Adrian Raso, Fanfare Ciocarlia, and Living Dangerously

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ADRIAN RASO and FANFARE CIOCARLIA

Devil’s Tale

Asphalt Tango Records 4414

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Pictures tell stories. The cover of Devil’s Tale features a bat-flocked Gothic background. Front and center we see a lady of no discernible virtue leaning against a tuba. Guitar-packing Old Nick sits astride a horse led by a cigar-smoking skeleton holding a trumpet.  Maybe the old legend is true and the Devil does have the best music. Within Balkan music, Fanfare Ciocarlia occupies the semi-mythical space analogous to The Bothy Band in Ireland, Vartinna in Finland, or La Bottine Souriante in Quebec. Soaked in the brine of Romani music and seasoned by everything from Austrian military band music and Macedonian melodies to Bollywood and radio pop sounds, Fanfare is brassy, bold outfit that often sounds like Gogol Bordello meets a mariachi band. Their mix of energy and whimsy is cyclonic and virtuosic. You need to be good, really good, to keep up with these guys. Enter Canadian guitarist Adrian Raso, whose rakish personality and love of Django Reinhardt put him on the same wavelength. When Raso is laying down a seriously fast lick, it’s what you’d get if you stuck a Gypsy soundtrack to microwave popcorn. Put some fierce brass behind all that, and even the Devil had better watch out. Even song titles suggest inequity: “Urn St. Tavern,” “The Absinthe Minded Gypsy, “Devil’s Tale.”  Throw what you know about time signatures out the window and move the furniture from the room, you’re going to need room to flop, flail, and dance along with the musical demons partying in your head.

Rob Weir

The Dinner Tasty, though not Gourmet

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THE DINNER (2013)

Herman Koch

Hogarth 978-0385346856

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The Dinner was a runaway bestseller in Europe that has recently been translated from Dutch into English. It’s a good read, though not one that justifies the hullabaloo. I’ve no idea who (if anyone) influenced whom, but North American audiences will find startling parallels between The Dinner and William Landay’s Defending Jacob. Both novels center on the dilemma of what parents should (or will) do if they discover that one of their children has committed an atrocity. Both also probe the question of whether the biological sins of fathers are visited upon their sons. Facebook also factors prominently in each novel.  

The biggest difference is that Landay’s book is a thriller, and Koch’s book is a drama wrapped in a black comedy. The book’s revelations unfold during (and at the pace of) an evening-long dinner between two Dutch brothers and their wives, none of whom particularly like each other. Paul Lohman is a former high school teacher, who snapped badly in the classroom, wasn’t well served by the psychological community, and hasn’t worked since. He and his polished, scheming wife Claire have a 15-yar-old son, Michel. Serge is Paul’s opposite­—an airbrushed politician who carefully measures each word and emotion before exposing them to the public. He’s so good at it that few see beneath the sheen and he’s the odds-on favorite to become the next prime minister of The Netherlands.

Serge and his wife, Babette, are actually insufferable social climbers keen to polish their caring image.  They live amidst haute bourgeois splendor with two biological children, 15-year-old Rick, 13-year-old Valerie, and “Beau,” an adopted black son from Burkina Faso. Saints preserve anyone that even hints that Beau is anything less than 100% Dutch, or that political correctness can be self-parodying. Serge likes to be in control of everything, including picking the restaurant in which the foursome dines.  Because that establishment has the buzz of being hot, Serge sings its praises though it’s actually a humble joint basking in its brief moment of hipness. The owners and staff are hovering and obsequious stuffed shirts the likes of which will try to make patrons think that browned butter is their own gourmet invention. Some of the book’s most hysterical passages involve wait staff regaling diners with the provenance of every (tiny) portion on their plates.

 As we proceed through the courses from aperitif to coffee, we learn that this novel’s takedown of the petty bourgeoisie forces us to gaze at what lurks beneath lustrous surfaces. The purpose of the dinner is to discuss what should be done about something Michel and Rick have done (and to which Beau is privy). I shall say no more, other than the resolution probably won’t play out the way you expect.  

The Dinner is a tasty read. It’s also akin to its setting in that its reputation is more exalted than what makes its way to the table. Think a very good hamburger, not a gourmet meal.

Rob Weir

American Hustle Con Not Good Enough for Top Marks

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American Hustle (2013)

Directed by David O. Russell

Columbia, 138, R (for language and eye-popping cleavage)

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American Hustle is typical of David O’ Russell films like Spanking the Monkey, Flirting with Disaster, Three Kings, and Silver Linings Playbook in that there’s less here than meets the eye. By his own admission, Russell is more interested in the external trappings he commits to film than in narrative integrity. It shows–in good and bad ways.  

