Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Chicago blues legend Howlin’ Wolf performing the Robert Johnson/Elmore James electric blues classic, Dust My Broom.
CD Review
American Folk Blues Festival ‘80, various artists, Optimism Records, 1982
This review was originally written for the American Folk Blues Festival ’64 CD reflecting a time when some of us first strongly imbibed those finely-hewed big blues night notes when we were looking, well, looking for something to explain that unspeakable hurt, alienation and angst as we travelled from teen-hood to young adult-hood in the early 1960s be-bop night. Of course by the 1980 that folk blues, or any blues, minute was long over for all but aficionados, and the life-long searchers. So rather than write a new screed that would not reflect the spirit of the genre as we were introduced to it I am keeping the old review. Except to say that many of the1960s CD participants were no longer on the scene by then, except those like Hubert Sumlin who had joined Howlin’ Wolf as a kid. So the old shoes are filled here by younger musicians who sat at the feet of the masters and were carrying on the blues on right down to their shoes to a new generation. Hopefully.
******
Let’s go by the numbers, the musical year numbers for my generation, the generation of ’68. We all came of musical age, more or less with Elvis, Carl Perkins, Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee in the mid-1950s when the music was hot, we were naïve (or worst), and just let it go from there. After a musical counter-revolution in the late 1950s where we put up with some awful Bobby Vee/Fabian/Johnny Somebody stuff we stepped right into the hard rock and roll of the Rolling Stones and later groups that based their early work on the blues, the American etched blues. You cannot listen to early Stones with thinking about Little Red Rooster, Baby Don’t Go, Hoochie Goochie Man, and a million other Chess Record classics. Go figure.
Yes, go figure. Go figure that much of early rock and roll was derived from the blues, city blues mainly, Chicago mainly, but those self-same city blues were derived from you guessed it, the old country blues from down in the Delta, the North Carolina Piedmont and the hills and hollows of Appalachia where all the hip Chicago cats (Muddy, Howlin’ Wolf, Junior Well, etc.,) came from. All of this is just around about way to pay tribute to the roots, or one of the significant roots, of our generational genre. Hell Elvis, Jerry Lee, and you know for sure that Chuck was listening, listening hard, at the juke joint doors when Saturday night turned into Sunday. And then they listened to the sanctified music that was meant to wash away that Devil’s music blues. But never quite did.
But more than that search for roots business it was a question of revivals, here the American Folk Blues Festival of 1980, which was indirectly brought about by our generation of ’68’s search for roots to explain our angst and alienation, including the search for authentic roots music. See once rock and roll hit our mid-1950s brains like an, well like an atomic bomb, we lost sight of where the music had come from. We just wanted to dance, or think we could dance so we could more smoothly be around that certain she (or he for she) without having to learn the fox trot or some old fogey dance. And not have to get sweaty-palms, strange-smelling breathe close and be cool at the same time.
More importantly we didn’t “hit the books” to find out what happened to those who created the music that once was the staple of hip music. It was only after we figured out the social graces stuff and needed to do more than dance cool with that certain she (oh yes, and he for she) that we went root hunting. And guess what? Some of the boys (mainly) were still around in places like Maxwell Street in Chicago or down picking cotton in the Delta or holed up in some skid row hotel just waiting to be “discovered,” or really rediscovered.
That may not be the exact genesis of the folk blues revival when that movement hit high stride in the Newport folk festivals of the early 1960s reintroducing a young audience to the likes of Sleepy John Estes, Mississippi John Hurt, Skip James and Son House but it will do here. And of course the artists on this CD-the likes of Muddy Waters, Sonny Boy Williamson, the legendary producer and writer Willie Dixon, and the “max daddy of them all,” Howlin’ Wolf. This is history, maybe not world-shaking, change-the course-of civilization history but a very important slice of the people’s history. Listen up.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Out In The Be-Bop 1960s Folk Blues Revival Night- The 1964 American Folk Blues Festival- A CD Review
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Chicago blues legend Howlin’ Wolf performing the Robert Johnson/Elmore James electric blues classic, Dust My Broom.
CD Review
American Folk Blues Festival ‘64, various artists, Optimism Records, 1982
Let’s go by the numbers, the musical year numbers for my generation, the generation of ’68. We all came of musical age, more or less with Elvis, Carl Perkins, Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee in the mid-1950s when the music was hot, we were naïve (or worst), and just let it go from there. After a musical counter-revolution in the late 1950s where we put up with some awful Bobby Vee/Fabian/Johnny Somebody stuff we stepped right into the hard rock and roll of the Rolling Stones and later groups that based their early work on the blues, the American etched blues. You cannot listen to early Stones with thinking about Little Red Rooster, Baby Don’t Go, Hoochie Goochie Man, and a million other Chess Record classics. Go figure.
Yes, go figure. Go figure that much of early rock and roll was derived from the blues, city blues mainly, Chicago mainly, but those self-same city blues were derived from you guessed it, the old country blues from down in the Delta, the North Carolina Piedmont and the hills and hollows of Appalachia where all the hip Chicago cats (Muddy, Howlin’ Wolf, Junior Well, etc.,) came from. All of this is just around about way to pay tribute to the roots, or one of the significant roots, of our generational genre. Hell Elvis, Jerry Lee, and you know for sure that Chuck was listening, listening hard, at the juke joint doors when Saturday night turned into Sunday. And then they listened to the sanctified music that was meant to wash away that Devil’s music blues. But never quite did.
But more than that search for roots business it was a question of revivals, here the American Folk Blues Festival of 1964, which was indirectly brought about by our generation of ’68’s search for roots to explain our angst and alienation, including the search for authentic roots music. See once rock and roll hit our mid-1950s brains like an, well like an atomic bomb, we lost sight of where the music had come from. We just wanted to dance, or think we could dance so we could more smoothly be around that certain she (or he for she) without having to learn the fox trot or some old fogey dance. And not have to get sweaty-palms, strange-smeeling breathe close and be cool at the same time.
More importantly we didn’t “hit the books” to find out what happened to those who created the music that once was the staple of hip music. It was only after we figured out the social graces stuff and needed to do more than dance cool with that certain she (oh yes, and he for she) that we went root hunting. And guess what? Some of the boys (mainly) were still around in places like Maxwell Street in Chicago or down picking cotton in the Delta or holed up in some skid row hotel just waiting to be “discovered,” or really rediscovered.
That may not be the exact genesis of the folk blues revival when that movement hit high stride in the Newport folk festivals of the early 1960s reintroducing a young audience to the likes of Sleepy John Estes, Mississippi John Hurt, Skip James and Son House but it will do here. And of course the artists on this CD-the likes of Muddy Waters, Sonny Boy Williamson, the legendary producer and writer Willie Dixon, and the “max daddy of them all,” Howlin’ Wolf. This is history, maybe not world-shaking, change-the course-of civilization history but a very important slice of the people’s history. Listen up.
CD Review
American Folk Blues Festival ‘64, various artists, Optimism Records, 1982
Let’s go by the numbers, the musical year numbers for my generation, the generation of ’68. We all came of musical age, more or less with Elvis, Carl Perkins, Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee in the mid-1950s when the music was hot, we were naïve (or worst), and just let it go from there. After a musical counter-revolution in the late 1950s where we put up with some awful Bobby Vee/Fabian/Johnny Somebody stuff we stepped right into the hard rock and roll of the Rolling Stones and later groups that based their early work on the blues, the American etched blues. You cannot listen to early Stones with thinking about Little Red Rooster, Baby Don’t Go, Hoochie Goochie Man, and a million other Chess Record classics. Go figure.
