bunch of loosened white-collared Americanos are wearing skinny black ties, shaking their stuff, and trying not to look like they’re with the CIA (which they probably were). 

If that image strikes you as odd, try this one: Lord Mouse is a Caucasian American who lives in Berlin and whose German-based 17-piece calypso band may well be the best in the business. (They’re certainly the best in Europe!) Go Calypsonian is brassy, bodacious, sweaty, retro, and often intentionally silly. Lord Mouse refuses to take himself too seriously. In the glorious and wicked “White Boy Calypso” he parodies himself by singing in a faux Jamaican accent atop a reggae-meets-calypso melody. The song’s chorus that will sear itself into your brain: “Hey white boy, why you sing/The songs of the Caribbean/Why you sing the songs/Of a place you’ve never been?’ Disarming honesty such as this forces us to see Lord Mouse as something more than so many white wannabes sporting dirty dreadlocks. In fact, he and his band go for the cheesy nightclub look, with Mouse looking like a misplaced Django gypsy and his female singers like the lost daughters of Charo and Carmen Miranda. Listen to them ham it up on “Chunga Changa.” When Mouse sings “Snake Charmer,” it’s tempting to think of it as autobiographical. All of this is to say, this is one helluva party record (though the last two tracks evoke movie soundtracks).

Here’s the best part. These folks are having a ripping good time, but they are not lampoon artists. The rhythm section is solid, the horn players hot, and the timing exquisite. Lord Mouse is a fabulous singer, who can be smooth and suave one moment, and a rakish devil the next. He has the range to take us from the perches occupied by high-voiced crooners or the depths where growly baritones reside. The Katz have stripped away the look-at-me pretense of over-produced contemporary music, but their very insouciance honors the vintage pan-Caribbean traditions from which they draw. Think Harry Belafonte before they packaged him for television. These Katz may be white, but they sound like calicos from where I dance. --Rob Weir

 This album doesn’t have its official release until July 9, but you can (and should) get it online. You can hear its tracks at https://soundcloud.com/kalypsokatz

Video Review: Chico & Rita Not a Jazzy as Advertised

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CHICO & RITA (2010/2011 USA)

Directed by Fernando Trueba, Javier Mariscal, Tono Errando

Motion Pictures (Spain), US distribution by Disney

94 minutes, (In Spanish with spotty English subtitles)

* *

I missed this one in the theater, but grabbed it on Netflix when several people recommended it. Wish I hadn’t. Everyone who recommended it is a jazz freak, and you probably need to be to appreciate this animated film from Spain. It was nominated for–but did not win–an Oscar in 2012.

It should have been better on many levels, starting with the animation, which seemed pretty ordinary given what we can do these days. There are several chase scenes and lots of musicianship and none of it looks realistic or dramatic. That’s fine, if one takes advantage of animation to do something experimental or dreamy. That’s simply not the case for most of what we see. (The only shimmery moments are, ironically, swirls of light dancing across Rita’s naked cartoon body.) Nor is the story as compelling as it might have been. There are three classic themes in the film: rags-to-riches, dramatic social change, and love won, lost, and regained. The story opens in Cuba in 1948, where Chico is a shoeshine boy who also happens to be a demon jazz pianist. When he spies flirty, saucy Rita, a chanteuse, it’s lust (then love) at first sight. Music and passion propel the characters and story from Havana to New York to Hollywood to Vegas and back to Havana (by which time the Cuban Revolution has occurred). The story arc is that of a tragic bolero and is imbued with ambition, misunderstanding, danger, revelation, regret, and remembrance.

Maybe it’s because I speak no Spanish and the subtitling was spotty, but much of what I wanted to know was not revealed, and most of what was revealed I could see coming miles down the road. If you are such a fan of jazz that you want to watch the ‘toons play the tunes of Thelonious Monk, Cole Porter, and Dizzy Gillespie, you might find Chico & Rita more interesting. If that sounds dull, you and I are on the same keyboard.

Rob Weir

Democrats--the Party of Geezers

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Ed Markey. Is this face what's wrong with the Democratic Party? 

In Massachusetts, a June 25 special election will fill John Kerry’s U.S. Senate seat. Recent polls give Democrat Ed Markey a 7% lead over his Republican challenger Gabriel Gomez and the fact that it’s not double that ought to give Democrats pause. The party apparatus has been out in force for Markey, but an indication of the tepidness of Markey’s support can be found in recent campaign ads attacking the Republican Party rather than Gomez directly.

