Arrival of the Animals at the Clark

Arrival of the Animals

Lin May Saeed

Clark Museum of Art (Lunder Center at Stone Hill)

Williamstown MA

Through October 25, 2020

(Click on images for larger views)

 

The Clark Museum of Art is open once again for visitors. (Call ahead for tickets unless you are a member. Midweek is a good time to go.)

 

A small but powerful current exhibit is on display at the Clark’s satellite Lunder Center at Stone Hill, a pleasant hilltop setting with lovely views of the Berkshires. The bucolic surroundings are perfect for Arrival of the Animals from multimedia artist Lin May Saeed. She is a German artist of Jewish and Iraqi descent whose exhibits have mainly been shown in Europe. Her provocative work deserves wider recognition in North America.

 

Allow me to drop two quotes from the Clark’s website that I think are a bit deceptive out of context. The first concerns the assertion that Saeed’s work is about “animal subjugation, liberation, and cohabitation with humans.” Yes and no. Her horror at subjugation is certainly obvious, but hers is not a mushy liberalism that envisions kind-hearted liberation at the hands of human masters. One of the more poignant images is a drawing of an ungulate staring at an array of goods made from leather hides. When we see animals liberated, it is either by their own efforts–a bull that has trampled a matador or an all-out war against humankind–or through cooperation with other animals.

 

Saeed even engages in some reverse mythmaking, such as a primate counterpoint to the story of St. Jerome and the lion. We see, for instance, a not-quite-human figure on an iron gate helping a lion, and then a drawing of a simian assisting a donkey.

 

The website also speaks of Saeed’s use of a “new iconography of interspecies iconography.” Again, this needs more illumination. The most powerful message that comes through is that animals can get along just fine without the guidance or care of homo sapiens. We see a panel titled “Panther Relief” amidst what we realize–even before the panel informs us– is “the remains of a Persian Gulf megacity,” one that also has elements of a “posthuman world” representing several periods of history. Ultimately, this is a double pun. The panther is in repose, but is also relieved to be living in the post-Anthropocene era. We see another relief of two large cats at ease amidst lotuses. The Arabic quotation is directed more at Ms. Saeed’s multiple identities, but irony lies in the title “Lion School,” one distinctly lacking human pupils.

 

Saeed works in brass, paper, canvas, paper, and Styrofoam. The last is also shot through with meaning. It is material such as Styrofoam that will contribute mightily should humankind perish. It is a worthless petroleum-based junk that is made solely because it is cheaper than eco-friendly alternatives. It does not biodegrade well and fragments of it are everywhere, including in our water sources. One might call it a lightweight monument to human arrogance. It is thus fitting that Saeed repurposes it to make bas relief, and to fashion it into animals such as a cow or pangolin.

 

Saeed offers both a powerful message and an equally powerful warning. We are eased into the exhibit

with drawings that explore human/animal relations, including Albrecht Dürer’s fame

d woodcut of St. Jerome at work in his study, while the lion whose thorn he removed sleeps at his feet. If only it were this simple. We also see Hercules wresting with a lion in a woodcut from Niccolò Boldrini. It and others remind us that liberation and subjugation are at odds an

d that, thus far, the latter has gotten the upper hand.

 

Can anything save us? Perhaps creative vision. Let’s focus on just one image from Lines from Life, an exhibit of French drawings on display downstairs in the Clark’s main building through December 13. It is Eugène Delacroix’s study for his 1798 canvas “Battle of Poitiers.” Look at the sketch and then the painting. Marvel of how we get from A to B. The painting is ultimately a war scene involving bloodshed and destruction. I prefer to contemplate the good to which such vision could be put to use.

Rob Weir

 

Picking Turkeys Might Be the MLB Highlight of 2020

Most Overrated Players in MLB

 

The baseball “season,” such as it is, is barely underway and might not make it past 20 games, let alone 60. A 60-game season would be the biggest joke imaginable, were it not for the Little League extra inning rule. What next? A mercy rule if a team is trailing by 10 runs or more after six innings? But it’s neither too early nor too late to talk about players who aren’t worth their paychecks. Here’s a look at each team’s two most overrated players, mostly those who we’ve seen enough of to judge. Listed in (mostly) team alphabetical order.

 

Arizona Diamondbacks: It’s a team that can score runs, but also gives up a ton. It may be premature, but I doubt Madison Bumgarner is the answer. He is damaged goods. Robbie Ray isn’t awful, but his reputation far exceeds his results.