Yes, go figure. Go figure that much of early rock and roll was derived from the blues, city blues mainly, Chicago mainly, but those self-same city blues were derived from you guessed it, the old country blues from down in the Delta, the North Carolina Piedmont and the hills and hollows of Appalachia where all the hip Chicago cats (Muddy, Howlin’ Wolf, Junior Well, etc.,) came from. All of this is just around about way to pay tribute to the roots, or one of the significant roots, of our generational genre. Hell Elvis, Jerry Lee, and you know for sure that Chuck was listening, listening hard, at the juke joint doors when Saturday night turned into Sunday. And then they listened to the sanctified music that was meant to wash away that Devil’s music blues. But never quite did.
But more than that search for roots business it was a question of revivals, here the American Folk Blues Festival of 1964, which was indirectly brought about by our generation of ’68’s search for roots to explain our angst and alienation, including the search for authentic roots music. See once rock and roll hit our mid-1950s brains like an, well like an atomic bomb, we lost sight of where the music had come from. We just wanted to dance, or think we could dance so we could more smoothly be around that certain she (or he for she) without having to learn the fox trot or some old fogey dance. And not have to get sweaty-palms, strange-smeeling breathe close and be cool at the same time.
More importantly we didn’t “hit the books” to find out what happened to those who created the music that once was the staple of hip music. It was only after we figured out the social graces stuff and needed to do more than dance cool with that certain she (oh yes, and he for she) that we went root hunting. And guess what? Some of the boys (mainly) were still around in places like Maxwell Street in Chicago or down picking cotton in the Delta or holed up in some skid row hotel just waiting to be “discovered,” or really rediscovered.
That may not be the exact genesis of the folk blues revival when that movement hit high stride in the Newport folk festivals of the early 1960s reintroducing a young audience to the likes of Sleepy John Estes, Mississippi John Hurt, Skip James and Son House but it will do here. And of course the artists on this CD-the likes of Muddy Waters, Sonny Boy Williamson, the legendary producer and writer Willie Dixon, and the “max daddy of them all,” Howlin’ Wolf. This is history, maybe not world-shaking, change-the course-of civilization history but a very important slice of the people’s history. Listen up.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Out In The Be-Bop 1960s Folk Blues Revival Night- The 1963 American Folk Blues Festival- A CD Review
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of folk blues legend Lonnie Johnson performing It’s Too Late To Cry
CD Review
American Folk Blues Festival, various artists, Optimism Records, 1981
Let’s go by the numbers, the musical year numbers for my generation, the generation of ’68. We all came of musical age, more or less with Elvis, Carl Perkins, Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee in the mid-1950s when the music was hot, we were naïve (or worst), and just let it go from there. After a musical counter-revolution in the late 1950s where we put up with some awful Bobby Vee/Fabian/Johnny Somebody stuff we stepped right into the hard rock and roll of the Rolling Stones and later groups that based their early work on the blues, the American etched blues. Go figure.
Yes, go figure. Go figure that much of early rock and roll was derived from the blues, city blues mainly, Chicago mainly, but those self-same city blues were derived from you guessed it, the old country blues from down in the Delta, the North Carolina Piedmont and the hills and hollows of Appalachia where all the hip Chicago cats (Muddy, Howlin’ Wolf, Junior Well, etc.,) came from. All of this is just around about way to pay tribute to the roots of our generational genre.
But more than that it was a question of revivals, here the American Folk Blues Festival of 1963, which was indirectly brought about by our generation of ’68’s search for roots to explain our angst and alienation, including the search for authentic roots music. See once rock and roll hit our brains like a, well like an atomic bomb we lose sight of where the music came from. More importantly what happened to those who created the music that once was the staple of hip music. Yes, the boys (mainly) were still around in places like Maxwell Street in Chicago or down picking cotton in the Delta or holed up in some skid row hotel just waiting to be “discovered”.
That may not be the exact genesis of the folk blues revival when that movement hit high stride in the Newport folk festivals of the early 1960s reintroducing a young audience to the likes of Sleepy John Estes, Mississippi John Hurt, Skip James and Son House but it will do here. And of course the artists on this CD-the likes of Muddy Waters, Lonnie Johnson, Victoria Spivey (a personal favorite on this CD) and legendary producer and writer Willie Dixon. This is history, maybe not world-shaking history but a very important slice of the people’s history. Listen up.
CD Review
American Folk Blues Festival, various artists, Optimism Records, 1981
Let’s go by the numbers, the musical year numbers for my generation, the generation of ’68. We all came of musical age, more or less with Elvis, Carl Perkins, Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee in the mid-1950s when the music was hot, we were naïve (or worst), and just let it go from there. After a musical counter-revolution in the late 1950s where we put up with some awful Bobby Vee/Fabian/Johnny Somebody stuff we stepped right into the hard rock and roll of the Rolling Stones and later groups that based their early work on the blues, the American etched blues. Go figure.
Yes, go figure. Go figure that much of early rock and roll was derived from the blues, city blues mainly, Chicago mainly, but those self-same city blues were derived from you guessed it, the old country blues from down in the Delta, the North Carolina Piedmont and the hills and hollows of Appalachia where all the hip Chicago cats (Muddy, Howlin’ Wolf, Junior Well, etc.,) came from. All of this is just around about way to pay tribute to the roots of our generational genre.
But more than that it was a question of revivals, here the American Folk Blues Festival of 1963, which was indirectly brought about by our generation of ’68’s search for roots to explain our angst and alienation, including the search for authentic roots music. See once rock and roll hit our brains like a, well like an atomic bomb we lose sight of where the music came from. More importantly what happened to those who created the music that once was the staple of hip music. Yes, the boys (mainly) were still around in places like Maxwell Street in Chicago or down picking cotton in the Delta or holed up in some skid row hotel just waiting to be “discovered”.
That may not be the exact genesis of the folk blues revival when that movement hit high stride in the Newport folk festivals of the early 1960s reintroducing a young audience to the likes of Sleepy John Estes, Mississippi John Hurt, Skip James and Son House but it will do here. And of course the artists on this CD-the likes of Muddy Waters, Lonnie Johnson, Victoria Spivey (a personal favorite on this CD) and legendary producer and writer Willie Dixon. This is history, maybe not world-shaking history but a very important slice of the people’s history. Listen up.
On The Nature Of Love-For Kat Richards (and her unnamed Bicycle Boy), Adamsville High School Class of 1964
Peter Paul Markin comment:
For those astute enough to recognize a fundamental flaw in the dedication I will attend to your hurts in a moment. For those who are not insanely raider red-bled or who don’t recognize the “flaw” in the dedication you can pass this introductory comment by and go straight to the “moral” of this little sketch. As for those who do faintly recognize something wrong in the heavens an explanation, an unnecessary explanation as far as I am concerned, is in order.
Yes, one thousand times yes, I am dedicating this piece to a member of the class of 1964 from our hated cross-town rivals, the blue and white of Adamsville High. I can feel free to do so in the knowledge that our beloved raider-bled red and black trounced her fellow classmates in that glorious senior year Thanksgiving football game in 1963. So for just this minute, or as long as it takes to tell the story, all that business about “never the twain shall meet” and “don’t cross the line” (that Boyles Avenue dividing line that separated North Adamsville from the blue and white heathens of Adamsville) is off. I have called a truce, an armed truce considering the adversary’s usual unscrupulous ways, for this one. I think the story that this “innocent” woman who fell afoul of that alluded to line by, as far as I know, no evil design on her part is worth that consideration. Okay.
*******
I want to speak of love. No, not the coquettish, coy, cream puff, arch, Shakespearean wordplay, rhymed couplet, sonnet love (or whoever really wrote those things, I suspect Kit Marlowe, but we will leave that little academic pursuit for another time). Mere pretty words. Soft ashes to the bitter tongue and blown to some ocean wind with no more substance than the air that carries those cobbled sugars.