As a Bay State resident, I get daily emails telling me what a wonderful “progressive” Ed Markey is and telling me how terrible it would be if the Senate fell to the Republicans. Call it where scare tactics meet running scared. Like many in Massachusetts, I agree that the current G.O.P. is a collection of Troglodytes, though Gomez doesn’t seem to be among them. (The Republican Party hasn’t endorsed him, which is actually a backdoor recommendation!) I won’t vote for Gomez, but I just can’t get juiced about Markey–25 years ago, maybe, but not now. I see Ed Markey as symptomatic of all that’s wrong with the Democratic Party, as well as what could go terribly awry in the future. Markey is too old, he’s been in Congress since 1976, and he’s amassed a record (as opposed to his stump speeches) that suggests he’s more of a lukewarm liberal than a progressive. 

Currently the Democratic Party holds a rather substantial advantage among voters of all age groups, but party faithful need to change the demographics or that won’t last. Generation X, the cohort that grew up with Reagan, is the best bet going for the Republicans, whose core support is ages 38 to 45. Not coincidentally, Gomez is 47 and he speaks to Gen X concerns such as aggressive foreign policy and tax cuts. Democrats enjoy a huge advantage of nearly 3:1 with voters under 25, but can they keep Generation Y? Maybe not if they don’t start acting like real progressives instead of just assuming the label. And maybe not if they keep throwing Baby Boomers like Markey out there. Is it a “youth” strategy to get a 67-year-old to replace the 69-year-old John Kerry? Baby Boomers are almost as enthusiastic about Democrats as Generation Y, but do you want to build a future on that key 65 to 82 constituency? 

Lest anyone accuse me of ageism, I am a Baby Boomer. I’m no math genius, but I can do basic arithmetic. What does it tell you when President Obama will be younger when he leaves the White House than any of the current pretenders to the throne would be if they took the oath of office in January of 2017. Lots of people are jonesing for Hillary Clinton to run in 2016. Ironically, many of them argued back in 1980 that Ronald Reagan was too old for the Oval Office. He was 69 when he entered the White House–exactly the same age Hillary would be.

It’s even more dire when one looks at other party leaders: Harry Reid is 74, Nancy Pelosi is 73, Joe Biden is 71, Dick Durbin is 69, and even Charles Schumer is 63. The Democrats have a serious lack of imagination when it comes to age. Remember when the party recruited then-74-year-old Walter Mondale to challenge Norm Coleman for the U.S. Senate in 2002? Coleman won, then lost to Al Franken in 2008, but he’s still 11 years younger than Mondale was in 2002. The Democrats also tried (unsuccessfully) to convince George McGovern to run against John Thune in 2005, even though McGovern was a dying man. More recently the Democrats lost a Senate seat–at least temporarily–when New Jersey’s Frank Lautenberg died. Lautenberg retired from the Senate at age 77 back in 2001, but was lured back to the fold to defeat Troglodyte Jon Corzine in 2003. One can applaud that victory, but what’s Lautenberg still doing in the Senate at 89, his age at death? New Jersey's Republican Governor Chris Christie, age 51, has already appointed a temporary senator. He's a younger Republican.

Chris Christie is emblematic of a potential G.O.P. age advantage. Look at some others–Bobby Jindal and Mario Rubio are 42, Paul Ryan is 43, Minority Whip Kevin McCarthy is 48, and Eric Cantor is 50. Hell, even 64-year-old John Boehner is a spring chicken by Democratic standards! Do the Democrats have any non-geriatric stars of their own? A few, though most lack national name recognition. Probably the best known is Andrew Cuomo (55), though he might not be as electable as Maryland’s Michael O’Malley (50). With all due respect to Hillary Clinton, I submit that those looking for the first female president and want her to be a Democrat should let Hillary retire now that she’s 65, and get behind either Amy Klobuchar (53) or Kristen Gillibrand (46). Heck, even 63-year-old Elizabeth Warren would be more youthful. But whatever they do, Democrats need to realize that the hands of time only turn in one direction.

Rob Weir

Les Misérables and Zero Dark Thirty Can Be Deleted from the Rental Queue

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Trust Your Instincts with Questionable Movies

Film critic Roger Ebert (R.I.P.) once gave a refreshingly honest answer to the question of whether he thought reviews made any difference. Ebert opined that most films are “review-proof”–including summer blockbusters and those with “hot” stars–in that people will go to see them no matter how bad critics say there are. The critic’s difference comes, Ebert speculated, in films that aren’t hyped or widely distributed. With these, critical praise or damnation can be the difference between a film being seen by a wide audience, or one that won’t even show up on HBO after midnight.