 

Atlanta Braves: I’m not sure why Jhoulys Chacin has a roster spot as he’s been exceedingly mediocre (77-87 lifetime) on several decent teams. As a battery mate, isn’t it time to declare Travis d’Arnaud a bust?

 

The Baltimore Orioles are a mess, but even a train wreck has people you’d never miss. Chris Davis hits homeruns, but that’s pretty much all he hits. He’s not worth a quarter of what’s getting paid. David Hess is an offensive threat–for opposing batters. A career ERA of nearly 6 and one over 7 last year pretty much stinks.

 

The Boston Red Sox are a typical Dave Dumbrowski team—great for a year and then the well is dry. They should have dumped Jackie Bradley Jr. years ago. He can catch up to anything except a fastball. They signed Martin Perez!? Really? Tampa and the Yankees once tried out a guy named Tanyon Sturtze. He was electric in warm ups, but when the game started, he couldn’t miss a bat. Perez could be Sturtze in disguise.

 

The Buffalo Blue Jays can’t play in Toronto because of COVID, so let’s slam the boring side of Niagara Falls. Tanner Roark has been tabbed as a quality arm since 2013, but he’s been blah for the past three. Randal Grichuk has power, but he’s been a disappointing first round pick. At age 29, if he hasn’t come into his prime he probably won’t.

 

The Chicago Cubs have handed out some horrible contracts, including the one they gave to Jason Heyward, whose nickname ought to be Mr. Mediocrity. But it looks good compared to what they gave Yu Darvish. Darvish is done. Admit it. Move on.

 

The Chicago White Sox are a sexy wildcard pick. They have mostly young guys, but we can say that pitcher Ross Detwiler won’t help them very much. They are trying to protect rookie phenom Luis Robert in the outfield, but other than Eloy Jimenez, it’s doubtful anyone is up to the task.

 

The Cincinnati Reds are another Cinderella pick. I like what they’ve done, but Wade Miley has never impressed me, nor does he cause opposing batters to quake. Despite an uptick last year, infielder Freddy Galvis has simply never panned out.

 

The Cleveland Indians desperately need a name change. They also need to question whether Roberto Perez is the catching stud they think he is.  Carlos Santana is one of the greatest guitarists who ever lived. The guy in Cleveland with that name is a first baseman on the wrong side of 30. He might still be good, but he’s at the age of overnight decline.

 

Colorado Rockies: Ahh, the Rockies. Always okay and seldom great. A Daniel Bard comeback would be a nice story. It won’t be. A Matt Kemp comeback would be a nice story. It won’t be. Detect a pattern?

 

Detroit Tigers: How many teams are thanking their lucky stars they didn’t send a haul to Motown to acquire Matt Boyd? His ERA has never been below 4.53 and that says it all. I love Miggy Cabrera, but he ran out of gas last year and at age 37 there’s no petrol station in sight.

Houston Astros: The most-hated team in baseball is, alas, a very good one that could easily win another World Series. Overrated? Brad Peacock was unhittable in 2017 and ordinary since. I’ll go out on a limb and say that once the Astros’ cheating scheme was revealed and he no longer knows what’s being thrown, Jose Altuve has been good, but not otherworldly.

 

The Kansas City Royals signed Mike Montgomery last year, a true puzzlement for a guy against whom batters feast. Alex Gordon has been the face of the franchise, but he hasn’t had a great year since 2015 and at age 36, it’s probably time for him to abdicate.

 

The Los Angeles Angels keep adding bats instead of arms, which is why they’re still also-rans. They got Dylan Bundy from Baltimore and when you get pitchers from the Orioles, that’s the definition of hope over experience. The biggest drain, though is Albert Pujols, who has had a Hall of Fame career. It’s time for him to start the clock on his election.

 

Do the Los Angeles Dodgers have any weaknesses? They are odds-on favorites to win the World Series, so overrated pickings are slim. I suppose one could say that Kenley Jansen has shaky moments as a closer. I’ve also never been a fan of Joc Pederson, who has power but not plate discipline.

 

Does anyone give a damn about the Miami Marlins? Probably not, but on a team of no-names, a few guys as well traveled as a Salvation Army sports jacket are ready for the rag mill: outfielder Matt Joyce and 35-year-old infielder Sean Rodriguez, for instance.  