Neither shall I speak of rarified, sense and sensibility-driven, ethereal Robert Browning bon mots to one Ms. (formerly Miss) Elizabeth Barrett. Mere Victorian claptrap. High- tide suppression of the finer instincts beneath many bustles and bows. And worthy of that same ashen, sooted air send-off. Nor will I utter one word of the mock-heroic, blood-drenched deeds done in the name of love, the love of the face that launched a thousand ships, Helen of Troy. Or Rowena, Rebecca, Rosamon, hell, even Betty and their sighing faint airs and perfumed handkerchiefs pinned death-prone to lanced braveheart chests.
Humankind has had more than its fair share of such epic, red earth-bleeding battles, although not always done to satisfy lust for a woman.
And you should blush, you really should, if you expect me to hype roses sent, valentine reds or off-occasion whites, candies (are you kidding me that went out with garter belts and spats and with the life and death struggle slim down diets, get real) ordered, and fine dinners, (with wines and candle lights even) purchased as tokens of love.
Today I wish to speak of love. Simple, coming-of-age-love, plebeian love, but love that will now transcend all the noisy clamor of the above quizzed sentiments. Hear me out, it will not take long. Actually, the details are minimal. Adamsville South Elementary School down in the Adamsville projects classmate, Kat Richards, related a story to me about the old days, our 1950s old days, when coming-of-age love was handled more discreetly, with more naiveté and with a bit more pathos than today.
In those old days Kat had a boyfriend, unnamed, maybe unnamable, but unnamed to me for her own reasons, honorable I hope but her own reasons. Let’s call him Bicycle Boy because a bicycle figures into the story. This lad lived in Centerville a couple of towns over from Adamsville going toward Mechanicsville out on Route 3. Fair enough. Somehow, and the details really don’t matter, there was a conflict, a mother conflict I presume or older sister, who knows, and it was necessary for the pair to meet clandestinely.
And here is where the thing turns epic. In order to see his beloved he biked from Centerville to Mechanicsville, no mean task given the hills and miles that separated the two towns. Not just any part of Mechanicville though but the part directly across from the Adamsville projects by the Squaw River Bridge. And from there he swam, swam through the tide shifts and eddies, swam through the freighter-brought fetid, oil-slicked waves, swam as if his very life depended on it, to meet his love on scrappy, shell-strewn beach on the other side. More importantly, after their rendezvous he had to swim back across that same treacherous channel.
Know this. When someone speaks pretty sonnet love words dismiss him or her out of hand. When someone speaks of heavenly love cast a jaded eye his or her way. When someone offers to die, and gladly, for battle love laugh in his or her face. And if someone tries to piece you off with some tasty tidbits or fragrant smells start walking the other way. For now, and for all cyberspace eternity, you have heard the siren song of real love.
For those astute enough to recognize a fundamental flaw in the dedication I will attend to your hurts in a moment. For those who are not insanely raider red-bled or who don’t recognize the “flaw” in the dedication you can pass this introductory comment by and go straight to the “moral” of this little sketch. As for those who do faintly recognize something wrong in the heavens an explanation, an unnecessary explanation as far as I am concerned, is in order.
Yes, one thousand times yes, I am dedicating this piece to a member of the class of 1964 from our hated cross-town rivals, the blue and white of Adamsville High. I can feel free to do so in the knowledge that our beloved raider-bled red and black trounced her fellow classmates in that glorious senior year Thanksgiving football game in 1963. So for just this minute, or as long as it takes to tell the story, all that business about “never the twain shall meet” and “don’t cross the line” (that Boyles Avenue dividing line that separated North Adamsville from the blue and white heathens of Adamsville) is off. I have called a truce, an armed truce considering the adversary’s usual unscrupulous ways, for this one. I think the story that this “innocent” woman who fell afoul of that alluded to line by, as far as I know, no evil design on her part is worth that consideration. Okay.
*******
I want to speak of love. No, not the coquettish, coy, cream puff, arch, Shakespearean wordplay, rhymed couplet, sonnet love (or whoever really wrote those things, I suspect Kit Marlowe, but we will leave that little academic pursuit for another time). Mere pretty words. Soft ashes to the bitter tongue and blown to some ocean wind with no more substance than the air that carries those cobbled sugars.
Neither shall I speak of rarified, sense and sensibility-driven, ethereal Robert Browning bon mots to one Ms. (formerly Miss) Elizabeth Barrett. Mere Victorian claptrap. High- tide suppression of the finer instincts beneath many bustles and bows. And worthy of that same ashen, sooted air send-off. Nor will I utter one word of the mock-heroic, blood-drenched deeds done in the name of love, the love of the face that launched a thousand ships, Helen of Troy. Or Rowena, Rebecca, Rosamon, hell, even Betty and their sighing faint airs and perfumed handkerchiefs pinned death-prone to lanced braveheart chests.
Humankind has had more than its fair share of such epic, red earth-bleeding battles, although not always done to satisfy lust for a woman.
And you should blush, you really should, if you expect me to hype roses sent, valentine reds or off-occasion whites, candies (are you kidding me that went out with garter belts and spats and with the life and death struggle slim down diets, get real) ordered, and fine dinners, (with wines and candle lights even) purchased as tokens of love.
Today I wish to speak of love. Simple, coming-of-age-love, plebeian love, but love that will now transcend all the noisy clamor of the above quizzed sentiments. Hear me out, it will not take long. Actually, the details are minimal. Adamsville South Elementary School down in the Adamsville projects classmate, Kat Richards, related a story to me about the old days, our 1950s old days, when coming-of-age love was handled more discreetly, with more naiveté and with a bit more pathos than today.
In those old days Kat had a boyfriend, unnamed, maybe unnamable, but unnamed to me for her own reasons, honorable I hope but her own reasons. Let’s call him Bicycle Boy because a bicycle figures into the story. This lad lived in Centerville a couple of towns over from Adamsville going toward Mechanicsville out on Route 3. Fair enough. Somehow, and the details really don’t matter, there was a conflict, a mother conflict I presume or older sister, who knows, and it was necessary for the pair to meet clandestinely.
And here is where the thing turns epic. In order to see his beloved he biked from Centerville to Mechanicsville, no mean task given the hills and miles that separated the two towns. Not just any part of Mechanicville though but the part directly across from the Adamsville projects by the Squaw River Bridge. And from there he swam, swam through the tide shifts and eddies, swam through the freighter-brought fetid, oil-slicked waves, swam as if his very life depended on it, to meet his love on scrappy, shell-strewn beach on the other side. More importantly, after their rendezvous he had to swim back across that same treacherous channel.
Know this. When someone speaks pretty sonnet love words dismiss him or her out of hand. When someone speaks of heavenly love cast a jaded eye his or her way. When someone offers to die, and gladly, for battle love laugh in his or her face. And if someone tries to piece you off with some tasty tidbits or fragrant smells start walking the other way. For now, and for all cyberspace eternity, you have heard the siren song of real love.
Out Of The Be-Bop Retro-Jazz Age 2000s Night- Woody Allen’s “Midnight In Paris”
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for Woody Allen’s Midnight In Paris
DVD Review
Midnight In Paris, starring Owen Wilson, Rachael McAdams, written and directed by Woody Allen, Sony Picture Classics, 2011
Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Scott and Zelda (no last name needed for Jazz Age aficionados, right?), Cole Porter, T.S. Eliot, Man Ray, Pablo Picasso, hell even Djuana Barnes are names from the Jazz Age and the American post- World War I expatriate night that get bandied about in Woody Allen’s 2011 comedic effort, Midnight In Paris. There were plenty of other names dropped as well but the above popped out in memory’s eye and serve my point. This film is a paean to that by-gone age just far enough back for Woody (and me) to not have been splashed by the Jazz Age karma but wishing, wishing like crazy, we could have lived at that time –in that city, Paris and been washed by the spectacular antics and struggles that went on there to create a modern literary and cultural world. And in the end that is Woody’s point, as he has one of his throw-back jazz Age characters pine for an even earlier time- the last quarter of the 19th century-La Belle Epogue. Nice spin, Woody.