American Hustle was inspired by the Abscam scandal. The time is 1978, just two years after New Jersey voters approved gambling and the year the first Atlantic City casino opened its glitzy doors. Disco was peaking, fashion was loud and ugly, the economy was in the toilet, and factories were folding like a man holding unmatched poker cards. The late 70s were like a disco mirror ball–reflective surfaces devoid of depth that only dazzled when the room was dark. The hustle was a dance rage; it was also a popular economic activity. The FBI launched the Abscam operation (for Arab Scam) to nab hucksters pawning off American assets (and casino licenses) to the highest foreign bidders. The FBI’s fake Middle Eastern business consortium eventually netted some high-powered boys with their fingers in the wrong piggy bank, including six U.S. Representatives, Mayor Angelo Errichetti of Camden, and U. S. Senator Pete Williams of New Jersey. Russell nails the time period’s shallowness, greed, and desperation.

The tale centers on Irving Rosenfeld (Christian Bale), a low-level con man with a beer gut, an appalling comb over, and a tacky office from which he deals fake art and arranges crooked loan deals. He also operates a few legitimate dry cleaning joints at which clients routinely abandon their threads, because they were too smashed to recall where they left them, or because they were hustled out of the wherewithal to pay the cleaning bill. Irving’s love life and shady business activity leap to the next level when he meets Sydney Prosser (Amy Adams), whose affected British accent, fake aristocratic credentials, plunging necklines, and slit skirts could con a monk out of his habit. Their sweet operation and affair goes awry when FBI agent Richie DiMaso (Bradley Cooper) nails them and offers them a choice between assisting the Feds or rotting in jail–something free bird Sydney couldn’t tolerate and Irving wants to avoid, as he also has a wife, Rosalyn (Jennifer Lawrence), and an adopted son to whom he’s mightily attached. DiMaso would rather fry big fish, but are any of them up to the racket necessary to contain oily politicians and smooth Mafiosi that leave corpses on the street and ask questions later? (Check out Robert De Niro’s cameo.)

American Hustle is part drama, part comedy, and lots of eye candy–debauched discotheques, raucous Italian-American restaurants, big cars, and urban blight slum tours. But there’s no candy sweeter than Amy Adams. One wag has nominated the double-sided tape she wears for “Best Supporting Actress,” and he’s not wrong–it’s all that stands between Adams and a full display of that with which Nature endowed her. Lawrence is also a head-turner, both for her va-voom physicality and for her chameleon-like ability to be everything except what you’d expect. Both women are amazing in their roles and have rightly carried off Golden Globe awards. Jeremy Renner is also superb as Mayor Carmine Polito, a puffed hair Joe Peschi look-alike and Errichetti stand-in who is slowly reeled into things he probably neither understands nor desires. (Entrapment rules were revamped after Abscam.)

This is the good news. The bad is Christian Bale is miscast. It’s not his fault and he worked hard to get into the character as it was written, but that character stretches credulity to the point where we stop believing it. A knockout like Sydney could do much better than an overweight, underdressed, intellectual lightweight like Irving. Louis C. K. is also miscast as DiMaso’s superior, Stoddard Thurston, and does little except provide some very loud screaming and some very cheap slapstick. Bradley Cooper is more present than impressive, and most of the male parts in American Hustle are all surfaces–like the mirror ball. A bit like the script. The plot seems more complicated than it is because there are continuity holes the size of Bally’s Casino.

I suspect that surfaces were Russell’s intention. Everyone hustles. Got that. But films  with more double crosses than a tic-tack-toe tournament have been done many times, and better than this–think Body Heat, The Grifters, House of Games, Intolerable Cruelty, The Spanish Prisoner, Up in the Air, and The Sting. Boston Globe reviewer Ty Burr liked American Hustle, but called it “an exuberant con job of a movie.” Con job is harsh, but David O. Russell reminds me of the wicked smart kid that should be my top scholar but is content to carry an 82 average and hopes he can con me into a B by semester’s end. Not this time: American Hustle gets a B-.   Rob Weir