 

Milwaukee Brewers: I don’t like power-is-all guys who cost a lot of dough to hit .230 and that means Justin Smoak is a stiff. Ryan Braun has had a nice career, but he’s approaching 37 and has been a good-but-not-spectacular player for the past several years. They signed Avisail Garcia. Does this mean Braun’s days are numbered? His $19 mil to Garcia’s $3.5 suggests they are.

 

The Minnesota Twins always feel a piece or two short and, somehow, 40-year-old Rich Hill doesn’t seem like the $18.6 million answer. Byron Buxton is the Twins’ answer to Boston’s all-glove-no-stick Jackie Bradley.

 

The New York Mets would be better off not re-signing Yoenis Cespedes. He’s battled injuries, often has a bad attitude, and has been more promise than $29 million worth of deliverance. I’ve been a big Robbie Cano fan in the past. Key word: past. Another 37-year-old making too much to justify diminished output.

 

My overrated players on the New York Yankees will engender disagreement. I’ll start with Gary Sanchez. He’s young, inexpensive, and would bring back a haul in a trade. Do it, because he’s a terrible catcher, injury-prone, and brawn with a low OBP. Some guys are just not comfortable in New York and James Paxton looks to be one won’t reup anyhow, so wave goodbye. His career stats are deceptive–lights-out one start and out of the game by the third in the next.

 

Oakland As: Another team that doesn’t spend a lot, but they laid out $16.5 mil for Khris Davis. There must be something about that name, as he’s as big a waste of money as his (semi) namesake in Baltimore. Lots of HRs and nearly four times as many Ks. Joakim Soria in the bullpen? Yeah–ten years ago!

 

Philadelphia Phillies: If only dumping clueless Gabe Kapler as skipper were the only issue on a team morphing into the NL Seattle Mariners. Bryce Harper is the single most overrated player in baseball. He’s not and never was another Mike Trout. Have fun with another 11 years of a contract bigger than any numbers he'll ever put up. Aaron Nola hurled one fine year four ho-hum ones. He was supposed to an ace.    

 

Are the Pittsburgh Pirates still playing in the MLB? I hadn’t noticed. Call ‘em the Pennsylvania Marlins. Their highest paid player is Chris Archer and he allegedly has has great stuff, but it has translated into a 60-80 over 9 years, 7 with Tampa so no “bad teams” excuses. A lot of teams would like Greg Polanco. His numbers are decent but not great, so trade him for more hopefuls because hope is all they have in the Steel City. 

 

San Diego Padres: Can you put a team’s entire organizational staff on this list? Okay, how about these high-priced but pretty-average players? Manny Machado has been hailed as one of MLB’s best, but for $30 million per through 2028, you need to be better than .261/32/85. Lots of people love Wil Myers. So who will step up to buy the very model of unrealized hype, all for the bargain price of $22.5 million?

 

What has happened to the San Francisco Giants? Why is Pablo Sandoval still in the majors? Oh yeah, Boston is paying his salary! Allegedly Jeff Samardzija is a good pitcher. I’m not sure how 80-104/4.09 stats and 2 just years of more wins than losses justifies that conclusion!

 

The Seattle Mariners are the D+ student of baseball. Dee Gordon is good, but overpaid and what are the odds of a 29-year-old Japanese rookie, Yusei Kikuchi, who was merely okay in Japan, emerging as a star in MLB? You could say that anyone not named Kyle Seager is overrated.

 

The St. Louis Cardinals have long been a smart organization that cuts bait when needed. That might start with Andrew Miller, who simply hasn’t been healthy since 2017. Would the Cards trade Dexter Fowler, another guy whose ceiling turned out to be lower than predicted? It wouldn’t shock me.

 

The Tampa Bay Rays simply don’t spend a lot on players, so it’s hard to pick overrated ones. One candidate though is their highest-paid player, pitcher Charlie Morton. $15 million is a lot for a guy who is 36 and has a 91-88 lifetime record. Kevin Kiermaier is the second highest paid ($8.8 mil) and he’s not a great player, so I suspect he’ll be traded. 

 

The Texas Rangers need to continue cutting bait with those who don’t live up to their agents’ claims. This starts with Shin-soo Choo, the little train who didn’t. Elvis Andrus is a perfectly fine player, but he was supposed to be an elite shortstop, not middle of the pack.