But to the plot that brings this whole thing together in magic realistic way and without being too ham-handed on the “moral”. Woody (oops) Gil (played with some Woody-like physical and expressive mannerism by Owen Wilson) is a thoroughly modern frustrated Hollywood screenwriter who yearns to write the great American novel, or at least something other than the drivel that passes for language in most of his screenwriting. He and his fiancée, Inez (played by Rachael McAdams), are in Paris on a lark before getting married. Gil loves Paris, his version of Paris, the Paris of the American ex –pat 1920s Jazz Age when the great creative spirits of the early 20th century held forth and lit up the cultural post-war wasteland night. Inez is a little, no, a lot more bourgeois, and just wants Gil to keep making the kale so they can afford that high-end La-La land lifestyle. This will not be a match made in heaven, no question.
Gil though through cinematic magical realism finds his way back to the Paris of the 1920s around midnight each night and from there is able to find his true self, or what he thinks is his true self. Naturally a women (Pablo Picasso’s, mistress, or one of them) is there to goad him along but also to pose the question about what craving for earlier unattainable times mean. In the end Gil is “liberated” from Inez (she was two-timing him anyway with some pedantic prof) and can walk the rainy 2010s streets of Paris and really make his literary breakthrough. This is one of Woody’s better recent efforts. Proof. A person whom I respect very much as a cinematic aficionado said this is the first Woody Allen film that she could sit through to the end and wish that it didn’t end. High praise indeed.
DVD Review
Midnight In Paris, starring Owen Wilson, Rachael McAdams, written and directed by Woody Allen, Sony Picture Classics, 2011
Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Scott and Zelda (no last name needed for Jazz Age aficionados, right?), Cole Porter, T.S. Eliot, Man Ray, Pablo Picasso, hell even Djuana Barnes are names from the Jazz Age and the American post- World War I expatriate night that get bandied about in Woody Allen’s 2011 comedic effort, Midnight In Paris. There were plenty of other names dropped as well but the above popped out in memory’s eye and serve my point. This film is a paean to that by-gone age just far enough back for Woody (and me) to not have been splashed by the Jazz Age karma but wishing, wishing like crazy, we could have lived at that time –in that city, Paris and been washed by the spectacular antics and struggles that went on there to create a modern literary and cultural world. And in the end that is Woody’s point, as he has one of his throw-back jazz Age characters pine for an even earlier time- the last quarter of the 19th century-La Belle Epogue. Nice spin, Woody.
But to the plot that brings this whole thing together in magic realistic way and without being too ham-handed on the “moral”. Woody (oops) Gil (played with some Woody-like physical and expressive mannerism by Owen Wilson) is a thoroughly modern frustrated Hollywood screenwriter who yearns to write the great American novel, or at least something other than the drivel that passes for language in most of his screenwriting. He and his fiancée, Inez (played by Rachael McAdams), are in Paris on a lark before getting married. Gil loves Paris, his version of Paris, the Paris of the American ex –pat 1920s Jazz Age when the great creative spirits of the early 20th century held forth and lit up the cultural post-war wasteland night. Inez is a little, no, a lot more bourgeois, and just wants Gil to keep making the kale so they can afford that high-end La-La land lifestyle. This will not be a match made in heaven, no question.
Gil though through cinematic magical realism finds his way back to the Paris of the 1920s around midnight each night and from there is able to find his true self, or what he thinks is his true self. Naturally a women (Pablo Picasso’s, mistress, or one of them) is there to goad him along but also to pose the question about what craving for earlier unattainable times mean. In the end Gil is “liberated” from Inez (she was two-timing him anyway with some pedantic prof) and can walk the rainy 2010s streets of Paris and really make his literary breakthrough. This is one of Woody’s better recent efforts. Proof. A person whom I respect very much as a cinematic aficionado said this is the first Woody Allen film that she could sit through to the end and wish that it didn’t end. High praise indeed.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Ancient dreams, dreamed-Valentines Can’t Buy Her, Can They- Magical Realism 101
Who knows when the endless walks started. Peter Paul’s endless walks. Maybe it was something as simple as not having, really his parents not having, a car, a reliable car in the 1950s golden age of automobile, American automobile fin-tail night. All such Markin vehicles, when there was motor transportation around, and in the early days he had memory-think of his father traipsing out of the house, lunch bucket in hand, to catch, although usually to wait to catch, the first morning public bus more often than not, always looked like some Joad- mobile breaking down on some Route 66 (really Route 6 but Route 66 spoke of great American West night adventures) dust blow-out road waiting on some stranger’s kindnesses to sent Tom into some godforsaken Western plains town for water , battery, or some spare part. Yes, now that he thought about it Peter thought it was just like the Joad’s except no family heirlooms hanging from the rafters.
Names like Studebaker, Nash Rambler, and Plymouth (not the new, sexy tail-fin ones but some box thing that grinded along sputtering to high heavens and smelling of oils, grease and always, always some foul unnamed smell that only went away when the car was properly fixed). And see too Peter had no driving mother, no car-driving mother when there was a car around. No Mom to take him here and there, or just for some new view of the world. All such new views depended on the clunker, and his father’s ability to keep it on the road while a carping wife and three screaming boys in the backseat tried his patience more than any Daytona 500 driver ever had to face.
So mishmash memories of endless waits for early morning, not as early as his father but early, because there was no midday transport, and late afternoon public buses filled his heart with terror. Terror that he would always be stuck in “the projects” waiting on some late-arriving or just barely arriving Eastern Massachusetts Street Railway bus (always called just the bus, except when he wanted to curse, or what he later learned was a curse and paid in penance for the knowledge, when yet again it arrived too late for him to easily do whatever mission he was intent on doing). At times like that Peter Paul always thought about the time when he (and his brother, John James) were to make their first communion at five and six years old (Roman Catholic- style in case there are differences in the way it is done in other kinds of heathen churches, heathen then anyway) and clad in all white, Mom dressed as well as he ever remembered seeing her and Dad as well, although he always seemed ill at ease in fancy dress, had to wait an eternity for the bus and just barely, barely made it to the church. And then waited for an eternity for the bus to go have an out-of-the-house breakfast to celebrate this latest Christian victory. So he started walking, walking that endless walk.
Peter Paul established a certain fixed route to his walks not so much because he was enthralled by the idea of an established route, or because he had some idea even that it was fixed as much as “the projects”, which were located on an isolated old time farm land peninsula near the bay, had only one road out (one asphalt-covered road, rutted even then, although later he would “discover” shortcuts some of them Mother hair-raising, if she knew). And because he feared, feared to perdition, that if he varied his route he would get lost, the cops would have to bring him home and that would be the end of his endless walking since his walking was a motherless thing.
And see there was a certain practical necessity to Peter’s stealth as well because the mothers, even if just ragged projects mothers, had some kind of unexplained and unexpected league of mothers-“projects” divisions pledge, that they would raise a hue and cry if one of the kids seemed to be wandering too far from home. So the first part of the journey was always sneaking (usually) out the back door down the hill to the shoreline and around the bend about half a mile to reach that lonely road out. Along the way out he passed seemingly endless seawall-flanked sea streets, all granite slabs, leftovers from local granite quarries that gave the town its granite-etched, granite-sweated nickname. From there he could see shoreline-flashing rocks, wave broken shells, ocean water-logged debris strewn every which way, fetid marsh smells to the right, mephitic swamps oozing mud splat to the left as he slip-shot his way to the main road to the town center.