Therese Honey: Harp Tunes for Cold Nights

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THERESE HONEY

Summer’s End

Waterbug 108

Some instrumental albums force you to dance; Therese Honey’s solo harp release makes you want to hunker down with a fleece and a steaming mug of cocoa. She’s titled it Summer’s End, but the mood is midwinter. The ambience is enhanced by the glassy tone of Honey’s harp, the skill with which she plays high scales, her tendency to let her strings ring rather than stopping them, and her downy touch on those strings. It begs a positive spin on the adjective ‘icy,’ as in crispness and stark contrasts. Honey’s repertoire of original, traditional, and covers is mostly drawn from or inspired by Celtic composers, lands, and legends. There are the obligatory Turlough O’Carolan pieces, tunes drawn from the O’Neill and Bunting collections, and a few learned from Grainne Hambly. As this suggests, Honey’s playing tends toward the formal side of the ledger, even when she’s plucking out a jig or reel. You’ll find old favorites such as “Hewlett,” “Moving Clouds,” and “Queen of Yarrow,” and accomplished originals such as the title track and “Connealy Rose.” There’s also a surprisingly lilting rendition of “Bonaparte Crossing the Rockies,” a reworked variant of the popular hornpipe “Bonaparte Crossing the Rhine.” What makes Honey’s rendition unusual is that the variant is a bluegrass standard generally cranked out with deliberate homespun raggedness. No rough stuff from Ms. Honey; she’s as inviting as that cup of cocoa with my name on it.

Rob Weir

August: Osage County--Overactors of Hollywood Unite!

 August: Osage County (2013)

Directed by John Wells

Weinstein Group, 121 minutes, R (language)

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Wrestling for the coveted "Greatest Overacting Award."

What we’ve learned from the moves lately is that living in flat places like Montana, Nebraska, and Oklahoma can make you nuts. Apparently Oklahoma also produces horrendous acting, if August: Osage County is any indication. Here’s a sentence I never thought I’d write: Julia Roberts out-acts Meryl Streep. Here’s another: That’s because Streep’s latest performance is her career worst. She’s not alone, though. A “412” is actors’ slang for overacting and if there were 412 Oscars, the cast of Osage County would clean out the trophy case.

The film is ostensibly a twist on the adage: “The sins of the father are visited upon the son.” This time it’s the sins of the mother. Violet Weston (Streep) is a pill-popping bitter woman suffering from mouth cancer, and from benign neglect from her brilliant world-weary poet-husband Beverly (Sam Shepard in a cameo) . He’s had it with her Wicked Witch of the West act and has hired Johanna Monevata, a local Cheyenne woman (Misty Upham), to be a housekeeper and wedge between him and Violet. When Bev dies (accident or suicide?), the extended Weston family descends upon the homestead to bury Bev and pick up the pieces.

Hank Williams once sang, “A house without love is not a home,” and this is certainly true of the Westons. There’s not an ounce of kindness between Violet and her three daughters: Barbara (Roberts), Ivy (Julianne Nicholson), and Karen (Juliette Lewis). Violet is equal parts abusive and manipulative toward her younger sister Mattie Fae (Margo Martindale) and her huband, Charlie (Chris Cooper). She is sharp-minded, sharp-tongued, and occasionally funny, but Violet is as Machiavellian and mean-spirited as her own mother had been. Of course, she is powerfully resented by her daughters, all of whom are convinced they are nothing like her when, in truth, they’re chips off the old blockhead.

Barbara is a control freak in the midst of a disintegrating marriage to Bill Fordham (Ewan McGregor), and estranged from her 14-year-old daughter, Jean (Abigail Breslin). Ivy is the stay-behind daughter who is dutiful on the outside, but is so filled with resentment and fury that she’s about to explode; Karen is a trashy floozie dating the older Porsche-drving huckster Steve (Dermot Mulroney), who is literally and metaphorically taking her for a ride. Also in the mix is “Little” Charles (Benedict Cumberbatch), Mattie Fae’s son, whom she abuses and demeans at every opportunity.

Tracy Letts wrote the screenplay, which was based on her Broadway play. There’s  plenty here for a skilled director to shape but, alas, Wells isn’t that director. He’s best known for his work on television and he simply isn’t up to the task of laying down the law to all the star power and egos involved in this film. Streep plays Violet like Michael Bolton sings–she starts at 110 decibels and stays there. Her performance isn’t dramatic, it’s histrionic. Roberts is far superior because at least her anger smoulders before it ignites, but playing off of Streep’s overwrought tantrums, even cool Julia bursts into lighter-fluid-fanned flames. The less said about Juliette Lewis, the better; her performance is inept and embarrassing. Benedict Cumberbatch doesn’t have much to do, but he does it badly in a performance that runs the gamut from moping to really moping. Even the usually delightful Abigail Breslin slips; she plays a 14-year-old living dangerously as if she’s reduxing an old Christina Ricci role.