 

The Washington Nationals won it all last year, but I don’t see a repeat in the works. It’s a good club with a fabulous pitching staff it’s paying a fortune to maintain. Stephen Strasburg is quite a talent, but he’s only made 30 starts twice in ten years and makes $38 mil/yr. Anibal Sanchez is a maddening pitcher in the James Paxton mold. How does this guy have a 108-109 W/L record? 

 

 

 

 

Long Bright River a Chilling Read

Long Bright River (2020)

By Liz Moore

Riverhead Books, 496 pages

★★★

 

Liz Moore’s Long Bright River is a dark crime novel/thriller/family saga that immerses us in a seedy world in which opioids, prostitution, police graft, urban despair, and murder collide. Moore intends her title as a riff on the Greek legend of the River Styx, which divides Hades from the living world. In her case, she muses upon a “long bright river of departed souls” and how long it would take those who have died of opioids or are in the process of killing themselves to make the long journey between the two realms. It opens and ends with a litany of the dead and almost-dead, and follows with a great line to draw us into the novel: “The first time I found my sister dead, she was sixteen.” Well… not quite.

 

The central character, Michaela “Mickey” Fitzpatrick, is both our narrator and a person who straddles the line between heroine and deeply flawed human being. She is 32-years-old and has been a Philadelphia cop since she was 20. Her beat is Kensington Avenue, which is dire enough to be Hades and make you think the Delaware River is a synonym for the River Styx. Mickey grew up nearby, where she and her sister Kacey were raised by their maternal grandmother “Gee” after their mother OD’d and their father disappeared.  Mickey was just a toddler and Kacey still an infant. Gee’s home was one in which necessities were barely covered and affection and encouragement were not viewed as among them. Mickey’s salvation (of sorts) came via Simon, a cop who ran youth programs and convinced her to enter the police force rather than follow in the footsteps of a beloved history teacher. (Reasons are explained in the book.) Kacey’s path was quite different; first teen rebellion, then life on the street as a druggie and hooker along Kensington Avenue.

 

The phrase “life is cheap” is too mild to describe Kensington Avenue. It is marked by abandoned factories, boarded homes, seedy shops, trash-strewn streets, and flophouses–all of which double as injection sites, assignation points, and temporary housing. And, in Moore’s novel, it’s also where a serial killer has been dispatching hookers to Hades. Mickey and Kacey have had a problematic relationship for years, but Mickey certainly doesn’t want her sister to end up in the morgue. Her heart is in her throat each time a new victim is found, but she’s just a beat officer and the single mom of 4-year-old Thomas. Her desire to investigate could get her fired, as it violates the orders of a direct superior who dislikes her, and transgresses the turf of detectives, which she’s not. Not that any of them seem to give a damn about Kensington Avenue street trash. Will Mickey go off on her own?

 

In such novels, of course she will! Mickey will confront old and new demons, call upon her old partner Truman for help, be drawn into the paternal O’Brien side of her family–a group that makes Gee seem warm and fuzzy–and open a can of worms in which the lines between law enforcement and lawlessness are blurred. No one is quite who he or she appears in this book, including Mickey, who often struggles with her identity and aspirations. All of this suggests that if life is cheap, honesty is on offer at a steep discount.

 

Liz Moore’s novel is set in 2002. She researched the book in 2009, and traveled with a photographer to document the area’s social problems. Everything comes off as so grim that I checked in with a friend who worked in Philly until last year; he assured me (if that’s the right phrase) that Kensington is a pretty awful place. A subsequent Google Images search suggests my buddy was engaging in understatement.

 

Long Bright River is a thrilling read, though not an uplifting one. As a novel, it is marred by some literary problems. Key among them is Mickey, who often seems neither savvy, bright, nor likeable. In a thriller we need a character to open Pandora’s box, but, frankly, Mickey comes off as too immature to be either cop or caregiver. For someone who has been on the force for a dozen years, her emotional IQ and coping skills are those of someone who ought to be writing tickets for parking violations, not pounding a dangerous beat. I am aware that we are supposed to see Mickey’s emotional scars, but it’s hard to get past the idea that this gal needs serious therapy, not life-threatening challenges. I leave it Irish-American Roman Catholic readers to sort out whether Moore’s take on this culture is unique or warmed-over Dennis Lehane, though I suspect the latter.   