Ebert is right, though I’d amend his remarks to say that reviews also make a difference for films that seem to be aimed at a specific audience and whose hype may or may not match reality. Such films generally open “big,” but the reviews determine if they have staying power. My rule is to trust your instincts with films of that nature. It’s always good to stretch yourself now and then, but there’s no need to sit through something you just don’t care about. (I dodged Kill Bill for the reason that I’ve never seen a film involving martial arts that I like.)

I recently rented two films that made me wish I paid attention to the instinct that made me stay away when they were in the theater. The two are quite different: Les Misérables and Zero Dark Thirty. Of the two, the second is much better, but neither comes close to matching their pre-release hype.

I’m always skeptical of musicals, a genre I tend to either hate (Phantom of the Opera, Sweeney Todd, Momma Mia, Annie) or be astonished by (All That Jazz, Chicago, Moulin Rouge, The Singing Detective). I really didn’t want to see Les Misérables and I was right. It’s not the show’s fault. I saw it in London and was mesmerized by it. Moreover, Victor Hugo’s novel is one of the greatest stories in Western history. (It has inspired adaptations ranging from I am a Fugitive from the Chain Gang to The Fugitive.) Alas, Director Tom Hooper’s 2012 film is as flat as a flounder and as dull as CNN. One problem is that Hooper filled the screen with big names (Hugh Jackman, Russell Crowe, Anne Hathaway, and Helena Bonham Carter) rather than singers. The best that can be said is that a few of them didn’t suck, which is more than can be said for Sacha Baron Cohen. (My instincts say never see a film in which he appears.)

Mainly the film doesn’t work because the score is terrible, instant death for a musical. All of the “dialogue” is sung, but in the way you might invent a tune to sing your grocery list. What’s left with is a “big” production–big sets, pull-out feature songs, loads of extras, and dramatic effects. In London, the famed sewer chase was nothing more than swirling spots that evoked light pouring through street grates. In the film, nothing is left to the imagination, but it’s a spectacle that fails to be spectacular. The film made money, but critics were unmoved. They were right, Call Les Mis a swing and a miss.

I was also nervous about Zero Dark Thirty because I thought it might be inflammatory and because I’m sick of the American cult of the warrior. I was wrong on the first score, but dead on the money on the second. It’s the story of a CIA analyst played by Jessica Chastain who has to cut through skepticism and sexism to get leaders ranging from her bureau chief to President Obama to believe that she knows where Osama bin Laden is hiding. She was correct and American troops took him out. Chastain was praised to the hilt and was nominated for a Best Actress Oscar, but there’s nothing special about her performance.

Director Kathryn Bigelow must live a charmed life, though, as she got away with eliding history far more recklessly than much-maligned Michael Moore ever did. She rockets between the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, the 1993 World Trade Center bombing, and explosions in Khobar, London, Bagram, and Times Square with such dizzying speed that it’s nearly impossible to establish a credible time line. That’s weird, because the film is needlessly long (157 minutes) and contains many places where she could have sped the pace without sacrificing clarity. I give Bigelow credit for showing that the U.S. does torture its enemies, but for me the key moments were those in which we see Chastain gazing with longing and admiration at troops before and after their mission into Pakistan. Bigelow depicts their mission as a cross between a video game and Black Hawk Down. It’s hard not to see Chastain as Bigelow’s alter ego. Most of what she’s done, including The Hurt Locker (2010), involves macho men (cops, troops, sailors, cyberpunks, FBI agents) and I’m beginning to wonder if she longs to be one of the warriors or simply bed them all. The film’s tone changes to celebratory at the end, thereby negating the torture she critiqued earlier. It’s as if all the terrible things are justified because they helped the US hit its man. In the end, Zero Dark Thirty plays like a teenaged boy’s video fantasy of getting the bad guys. This film made some money, but not a lot. Those who loved it think it failed to spark because Americans are fatigued by the war on terror. Maybe they are, but I think it’s because it’s merely an average film, not a great one. --Rob Weir

The Deep Blue Sea an Underappreciated Gem

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THE DEEP BLUE SEA (2011/US release 2012)

Directed by Terence Davis

Film4, 98 minutes, R (brief nudity)

* * * *

Lloyd Sellus, who lives in London, tells me that the prosperous city we see today was nothing like that of his youth. London was repeatedly shelled during World War II and, well into the 1960s, the city was marred by bombed-out neighborhoods and dire slums. The Deep Blue Sea is set in that London. It’s 1950, a time in which scorched ruins stand cheek by jowl with intact buildings and city services are so rudimentary that a bit of heat means bundling up several feet from the “electric fire” into which one feds coins for precious moments of (barely) radiating warmth. If that sounds uncomfortable, the heating was light years ahead of feminism. Women had few options and most British women stoically accepted that. But what if you can’t?