Most days, most trips, he didn’t care how long it took as long as he was back by lunch, or supper depending on the time of day of his getaway. Today though, this day that forms the basis of the story that he told me one summer night after it was long over, and he had “forgotten” the incident until something, actually someone, made him think about it this old route was making hard the way, the path, okay, to uptown drug stores. See added in was a little rain, the tide was up, and he was running a little late. But he had to get his uptown business (that’s what he called it, what he always called it with a little smirk) done because his tomorrow was an important day. Although when he told me the day I yawned and wondered why all of a sudden this year of our lord 1956 it was urgent business.
Now the layout of our town’s uptown, like a lot of towns, is a couple of streets of retail stores, a couple of places to eat, a few professional buildings, a movie theater (or two, depending on the town) some government buildings and so on. In short, boring. Except this day all Peter Paul’s focus was on the largest drugstore in town (and for a long time the only one), Rexall’s Drugstore. Why? Don’t laugh, or just a little. Peter Paul, sweating a little from his exertions even on this raw winter day, needed, desperately needed, to get some Valentine’s Day cards. Ya, I know I started to yawn again too.
See all of a sudden this winter Peter Paul started noticing girls in his fifth grade class, and started kind of find them interesting, kind of. Kind of except when they started giggling , collectively giggling, about nothing at all or started to tease him. Tease him not in a mean way like they did last year because he came from the projects, and he didn’t have a father car, and he walked everywhere but blush tease him be because well because, they found him kind of interesting, kind of. And that kind of interesting them and that kind of interesting him were on a collision course.
Like a lot of guys, young guys and old, when girls are in play, Peter Paul kind of went overboard. See, he “promised” about five of these used-to-be-giggling and mean girls, that they would be his valentine. Exclusively. He explained to me how it happened but I don’t want you to yawn any more than you have to so I will just skip it. Besides it sounded (and still sounds) goofy since some of the girls knew each other and some, I think, already had “boyfriends” or what passes for boy friends in fifth grade. Kid’s stuff, yes, kid’s stuff. So he had to hightail it up to Rexall’s with no money really and try to work his “magic”.
And he did. Sending (or presenting in person) each a Rexall’s Drug Store, heist-stolen valentine, ribbon and bow valentine night bushel load, signed, hot blood-signed, weary-feet signed, if only she, five candidates she, later called two blondes, two brunettes, and a red-head, sticks all, no womanly shape to tear a boy-man up, would only give a look his way, his look, his newly acquired state of the minute Elvis-imitation look, on endless sea streets, the white-flecked splash inside his head would be quiet. Jesus.
Names like Studebaker, Nash Rambler, and Plymouth (not the new, sexy tail-fin ones but some box thing that grinded along sputtering to high heavens and smelling of oils, grease and always, always some foul unnamed smell that only went away when the car was properly fixed). And see too Peter had no driving mother, no car-driving mother when there was a car around. No Mom to take him here and there, or just for some new view of the world. All such new views depended on the clunker, and his father’s ability to keep it on the road while a carping wife and three screaming boys in the backseat tried his patience more than any Daytona 500 driver ever had to face.
So mishmash memories of endless waits for early morning, not as early as his father but early, because there was no midday transport, and late afternoon public buses filled his heart with terror. Terror that he would always be stuck in “the projects” waiting on some late-arriving or just barely arriving Eastern Massachusetts Street Railway bus (always called just the bus, except when he wanted to curse, or what he later learned was a curse and paid in penance for the knowledge, when yet again it arrived too late for him to easily do whatever mission he was intent on doing). At times like that Peter Paul always thought about the time when he (and his brother, John James) were to make their first communion at five and six years old (Roman Catholic- style in case there are differences in the way it is done in other kinds of heathen churches, heathen then anyway) and clad in all white, Mom dressed as well as he ever remembered seeing her and Dad as well, although he always seemed ill at ease in fancy dress, had to wait an eternity for the bus and just barely, barely made it to the church. And then waited for an eternity for the bus to go have an out-of-the-house breakfast to celebrate this latest Christian victory. So he started walking, walking that endless walk.
Peter Paul established a certain fixed route to his walks not so much because he was enthralled by the idea of an established route, or because he had some idea even that it was fixed as much as “the projects”, which were located on an isolated old time farm land peninsula near the bay, had only one road out (one asphalt-covered road, rutted even then, although later he would “discover” shortcuts some of them Mother hair-raising, if she knew). And because he feared, feared to perdition, that if he varied his route he would get lost, the cops would have to bring him home and that would be the end of his endless walking since his walking was a motherless thing.
And see there was a certain practical necessity to Peter’s stealth as well because the mothers, even if just ragged projects mothers, had some kind of unexplained and unexpected league of mothers-“projects” divisions pledge, that they would raise a hue and cry if one of the kids seemed to be wandering too far from home. So the first part of the journey was always sneaking (usually) out the back door down the hill to the shoreline and around the bend about half a mile to reach that lonely road out. Along the way out he passed seemingly endless seawall-flanked sea streets, all granite slabs, leftovers from local granite quarries that gave the town its granite-etched, granite-sweated nickname. From there he could see shoreline-flashing rocks, wave broken shells, ocean water-logged debris strewn every which way, fetid marsh smells to the right, mephitic swamps oozing mud splat to the left as he slip-shot his way to the main road to the town center.
Most days, most trips, he didn’t care how long it took as long as he was back by lunch, or supper depending on the time of day of his getaway. Today though, this day that forms the basis of the story that he told me one summer night after it was long over, and he had “forgotten” the incident until something, actually someone, made him think about it this old route was making hard the way, the path, okay, to uptown drug stores. See added in was a little rain, the tide was up, and he was running a little late. But he had to get his uptown business (that’s what he called it, what he always called it with a little smirk) done because his tomorrow was an important day. Although when he told me the day I yawned and wondered why all of a sudden this year of our lord 1956 it was urgent business.
Now the layout of our town’s uptown, like a lot of towns, is a couple of streets of retail stores, a couple of places to eat, a few professional buildings, a movie theater (or two, depending on the town) some government buildings and so on. In short, boring. Except this day all Peter Paul’s focus was on the largest drugstore in town (and for a long time the only one), Rexall’s Drugstore. Why? Don’t laugh, or just a little. Peter Paul, sweating a little from his exertions even on this raw winter day, needed, desperately needed, to get some Valentine’s Day cards. Ya, I know I started to yawn again too.
See all of a sudden this winter Peter Paul started noticing girls in his fifth grade class, and started kind of find them interesting, kind of. Kind of except when they started giggling , collectively giggling, about nothing at all or started to tease him. Tease him not in a mean way like they did last year because he came from the projects, and he didn’t have a father car, and he walked everywhere but blush tease him be because well because, they found him kind of interesting, kind of. And that kind of interesting them and that kind of interesting him were on a collision course.
Like a lot of guys, young guys and old, when girls are in play, Peter Paul kind of went overboard. See, he “promised” about five of these used-to-be-giggling and mean girls, that they would be his valentine. Exclusively. He explained to me how it happened but I don’t want you to yawn any more than you have to so I will just skip it. Besides it sounded (and still sounds) goofy since some of the girls knew each other and some, I think, already had “boyfriends” or what passes for boy friends in fifth grade. Kid’s stuff, yes, kid’s stuff. So he had to hightail it up to Rexall’s with no money really and try to work his “magic”.