 

I give Long Bright River a qualified thumbs-up. I found its resolution both too pat yet unsettling, which I can’t really explain without delving into spoilers. Still, I zipped through the novel and was both edified and chilled by it. My major takeaway was to cross off Kensington from my list of places to visit the next time I’m in the City of Brotherly–but apparently not Sisterly–Love.

 

Rob Weir  

August 2020 Music: John Prine, Great Big World, The Dead South, Kevin Krauter, Rose Hotel

 

Sometimes being a music reviewer sucks. I’d love to tell you that The Tree of Forgiveness is a great album. Alas, it may be the worst album John Prine ever made. Prine–who died of COVID-19 on April 7–is in my list of top five favorite songwriters of all time. Few had his mix of wit, poignancy, and earworm melodies; he was a classic laugh-your-rear-off/cry-your-eyes-out guy who kept things simple on the surface so he could bore into your soul. The last song he ever wrote, “I Remember Everything” grabs onto that. Alas, it’s not on The Tree of Forgiveness. The album starts with promise, but doesn’t sustain it. “Knockin’ On Your ScreenDoor” both honors and mildly lampoons country music: I once had a family/But they up and left me/With nothin’ but an eight track/Another side of George Jones…. He goes for this vibe again on “Egg & Daughter: Nite, Lincoln, Nebraska, 1967,” but it’s more forced and relied upon a lot of backing instrumentation to cover the rasp in his voice. A calypso “I Have Met My Love Today” was not his métier and not even Brandi Carlile’s backup vocals help. “Summer’s End” is a sweet song, but linking metaphors appear to have been chosen because they scan rather than make sense. I liked the dark “Caravan of Fools,” though it’s more like something Townes Van Zandt would have sung. Likewise, you’ll hear echoes of Leonard Cohen’s “That’s No Way to Say Goodbye” with Prine’s words in “No Ordinary Blue.” “God Only Knows” just isn’t a very good song. It’s an expression of Prine’s faith, which I respect, but comes off as a Christian camp singalong that probably would have sounded better around a camp fire. He ends with “When I Give to Heaven,” from which the album title derives, a combination of spoken word and a barrelhouse chorus. Prine’s wry comments bring a smile, but musically it’s run-of-the-mill. I wish Prine had left us with a bang instead of a gravely whisper.     

 

Epic Records’ A Great Big World is the New York-based duo of Ian Axel (keys) and Chad King (lead vocals, guitar). Many know of them because they recorded two singles with Christina Aguilera, “Say Something” (2013) and “Fall On Me” (2019). They recently visited Paste Studios to sing those two, plus “Darling It’s Over,” which will presumably be on an album scheduled to release soon. Maybe it’s heresy, but I like the first two songs better without Aguilera. “Say Something” is a gorgeous and deeply moving song anchored by Axel’s somber piano and vocals. It’s about letting go for various reasons (dead relationship, depression, impending death). Live, the focus is on the song; in the video version with Aguilera, she’s so busy vamping I thought she was going to make love to herself. The Paste version of “Fall On Me” is another tear-jerker with tight harmonies and a slow build that becomes lush and dramatic almost imperceptibly. It’s a plea to, fall on me with all your might, but tempered with the knowledge that, I want to believe in a world we can’t see. As for “Darling It’s Over,” the title says it all!

 

Sometimes social media works the way it’s supposed to. Back in 2014, The Dead South vaulted from obscurity to the limelight when its single “In Hell I’ll Be in Good Company” went viral. In case you missed the party and think this black-hatted band pays homage to the Confederacy, members are actually from Saskatchewan and the costumes are affectations for a group they jokingly refer to as the “evil twins of Mumford and Sons.” That’s a great way to describe a style we might call “darkgrass.” You can see them in a short Paste Studios concert. The first song is “Black Lung,” and if you know anything about mining, you know this one will be tinged with tragedy. It’s soulful, bluesy, has hints of gospel, and is paced by Colton Crawford’s banjo. He’s most prominent on the breakdown “Blue Trash” in which Nate Hilts’ baritone vocals are essentially the bridge to instrumental flourishes from Crawford’s banjo, Scott Pringle’s mandolin, and Danny Kenyon’s cello. (Kenyon often plays the cello as if it’s a guitar.) The set rounds off with “Broken Cowboy,” a bluegrass tragedy of a man slowed by age, regret, and the passing of an era. Good stuff from a fine band.