There are a few highlights. Julianne Nicholson is quite good because she plays her cards close to the vest instead of waving them in front of our faces. McGregor also does a nice job of repeatedly retightening the lid on the lamp, lest the genie (destructive outbursts) escape. Misty Upham is quielty present but forceful whilst being a leaf upon a raging stream, though we do wonder why she doesn’t leave all these Pugnacious Pale Faces to drown in their own bile. Best of all is Chris Cooper, a mostly silent man who’d be content just to be a good person, except for all the bullshit he’s forced to shovel and dodge. His perfomance has something most of the others lack; I believe they call it sublety.

This film is up for quite a few Oscars, but don’t be fooled–it’s what you’d get if you took the humor out of Monty Python’s “Four Yorkshiremen” sketch and mashed it with a high school production of A Long Day’s Journey Into Night and shocking revelations á la Chinatown. It’s my least favorite type of movie: 412s masquerading as weighty high art. Rob Weir

Intent to Deceive: Can You Spot the Fake?

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Intent to Deceive: Fakes and Forgeries in the Art World

D’Amour Museum of Fine Arts (Springfield, MA)

Through April 27, 2014

Take a look at this luscious painting by Van Gogh. All his mastery is on display–the psychedelic colors, the thickly applied oils, and bucolic tranquility that looks as if it’s about to be devoured by the swirling sun burning across the horizon. The work is so vivid that we can imagine the mad, paint-splattered Vincent attacking his canvass with brushes and palette knife. Except that what you’re seeing is actually by John Myatt.

And what a treat to drive the 20 miles to Springfield and gaze upon Vermeer’s classic Girl with the Pearl Earring. The last time I saw it, I had to board a plane to Amsterdam and board a train for The Hague. Now that the Mauritshuis is closed for renovation, the Vermeers are free to travel. All is good, except that the image before me isn’t Vermeer; it’s Myatt again.

Intent to Deceive features five talented individuals: Myatt (1945-), Elmyr de Hory (1906-76), Han Van Meegeren (1899-1947), Eric Hebborn (1934-), and Mark Landis (1955-). You have to be talented to do what they did: make the art world think your knock-off is the Real McCoy. A newly opened exhibit at the D’Amour Museum of Fine Arts explores the world of art forgers. Its purpose is didactic, not laudatory. One should not equate art forgers with romantic double agents–their mischief has sidetracked careers, tarnished museum reputations, and triggered untold millions of dollars in financial losses. There are an estimated 1,000 works hanging on museum walls posing as master works that are actually by de Hory. The next time you see a museum label identifying a work as “attributed to,” chances are you’re gazing at a fraud. That may not be entirely bad. Stay with me on this seemingly outrageous remark.

The first question on everyone’s mind is: “How did the forgers get away with it?” This brings us back to the fact that one must be a superior artist even to attempt such a thing. This, in turn, begs the question of how value is assigned to art. A friend of mine judges so-called masterpieces by framing them in a question rather than gilt: “If you saw this painting at a yard sale, how much would you pay for it?” A real Van Gogh would sell for over a hundred million dollars; a faux Van Gogh for several hundred. Is the genuine article really 50,000 times better than Myatt’s work? Before you take the high ground, consider that tens of thousands of satisfied visitors annually leave a Las Vegas museum that admits its walls are adorned with simulacra.

This begs the question of whether the ultra-rich and self-anointed arbiters of public taste are complicit in the forgery trade. It’s a bit like the issue of why some athletes cheat by using steroids–because the potential monetary gain seems to justify the risk. The deceivers showcased in the exhibit made very good money off collectors, art houses, and museums more focused on value than artistry. None of the painters have made that much money with their own canvases, yet each was good enough to pass as a master.    

One can both deplore theft and raise questions about the culture of ridiculous accumulation. Take de Hory, for instance. A 1969 biography detailed de Hory’s shady career. It was penned by none other than Clifford Irving, who two years later published (and was eventually jailed for) a falsified autobiography of Howard Hughes. Did these men commit fraud for a lark, or was it for the lolly? A shadowy character named John Drewe sold several Myatt works as masters before the artist knew about it. Why did Myatt eventually go along? Follow the money.

If you’re looking for ‘good’ guys, check out the details on panel boards that explain how forgers are exposed. It’s real CSI stuff involving connoisseurship, meticulous tracking of a work’s provenance, and technical analysis (much of it using technology not available when some of the works were produced). One fascinating revelation is how an eagle-eyed art detective noticed that two prints allegedly from different time periods used the same paper. That’s a real connoisseur at work, but basic homework would have averted a lot of fraud. Myatt and Landis, for instance, legally sold acknowledged copies on the open market. 