And he did. Sending (or presenting in person) each a Rexall’s Drug Store, heist-stolen valentine, ribbon and bow valentine night bushel load, signed, hot blood-signed, weary-feet signed, if only she, five candidates she, later called two blondes, two brunettes, and a red-head, sticks all, no womanly shape to tear a boy-man up, would only give a look his way, his look, his newly acquired state of the minute Elvis-imitation look, on endless sea streets, the white-flecked splash inside his head would be quiet. Jesus.
As We Approach The 75th Anniversary Of The Barcelona May Days In The Spanish Civil War- Another Look By Ernest Hemingway At The Spanish Civil War.
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry on the Barcelona May Days of 1937 in the Spanish Civil War (as usual with political events, past and present, be careful using this source).
Book Review
THE FIFTH COLUMN AND 49 OTHER STORIES, ERNEST HEMNGWAY, P.F. COLLIER&SON, NEW YORK, 1950
I have written reviews of many of Ernest Hemingway’s major novels elsewhere in this space. I have reviewed his major novel on the Spanish Civil War For Whom the Bells Toll, as well. Here I review a short play of his concerning that same event. This play is the main item of interest for me in an anthology that also includes his first 49 short stories. I will make a few minor comments on them at the end. However, here I wish to address the main issue that drives the play, The Fifth Column. I believe that this is fitting in the year of the 75th anniversary of the Barcelona May Days-the last chance to save the Spanish Revolution.
The main action here concerns the actions, manners, and love life of a seemingly irresolute character, Phillip, in reality is a committed communist who has found himself wrapped up intensely in the struggle to fight against Franco’s counter-revolution. His role is to ferret out the fifth columnists that have infiltrated into Madrid for intelligence/sabotage purposes on behalf of the Franco forces in the bloody civil war that was shaking Republican Spain. The term “fifth column” comes from the notion that not only the traditional four columns of the military are at work but a fifth column of sympathizers who are trying to destabilize the Republic. What to do about them is the central question of this, or any, civil war.
At the time there was some controversy that swirled around Hemingway for presenting the solution of summary executions of these agents as the correct way of dealing with this menace. I have questioned some of Hemingway’s political judgments on Spain elsewhere, particularly concerning the role of the International Brigades, but he is right on here. Needless to say, as almost always with Hemingway, a little love interest is thrown into the mix to spice things up. However, in the end, despite the criminal Stalinist takeover of the Spanish security apparatus and its counter-revolutionary role in gutting the revolutionary promise there this play presents a question all militants today need to be aware of.
49 short stories
I recently reviewed this same compilation of short stories in an edition that included the short play The Fifth Column that I was interested in discussing concerning the problem of spies and infiltrators from the Franco-led Nationalist side-and what to do about them- in the Spanish Civil War of 1936-39. This edition does not contain that play and therefore I can discuss the short stories on their own terms. Although Hemingway wrote many novels, most of which I have read at one time or another, I believe that his style and sparseness of language was more suitable to the short story. This compilation of his first forty-nine although somewhat uneven in quality, as is always the case with any writer, I think makes my point. In any case they contain not only some of his most famous short stories but also some of the best.
The range of subjects that interested Hemingway is reflected here, especially those that defined masculinity in his era. Included here are classics such as The Snows of Kilimanjaro about the big game hunt, The Killers- a short and pungent gangster tale that was made into a much longer movie much in the matter of his novel To Have Or Have Not, many of the youthful Nick Adams stories tracing his adventures from puberty to his time of service in World War I, stories on bullfighting- probably more than you will ever want to know about that subject but reflecting an aficionado’s appreciation of the art form, a few on the never-ending problems of love and its heartbreaks including a metaphorical one, reflecting the censorious nature of the times, on the impact of abortion on a couple’s relationship, and some sketches that were included in A Farewell to Arms. Well worth your time. As always Hemingway masterly wields his sparse and functional language to make his points. Again, as always read this man. This work is part of our world literary heritage.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barcelona_May_Days
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry on the Barcelona May Days of 1937 in the Spanish Civil War (as usual with political events, past and present, be careful using this source).
Book Review
THE FIFTH COLUMN AND 49 OTHER STORIES, ERNEST HEMNGWAY, P.F. COLLIER&SON, NEW YORK, 1950
I have written reviews of many of Ernest Hemingway’s major novels elsewhere in this space. I have reviewed his major novel on the Spanish Civil War For Whom the Bells Toll, as well. Here I review a short play of his concerning that same event. This play is the main item of interest for me in an anthology that also includes his first 49 short stories. I will make a few minor comments on them at the end. However, here I wish to address the main issue that drives the play, The Fifth Column. I believe that this is fitting in the year of the 75th anniversary of the Barcelona May Days-the last chance to save the Spanish Revolution.
The main action here concerns the actions, manners, and love life of a seemingly irresolute character, Phillip, in reality is a committed communist who has found himself wrapped up intensely in the struggle to fight against Franco’s counter-revolution. His role is to ferret out the fifth columnists that have infiltrated into Madrid for intelligence/sabotage purposes on behalf of the Franco forces in the bloody civil war that was shaking Republican Spain. The term “fifth column” comes from the notion that not only the traditional four columns of the military are at work but a fifth column of sympathizers who are trying to destabilize the Republic. What to do about them is the central question of this, or any, civil war.
At the time there was some controversy that swirled around Hemingway for presenting the solution of summary executions of these agents as the correct way of dealing with this menace. I have questioned some of Hemingway’s political judgments on Spain elsewhere, particularly concerning the role of the International Brigades, but he is right on here. Needless to say, as almost always with Hemingway, a little love interest is thrown into the mix to spice things up. However, in the end, despite the criminal Stalinist takeover of the Spanish security apparatus and its counter-revolutionary role in gutting the revolutionary promise there this play presents a question all militants today need to be aware of.
49 short stories
I recently reviewed this same compilation of short stories in an edition that included the short play The Fifth Column that I was interested in discussing concerning the problem of spies and infiltrators from the Franco-led Nationalist side-and what to do about them- in the Spanish Civil War of 1936-39. This edition does not contain that play and therefore I can discuss the short stories on their own terms. Although Hemingway wrote many novels, most of which I have read at one time or another, I believe that his style and sparseness of language was more suitable to the short story. This compilation of his first forty-nine although somewhat uneven in quality, as is always the case with any writer, I think makes my point. In any case they contain not only some of his most famous short stories but also some of the best.
The range of subjects that interested Hemingway is reflected here, especially those that defined masculinity in his era. Included here are classics such as The Snows of Kilimanjaro about the big game hunt, The Killers- a short and pungent gangster tale that was made into a much longer movie much in the matter of his novel To Have Or Have Not, many of the youthful Nick Adams stories tracing his adventures from puberty to his time of service in World War I, stories on bullfighting- probably more than you will ever want to know about that subject but reflecting an aficionado’s appreciation of the art form, a few on the never-ending problems of love and its heartbreaks including a metaphorical one, reflecting the censorious nature of the times, on the impact of abortion on a couple’s relationship, and some sketches that were included in A Farewell to Arms. Well worth your time. As always Hemingway masterly wields his sparse and functional language to make his points. Again, as always read this man. This work is part of our world literary heritage.
Book Review
THE FIFTH COLUMN AND 49 OTHER STORIES, ERNEST HEMNGWAY, P.F. COLLIER&SON, NEW YORK, 1950
I have written reviews of many of Ernest Hemingway’s major novels elsewhere in this space. I have reviewed his major novel on the Spanish Civil War For Whom the Bells Toll, as well. Here I review a short play of his concerning that same event. This play is the main item of interest for me in an anthology that also includes his first 49 short stories. I will make a few minor comments on them at the end. However, here I wish to address the main issue that drives the play, The Fifth Column. I believe that this is fitting in the year of the 75th anniversary of the Barcelona May Days-the last chance to save the Spanish Revolution.