 

Kevin Krauter began his career as an indie pop performer, but his recent Paste set was an acoustic one with folk flavorings. He’s adroit in either genre, as you can hear in “Surprise,” both live and on the official video of the studio recording. As a solo act, Krauter keeps things simpler and allows his light tenor voice to dance amidst his guitar’s higher tones. This is gives it a fragile feel that fits the song’s themes of self-discovery. (He was raised in a Christian home and was home schooled, but recently came out as gay.) His new CD is called Full Hand, and features a jangly title track. With lines such as It’s time to reveal my full hand, it too plumbs the personal. “Pretty Boy” is a rare song in which the male gaze is toward another male. I really like Krauter’s voice, but it must be said that his set could have used more variety; the four songs were pleasant, but needed contrasting color.

 

There’s a Biblical parable often paraphrased as don’t hide your light under a basket. I admire the voice of Atlanta’s Jordan Reynolds aka/ Rose Hotel. I’m less enamored with the production on her debut full-length album I Will Only Come When It’s a Yes. There’s way too much going on, and it overwhelms Reynolds’ voice. “10 K” has a retro romantic ballad feel, though the song’s lyrics are about not knowing herself, the future, or what’s right. Reynolds has a big voice, but not big enough to punch through “Write Home,” which has a chanteuse feel but with too many layers. The guitar in “Running Behind” has kick, but again if the mix was punched down, Reynolds wouldn’t have to try so hard to provide mystery and ambience. “Honestly” is what Reynolds could become. We can hear clear vibrato and marvel at how long she sustains notes and how easily she shifts pitch. It’s just she, an acoustic guitar, and a song that sounds as if it was lifted from an old-style crooner such as Connie Smith or Kitty Wells (sans the twang).  

 

Rob Weir

 

Rethinking Mommie Dearest

Mommie Dearest (1981)

Directed by Frank Perry

Paramount, 129 minutes, PG (violence)

★★★

All reviewers have weaknesses. One of mine is curiosity about movies proclaimed to be awful. I had never seen Mommie Dearest, the notorious 1981 exposé of Joan Crawford (1904?-77) based on her adopted daughter Christina’s memoir. Although the film was not a box office bomb, it was savaged as camp, crap, or totally concocted. After all, it made a Hollywood legend into a monster at a time in which Crawford was not yet four years dead.

In my view, it’s worth watching, though it is campy in parts. Some critics praised Faye Dunaway’s portrayal of Crawford. Dunaway was herself nearing the end of her reign as a Hollywood idol, so the role of Crawford seemed to fit like a glove. In retrospect, it was more like a mitten. Her performance often pushes the needle into the red on the histrionics meter and one wonders if director Frank Perry lacked the courage to make her dial it back. Dunaway had a reputation for being very difficult. In Mommie Dearest she munched scenes like a koala in a eucalyptus grove.    

For the unknowing, Crawford desperately wanted a child, but suffered miscarriages. She was deemed an inappropriate candidate for adoption, because she had been divorced–a disqualifier back then–and she and her current husband, actor Franchot Tone, were said to be too busy to care a child. With the help of Hollywood lawyer Gregg Savitt (Steve Forrest), her lover after she divorced Tone in 1939, Crawford adopted Christina, a blond cutie pie. For a time, Christina and her adopted brother Christopher were doted upon. If Christina is to be believed, their dream world became a nightmare. Hollywood queens often sit upon the throne less time than one of Henry VIII’s wives; in 1938, studio head Louis B. Mayer (Howard Da Silva) declared her “box office poison” and pushed her out of MGM. She went on to Warner Brothers  and won an Oscar for Mildred Pierce in 1945, but in the interim, Christina claimed her mother became a violent authoritarian drunk who abused her, most infamously by beating her with wire hangers, and by forcing her brother to strap himself in bed so he wouldn’t walk to the bathroom at night. Christina grew up sullen and defiant, so Crawford sent her off to private schools. Did any of this happen?

First, let’s talk about what’s good in the film. Mommie Dearest certainly gives insight into how Hollywood royalty lived. It is a world that could have been clipped from Newport society, except filled with celebrities instead of upper-class twits. Note that the elaborate lawn and pool parties you see took place near the end of the Great Depression and through World War II, so call them glamour, privilege, and tone deafness on the part of pampered stars. Second, a few of the secondary roles were well played. Forrest plays Savitt deftly in his attract/repel/recyle relationship with Crawford. Rutanya Alda maintained the same balancing act as Carol Ann, Crawford’s assistant, but tread-softly protectress of Christina. In the just-for-kicks department, the Redbook reporter whose puff piece on Crawford an angry Christina disrupts is Jocelyn Brando, Marlon’s older sister.