Intent to Deceive is about mischief-makers, con men, and rubes. Its final section has small works and forgeries side by side. We are invited to identify which is fake and which is real. Can you do it? Here’s a painting. It’s a de Hory, not a Modigliani. If nothing else, Intent to Deceive made me look more closely than I normally do. It’s the only way to appreciate a true Modigliani.--Rob Weir  

Random Thoughts on American Society

Hobby Lobby, a chain owned by Christian mullahs, obtained a temporary stay on the portion of the Affordable Care Act (ACA) that requires coverage for contraceptive services. It claims such provisions violate the religious conscience of the chain’s owners. Conservatives have cheered this, but they should not. Let’s be clear about this: Hobby Lobby is not a religious institution; it’s a retail chain. If the Supreme Court doesn’t  vacate this stay, you can forget the worms analogy–the Court will open a can of venomous snakes. You might recall that the same Supreme Court ruled that the ACA was a “tax.” If non-religious institutions can opt out of taxes on the grounds of conscience, then every peace group in America should sue to opt out of taxes that go to war and military spending. How is the principle different?

I was thinking about the military this morning as I car-slalomed past potholes the size of Estonia. The reason they’re not fixed is the same reason we have a shortage of just about everything relating to civil society these days: lack of money. People can rail about welfare bums and entitlements all they want, but there are really just two choices:  live in a society whose civic life rivals that of Nigeria, or invest money in rebuilding. There’s really only one way to do that–slash military spending. And I mean severely, as in a reordering of national priorities. We’re probably talking on the order of 30-40% cuts.

Ignore politicians that equate military spending with jobs. That’s an old dodge rooted in propaganda. Yes, some jobs would be lost temporarily if, say, Groton, Connecticut closed its submarine base. But check out data from the Centre for Research on Globalization. It tels you what has been known for decades: military-industrial complex spending is the path to a boom/bust economy. Towns and regions that (think they) depend on it are among the least stable communities in the nation. Military towns are far from being “recession-proof” (like college towns). Portsmouth, New Hampshire is among the cities that came back stronger once its military base closed.

Do we really care any more about baseball’s steroids scandal? I surely don’t. Alex Rodriguez is banned for a year. Ho hum! Everything about Major League Baseball’s efforts to catch “cheaters” has been a fraud. As much as I think Rodriguez an egoistic boor, MLB promised it would not release names of people in the Mitchell Report. Had it been true to its word, A-Rod would be considered a first-time user, not a repeat offender. Moreover, there are things most folks are ignoring. MLB isn’t the worst sport insofar as drug use goes­–pro football is much worse, even if the public doesn’t give a crap about an interior lineman who gets caught. Second, sports has always had “cheaters”–spitballs, corked bats, horses shot full with pain killers, golfers moving balls for a better shot…. Fair? Nope, but consider this: “cheating” can give players an edge, but it doesn’t make them Superman. If Barry Bonds only did well because of drugs, why didn’t everyone hit 762 homeruns? And why didn’t every hurler win 354 games like Roger Clemens? Don’t tell me these guys don’t belong in the Hall of Fame. 

It’s hard for me to decide who looks most like a walking corpse, Keith Richards or John Kerry.

Remember the battle to ensure that Ebonics would never be considered acceptable grammar? Explain to me why non-standard grammar is okay if it comes from those wired and white. Where’s the outrage over things such as misuse of prepositions, apostrophes, split infinitives, and violations of subject/pronoun agreement rules? Don't’ get me started on texting shortcuts. I’d much rather someone “axe” me a question than receive an “R U there?” text.

New debates have arisen over raising the minimum wage. Predictably, business groups and conservatives predict economic collapse if wages go up–as they have every single time it has ever been raised and the sky, at last glance, is still standing. John “Putz” Boehner asserts that America didn’t always have a minimum wage law and that it was strong economically back in those days. Apparently he’s never studied the Gilded Age or read The Jungle. And don’t buy his strain-on- small businesses line of crap either. Two-thirds of all minimum wage workers are employed by large corporations; moreover, the Fair Labor Standards Act does not apply to businesses that take in less than $500,000 if they are not engaged in interstate commerce.

Another John Bonehead misconception–seven states have no minimum wage law: Alabama, Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennessee, and Wyoming. Gosh! What economic powerhouses they are! I can’t wait for Massachusetts to become a dynamo like these perennial contenders for poorest state in the Union. Leaving that aside, this is simply Boehner’s attempt at political distraction. All it means is that these states do not have any minimum wage laws on their state books, which would make it harder for them to surpass the federal minimum wage, as 19 states plus the District of Columbia have done. They must comply with federal law, whether or not they have state minimum wage laws except in the cases noted above. 

Watching Chris Christie trying to squirm away from his vendetta-induced scandal reminds me that the only political sin worse than being arrogant is being too arrogant to admit that you’ve been an arrogant ass.