The main action here concerns the actions, manners, and love life of a seemingly irresolute character, Phillip, in reality is a committed communist who has found himself wrapped up intensely in the struggle to fight against Franco’s counter-revolution. His role is to ferret out the fifth columnists that have infiltrated into Madrid for intelligence/sabotage purposes on behalf of the Franco forces in the bloody civil war that was shaking Republican Spain. The term “fifth column” comes from the notion that not only the traditional four columns of the military are at work but a fifth column of sympathizers who are trying to destabilize the Republic. What to do about them is the central question of this, or any, civil war.
At the time there was some controversy that swirled around Hemingway for presenting the solution of summary executions of these agents as the correct way of dealing with this menace. I have questioned some of Hemingway’s political judgments on Spain elsewhere, particularly concerning the role of the International Brigades, but he is right on here. Needless to say, as almost always with Hemingway, a little love interest is thrown into the mix to spice things up. However, in the end, despite the criminal Stalinist takeover of the Spanish security apparatus and its counter-revolutionary role in gutting the revolutionary promise there this play presents a question all militants today need to be aware of.
49 short stories
I recently reviewed this same compilation of short stories in an edition that included the short play The Fifth Column that I was interested in discussing concerning the problem of spies and infiltrators from the Franco-led Nationalist side-and what to do about them- in the Spanish Civil War of 1936-39. This edition does not contain that play and therefore I can discuss the short stories on their own terms. Although Hemingway wrote many novels, most of which I have read at one time or another, I believe that his style and sparseness of language was more suitable to the short story. This compilation of his first forty-nine although somewhat uneven in quality, as is always the case with any writer, I think makes my point. In any case they contain not only some of his most famous short stories but also some of the best.
The range of subjects that interested Hemingway is reflected here, especially those that defined masculinity in his era. Included here are classics such as The Snows of Kilimanjaro about the big game hunt, The Killers- a short and pungent gangster tale that was made into a much longer movie much in the matter of his novel To Have Or Have Not, many of the youthful Nick Adams stories tracing his adventures from puberty to his time of service in World War I, stories on bullfighting- probably more than you will ever want to know about that subject but reflecting an aficionado’s appreciation of the art form, a few on the never-ending problems of love and its heartbreaks including a metaphorical one, reflecting the censorious nature of the times, on the impact of abortion on a couple’s relationship, and some sketches that were included in A Farewell to Arms. Well worth your time. As always Hemingway masterly wields his sparse and functional language to make his points. Again, as always read this man. This work is part of our world literary heritage.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barcelona_May_Days
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry on the Barcelona May Days of 1937 in the Spanish Civil War (as usual with political events, past and present, be careful using this source).
Book Review
THE FIFTH COLUMN AND 49 OTHER STORIES, ERNEST HEMNGWAY, P.F. COLLIER&SON, NEW YORK, 1950
I have written reviews of many of Ernest Hemingway’s major novels elsewhere in this space. I have reviewed his major novel on the Spanish Civil War For Whom the Bells Toll, as well. Here I review a short play of his concerning that same event. This play is the main item of interest for me in an anthology that also includes his first 49 short stories. I will make a few minor comments on them at the end. However, here I wish to address the main issue that drives the play, The Fifth Column. I believe that this is fitting in the year of the 75th anniversary of the Barcelona May Days-the last chance to save the Spanish Revolution.
The main action here concerns the actions, manners, and love life of a seemingly irresolute character, Phillip, in reality is a committed communist who has found himself wrapped up intensely in the struggle to fight against Franco’s counter-revolution. His role is to ferret out the fifth columnists that have infiltrated into Madrid for intelligence/sabotage purposes on behalf of the Franco forces in the bloody civil war that was shaking Republican Spain. The term “fifth column” comes from the notion that not only the traditional four columns of the military are at work but a fifth column of sympathizers who are trying to destabilize the Republic. What to do about them is the central question of this, or any, civil war.
At the time there was some controversy that swirled around Hemingway for presenting the solution of summary executions of these agents as the correct way of dealing with this menace. I have questioned some of Hemingway’s political judgments on Spain elsewhere, particularly concerning the role of the International Brigades, but he is right on here. Needless to say, as almost always with Hemingway, a little love interest is thrown into the mix to spice things up. However, in the end, despite the criminal Stalinist takeover of the Spanish security apparatus and its counter-revolutionary role in gutting the revolutionary promise there this play presents a question all militants today need to be aware of.
49 short stories
I recently reviewed this same compilation of short stories in an edition that included the short play The Fifth Column that I was interested in discussing concerning the problem of spies and infiltrators from the Franco-led Nationalist side-and what to do about them- in the Spanish Civil War of 1936-39. This edition does not contain that play and therefore I can discuss the short stories on their own terms. Although Hemingway wrote many novels, most of which I have read at one time or another, I believe that his style and sparseness of language was more suitable to the short story. This compilation of his first forty-nine although somewhat uneven in quality, as is always the case with any writer, I think makes my point. In any case they contain not only some of his most famous short stories but also some of the best.
The range of subjects that interested Hemingway is reflected here, especially those that defined masculinity in his era. Included here are classics such as The Snows of Kilimanjaro about the big game hunt, The Killers- a short and pungent gangster tale that was made into a much longer movie much in the matter of his novel To Have Or Have Not, many of the youthful Nick Adams stories tracing his adventures from puberty to his time of service in World War I, stories on bullfighting- probably more than you will ever want to know about that subject but reflecting an aficionado’s appreciation of the art form, a few on the never-ending problems of love and its heartbreaks including a metaphorical one, reflecting the censorious nature of the times, on the impact of abortion on a couple’s relationship, and some sketches that were included in A Farewell to Arms. Well worth your time. As always Hemingway masterly wields his sparse and functional language to make his points. Again, as always read this man. This work is part of our world literary heritage.
Out In the 1930s Be-Bop Barrelhouse Blues Night- Memphis Minnie Is Front And Center-A CD Review
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Memphis Minnie performing her classic Hoodoo Lady Blues
CD Review
Memphis Minnie, In My Girlish Days, 1991
One of the interesting facts about the development of the blues is that in the early days the recorded music and the bulk of the live performances were done by women, at least they were the most popular exponents of the genre. That time, the early 1920’s to the 1930’s was the classic age of women blues performers. Of course, when one thinks about that period the name that comes up is the legendary Bessie Smith. Beyond that, maybe some know Ethel Waters. And beyond that-a blank. Yet the blues singer under review, Memphis Minnie, probably had as a productive career as either of the above-mentioned names. And here is the kicker. If you were to ask today’s leading women blues singers like Bonnie Raitt or Maria Muldaur about influences they will, naturally, give the obligatory Bessie response, but perhaps more surprisingly will also praise Ms. Minnie to the skies.
This compilation, while not technically the best, will explain the why of the above paragraph. Minnie worked with many back-up players over the years, some good some bad, but her style and her energy carried most of the production. She was the mistress of the double entendre so popular in old time blues- you know, or you better ask somebody, phrases like “put a little sugar in my bowl”. The best of the bunch here are Bumble Bee, Down Home Girl and the classic In My Girlish Days. Listen on.
CD Review
Memphis Minnie, In My Girlish Days, 1991
One of the interesting facts about the development of the blues is that in the early days the recorded music and the bulk of the live performances were done by women, at least they were the most popular exponents of the genre. That time, the early 1920’s to the 1930’s was the classic age of women blues performers. Of course, when one thinks about that period the name that comes up is the legendary Bessie Smith. Beyond that, maybe some know Ethel Waters. And beyond that-a blank. Yet the blues singer under review, Memphis Minnie, probably had as a productive career as either of the above-mentioned names. And here is the kicker. If you were to ask today’s leading women blues singers like Bonnie Raitt or Maria Muldaur about influences they will, naturally, give the obligatory Bessie response, but perhaps more surprisingly will also praise Ms. Minnie to the skies.