On the minus side, the actors playing adult Christopher and Christina (Xander Berkeley and Diana Scarwid) are outshone by the child actors. Quite a bit in Scarwid’s case; young Christina (Mara Hobel) is so vivacious that we too hurt when she is abused. By contrast, Scarwid is too flat to make us believe in her anger, and simply lacks the chops to turn sweet when the role called for it.  The biggest flaw, though, came from trying to do too much. The last quarter of the movie is like a Crawford career coda, including nods to later films, her involvement with Pepsi, and subbing for her twenty-something daughter in a soap opera when she was in her sixties. These things happened, but this wasn’t supposed to be a Crawford biopic. One odd omission, though, is that Crawford adopted two other daughters, who got the bulk of her estate when she died.

This inevitably raises the question of how much one should trust Christina’s book. I don’t know. Much of Hollywood rallied to denounce Mommie Dearest as a fake; others vouched that it was accurate. I can only say that Christina’s life—she is 81 now—followed in her adopted mother’s footsteps in that she was divorced three times and flamed out as an actress. She ultimately enjoyed more success as a writer. Mommie Dearest won awards, but not of the Oscar variety; it claimed five Golden Raspberrys, which are “awarded” for bad movies. It’s not a terrible movie; merely incomplete and unconvincing.

Rob Weir

Extinctions a Charming Novel about Sad Things

Extinctions: A Novel (2018)

By Josephine Wilson

Tin House Books, 349 pages

★★★★

A few days ago, I posted a review of Weather, which featured a character who worried about the end of human time. I found it trite. Let me offer what I perceive to be a far better book about things passing away, Josephine Wilson’s Extinctions.

It is set in 2006, though there is no particular reason for that, and centers on 69-year-old Frederick Lothian. He will immediately put you in mind of Frederick Backman’s titular character in A Man Called Ove. Fred was born in Scotland, moved to Australia, and married an American woman whom he met at JFK Airport during a trip to the States. He is a retired engineering professor with a great love of concrete. Why? Because it represents solidity, longevity, and simple design unadorned with frippery. How he managed to attract a vibrant woman like Martha and raise two kids—an adopted daughter and an unexpected biological son—is a mystery even to him, though he doesn’t spent a lot of time musing upon abstractions such as feelings. He’s clueless that there could be such a thing as a gay architect, or that his alleged best friend Ralph was an untrustworthy jerk. He also has a lot of trouble with metaphors.

Fred has spent his life surrounded by things built to last, and bound to remain that way if one doesn’t actually use them, like a Wassily tubular chair, a Braun SK6 turntable, and a classic electric shaver. The solidity of Fred’s world begins to crumble when his wife dies and he finds himself a recluse living in a retirement village cottage into which he has crammed books, files, and furniture from his former house. He might get by on his own, were it not for the woman next door with all those noisy budgies (parakeets), or witnessing the troubling sight of an elderly resident falling to the ground.

The title aside, Extinctions is funny, affecting, and thought-provoking. Fred’s neighbor, Jan, a retired primary school teacher, will challenge Fred to consider that maybe his life has been as rigid as rebar. His adopted daughter, Caroline, is a half-caste (Australian term) Aborigine who has issues Fred has never considered. She’s a curator who lives in London, but has made trips back to Australia about which he was unaware. Nor was he tuned in to the many of the things his wife did, especially in caring for their son Callum, whose auto accident left him brain damaged. How could Fred have never noticed how self-centered he is, how angry Caroline grew up to be, or what racist bastards some of his former colleagues are? Indeed, how could he have so thoroughly buried his own youth? And why does Jan seem perpetually exasperated by him?

Whereas Jenny Offill’s Weather relied upon written thought bubbles and aphorisms, Wilson uses photographs and blueprints that force us to see things that have proven transitory. One of the most heart wrenching is one of Martha, the world’s last passenger pigeon. It’s doubly poignant, as Martha was the name of Fred’s deceased wife. Others challenge our definition of durability, including pictures of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge in collapse and after. Not much is made of it, but the picture of a World War I tank looks an awful lot like an electric razor!  