How does a young woman with ambition and strong views, but little money, negotiate such a world? There’s another common British trope–one found in dozens of traditional songs–that of a young lass marrying an older man. That’s the set-up for The Deep Blue Sea, a film based on a 1952 Terence Rattigan play. Hester Collyer (Rachel Weisz) is the young woman in question and she has married very well. She’s actually Lady Collyer, as her husband, Sir William (Simon Russell Beale), is a high court judge. He’s also decades older than she and, as one old folk song puts it, he has no “courage in him” (a pun on a British beer name and a metaphor for lack of virility). William may be a judge, but he’s a milquetoast dominated by an imperious, snooty mother whom Hester finds as pretentious as a queen and as dull as ditchwater. The film unfolds in various flashback sequences, but you could predict what happens when Hester meets young blade Freddie Page (Tom Hiddleston). She spends a lot of time wearing (and shedding) a red dress in the film and her name tips us off. She’s essentially Hawthorne’s Hester Pyrne (The Scarlett Letter) several centuries later and several thousand miles removed.

The movie is a love triad/tragedy and, like Hawthorne’s Hester, Lady Collyer is full of desire but devoid of options other than those that male-dominated society deigns to grant. The Deep Blue Sea is also decidedly a play set to film and will not be everybody’s cup of tea. (Indeed, Netflix audiences rank it low.) Much of it is painterly in tone, the palette being more somber Rembrandt than sunny Monet. It’s also akin to a silent film in places, including the first 7 ½ minutes in which there is no dialogue. For all of that, Weisz won the New York Film Critics’ 2012 Best Actress award and I’d call it well chosen. One should not confuse lack of dialogue with silence, and Weisz is stunning in the manner in which she conveys Hester’s desperation without histrionic speeches. We see her pain etched upon her face and in the languid ways in which she moves. Beale is every bit her equal. He doesn’t need to tell us about the unrequited love burning in his bosom–we can practically see the flames shooting from it. Hiddleston’s Freddie is also done well. All, even the smitten Hester, can see that he is a man-child whose exterior as a former RAF fighter pilot is shopworn veneer that scarcely covers the shallowness beyond the shell. 

The film’s title is drawn from the expression “between the devil and the deep blue sea,” a metaphor for being trapped by two unappealing options. If you were Hester, how would you choose? And what would you do if, suddenly, you couldn’t even opt for one over the other? This is a bleak film, but if you like ones filled with interior angst and have the patience for it, it’s a very good one. Few of us Yanks saw it. More’s the pity.

Rob Weir

Tony McManus New Release Classic in Good and Not-so-Good Ways

TONY McMANUS

Mysterious Boundaries

Compass 7-4612-2

* * *

If you’ve ever heard Tony McManus add a delicate bridge to a fiery Alaisdair Fraser reel, lay it down double time with Quebeçois musicians, or marvel over his jazzy interpretations of Charles Mingus compositions, you already know that there’s not much he can’t do on the guitar. If you need any further proof, check out the artistry on Mysterious Boundaries. This time he puts his stamp on longhair stuff–the classics, not the hippies. This project that grew out of mandolin artist Mike Marshall’s challenge to McManus to learn Bach’s E major “Prelude.” That one’s on the new album, along with two others by Bach for good measure (“Allemande” and “Chaconne”). Among other things, you’ll also hear two from Baroque composer François Couperine, Claudio Monteverdi’s “Nigra Sum,” and “Gnossienne # 1” from avant-garde classical composer Erik Satie. As you can probably anticipate, McManus is technically flawless–his precise fingering of crisp melody notes in perfect resonance with resonating bass. I’d rank Mysterious Boundaries among the year’s top classical releases.

So why three stars instead of five? Call it purely a matter of preference–although I appreciate its complexity, I really don’t like classical music very much. What’s missing from McManus’s new album is what I find lacking in a lot classical music: passion and fire. Or, to be more precise, the way we define passion and fire in our age rather than the Baroque or some other past period. John Renbourn once called Tony McManus the “greatest Celtic guitarist in the world.” I agree, and I’d rather hear McManus raking barred chords up and down the neck, or adding crystalline contrast to pipes, fiddles, and accordions. McManus, of course, has more than earned the right to play whatever pleases him, just as we choose what makes its way into our listening rotations. If you’re a fan of classical music, Mysterious Boundaries will no doubt startle you, but I look forward to a future McManus release with more spit and less polish. --Rob Weir