In a quiet way—and men such as Fred or Ove don’t have skyrocket revelations—Extinctions asks us to consider what we cherish and how we act. What do we value, as opposed to things that have value? The opening epigram, a snippet from a W. H. Auden poem, puts it much better than I could ever hope: Column by column in a cloud of dust/They marched away enduring a belief/Whose logic brought them, somewhere else, to grief.

Rob Weir

From Edmund Pettus to John Lewis Bridge Now!

I am not a fan of cancel culture. Hegel once said, “We learn from history that we do not learn from history.” He exaggerated, though it is true we don’t learn much. We need to look the ugliness of the past (and the present!) in the eye rather than sanitizing it or we won’t learn anything worth learning. More importantly, extremists caught up in antifa, BLM, and cancel culture moments are handing Trump a huge campaign issue. If Trump is reelected, not a damn thing extremists are doing will matter.

John Lewis in 1965

There are, however, times in which cancel culture is justified. The symbolism of a mule-drawn wagon bearing the body of Representative John Lewis across the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama, is profound. Lewis was a decent man, a champion of civil rights, and a victim of the brutal Bloody Sunday beatings of 1965, when he and 600 marchers tried to cross the Alabama River and into Selma.

Who was Edmund Winston Pettus? The short answer is that he was a racist. That doesn’t tell us much, nor does the first line you read in most online biographies: “a U.S. Senator from Alabama from 1897-1907.” It’s not pretty, but most white people were racist well into the 1960s and beyond; that’s why there was a civil rights movement and why John Lewis tried to cross the Pettus Bridge in 1965.

Edmund Pettis

As for Pettus (1821-1907) being a “U.S. Senator,” that’s almost a joke. Pettus grew up in Alabama, where his family owned slaves. Young Edmund was an ardent supporter of slavery. Pettus fought in the Mexican War (1846-48) and briefly moved to California–just in time to help exterminate most of the Yuki natives who had the audacity to leave their reservation. He wasn’t there for the infamous Mendocino War of 1859 in which troops finished the job, but he would have applauded it. (Today there are fewer than 250 full-blood Yukis left.) He moved back to Alabama in 1853 and beat the drums for secession, though ironically the region around Selma was mostly opposed to it. When the Civil War began, he gleefully joined the Confederate army.

Pettus was captured when Vicksburg fell, but the Union foolishly released him in a prisoner exchange. He was immediately promoted to brigadier general and sent to Tennessee. He also took part in unsuccessful attempts to repulse Sherman’s March to the Sea until he was put out of commission by a leg wound that some have claimed was self-inflicted. He was again jailed, but pardoned after the war.

Caroline Randall Williams, gt. gt. granddaughter of Pettus

Pettus falls into the category of unrepentant traitor. As an Alabama Democrat–back then, the Democrats were civil rights opponents–he supported the infamous Black Codes, the collective term given to scores of laws across the South immediately after the Civil war that sought to disenfranchise and deny civil liberties to ex-slaves. Pettus then became an outspoken opponent of Reconstruction. When it ended in 1877, he became the Grand Dragon of the Alabama Ku Klux Klan. Alabama had the dubious distinction of leading the nation in the lynching of African Americans. We have no evidence that Pettus actually took part in these, but as Grand Dragon it’s inconceivable he did not know about or sanction them. He remained a Klansman for the rest of his days. Like many white Southerners, his racism did not quell his lust for black women. He fathered a mixed-race child, probably via rape. (A black woman bringing charges against a white man under Alabama’s post-Reconstruction laws would have been unthinkable.)

Peach of a man, right? It didn’t prevent Pettus from becoming a U.S. Senator. Bad history articles will tell you that Pettus was “elected” to the U.S. Senate in 1897 by “defeating” James Pugh. Not quite. Pugh was no prince either, but Pugh "lost" his renomination to the U.S. Senate courtesy of party leaders. Until the 17^th Amendment was enacted in 1913, citizens did not choose U.S. Senators; they were appointed by individual state legislatures. That of Jim Crow Alabama placed Pettus in Pugh’s place.

Pettus served until his death in 1907. Try finding anything significant he did during his decade in the Senate. Nonetheless, in 1940 the state of Alabama slapped Pettus’ name on a bridge. I’d like Pettus to be remembered–as a traitor, war criminal, racist, and hypocrite. Put up a museum display for future generations to ponder in disgust. As for the bridge, there is but one sane thing to do. It is time for the John Lewis Bridge to span the telling of a far more heroic past.

Rob Weir