This compilation, while not technically the best, will explain the why of the above paragraph. Minnie worked with many back-up players over the years, some good some bad, but her style and her energy carried most of the production. She was the mistress of the double entendre so popular in old time blues- you know, or you better ask somebody, phrases like “put a little sugar in my bowl”. The best of the bunch here are Bumble Bee, Down Home Girl and the classic In My Girlish Days. Listen on.
Out In The1950s Low-Down Be-Bop Crime Noir Night- Lizabeth Scott’s “Two Of A Kind”
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the 1950s crime noir Two Of A Kind.
DVD Review
Two Of A Kind, starring Edmond O’Brien, Lizabeth Scott, Columbia Pictures,1950
One of the unspoken premises of the crime noir (other than the by now obvious one that crime doesn’t pay, or at least not pay for those at the bottom of the crime chain) is that there is a “code of honor” among thieves. Code there may be, although that premise is open to serious question as the film under review, Two Of A Kind, explores but it has been honored more in the breech than the observance. That said, this is a rather nifty little B-side film that can’t quite decide whether it is a light-hearted, flirty camping on the crime noir genre or wants to go full bore in the low-rent be-bop crime noir night.
Why? Well the plotline certainly promises a “big score” on the crime front even though guns and rough stuff are, mostly, in the background. No nasty armed robberies or off-hand murders here. This one is about a scam, a beautiful everybody gets plenty of dough and can retire to Rio scam. On paper. And for a while it seems to be getting up a full head of steam toward that goal. But like all scams, or almost all scams, a little what the hell happened reality sets in.
Here husky-throated and fetching, 1950s-style blond fetching, Elizabeth Scott as Brandy, a girl who has to look out for herself in any way a 1950s girl can, and a wealthy man’s lawyer, Vincent, have cooked up a scheme to grab ten million in dough by stealth. But what they need, desperately need, is a third party to play the role of this wealthy man and his wife’s long lost son. Enter small time grafter, Lefty (played by crime noir stand-by Edmond O’Brien) who is down on his uppers and whose “resume” fits the bill as the son, except he needs a little work to flush out the role- he needs to get his finger smashed to smithereen to look authentic. (Ouch, even fifty years later.)
And he goes for it, smashed finger and all. And goes, by the romantic interest way, for Lizabeth Scott (who like I said before is a girl who had to look out for herself and has already pinned herself to that lawyer so there will be some trouble, no question). And she, off-handedly, goes for him along the way. So the plan is unfolding beautifully, including working on a dizzy young dame who has entre to the wealthy man’s home, when all of a sudden the tables are turned. The old guy doesn’t tumble for the scam and all bets are off. But see nobody goes to the slammer on this one. Nobody gets shot up, or even ruffled up (except said lawyer has to get out of town) so the big build-up turns this one into a comedic crime noir. Is there such an animal, or is it against nature? Still this one was one of the better B-film noirs based on the dialogue and the little twists around the scam. Oh ya, in case you forgot, crime doesn’t pay.
DVD Review
Two Of A Kind, starring Edmond O’Brien, Lizabeth Scott, Columbia Pictures,1950
One of the unspoken premises of the crime noir (other than the by now obvious one that crime doesn’t pay, or at least not pay for those at the bottom of the crime chain) is that there is a “code of honor” among thieves. Code there may be, although that premise is open to serious question as the film under review, Two Of A Kind, explores but it has been honored more in the breech than the observance. That said, this is a rather nifty little B-side film that can’t quite decide whether it is a light-hearted, flirty camping on the crime noir genre or wants to go full bore in the low-rent be-bop crime noir night.
Why? Well the plotline certainly promises a “big score” on the crime front even though guns and rough stuff are, mostly, in the background. No nasty armed robberies or off-hand murders here. This one is about a scam, a beautiful everybody gets plenty of dough and can retire to Rio scam. On paper. And for a while it seems to be getting up a full head of steam toward that goal. But like all scams, or almost all scams, a little what the hell happened reality sets in.
Here husky-throated and fetching, 1950s-style blond fetching, Elizabeth Scott as Brandy, a girl who has to look out for herself in any way a 1950s girl can, and a wealthy man’s lawyer, Vincent, have cooked up a scheme to grab ten million in dough by stealth. But what they need, desperately need, is a third party to play the role of this wealthy man and his wife’s long lost son. Enter small time grafter, Lefty (played by crime noir stand-by Edmond O’Brien) who is down on his uppers and whose “resume” fits the bill as the son, except he needs a little work to flush out the role- he needs to get his finger smashed to smithereen to look authentic. (Ouch, even fifty years later.)
And he goes for it, smashed finger and all. And goes, by the romantic interest way, for Lizabeth Scott (who like I said before is a girl who had to look out for herself and has already pinned herself to that lawyer so there will be some trouble, no question). And she, off-handedly, goes for him along the way. So the plan is unfolding beautifully, including working on a dizzy young dame who has entre to the wealthy man’s home, when all of a sudden the tables are turned. The old guy doesn’t tumble for the scam and all bets are off. But see nobody goes to the slammer on this one. Nobody gets shot up, or even ruffled up (except said lawyer has to get out of town) so the big build-up turns this one into a comedic crime noir. Is there such an animal, or is it against nature? Still this one was one of the better B-film noirs based on the dialogue and the little twists around the scam. Oh ya, in case you forgot, crime doesn’t pay.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
May Day 2012: A Day Of International Working Class Solidarity Actions- General Strike Occupy Boston (GSOB)
Click on the headline to link to the Occupy May 1-Boston Facebook event page.
In late December 2011 the General Assembly (GA) of Occupy Los Angeles, in the aftermath of the stirring and successful November 2nd Oakland General Strike and December 12th West Coast Port Shutdown, issued a call for a national and international general strike centered on immigrant rights, environmental sustainability, a moratorium on foreclosures, an end to the wars, and jobs for all. These and other political issues that have become associated with the Occupy movement are to be featured in a whole range of actions set for May Day 2012.
May Day is the historic international working class holiday that has been celebrated each year in many parts of the world since the time of the Haymarket Martyrs in Chicago in 1886 and the struggle for the eight-hour work day. More recently it has, additionally, been a time for the hard-pressed immigrant communities here in America to join together in the fight against deportations and other discriminatory aspects of governmental immigration policy.
Some political activists here in Boston, mainly connected with Occupy Boston (OB), decided just after the new year to support that general strike call and formed the General Strike Occupy Boston working group (GSOB). GSOB has met, more or less weekly, since then to plan local May Day actions. The first step in that process was to bring a resolution incorporating the Occupy Los Angeles issues before the GA of Occupy Boston for approval. That resolution was approved by GA OB on January 8, 2012.
********
OB Endorses Call for General Strike
January 8th, 2012 • mhacker •
Passed Resolutions No comments The following proposal was passed by the General Assembly on Jan 7, 2012:
Occupy Boston supports the call for an international General Strike on May 1, 2012, for immigrant rights, environmental sustainability, a moratorium on foreclosures, an end to the wars, and jobs for all. We recognize housing, education, health care, LGBT rights and racial equality as human rights; and thus call for the building of a broad coalition that will ensure and promote a democratic standard of living for all peoples.
********
Early discussions within the GSOB centered on drawing the lessons of the West Coast actions last fall. Above all what is and what isn’t a general strike. Traditionally a general strike, as witness the recent actions in Greece and other countries, is called by workers’ organizations and/or parties for a specified period of time in order to shut down substantial parts of the capitalist economy over some set of immediate demands. A close analysis of the West Coast actions showed a slightly different model one based on community pickets of specified industrial targets, downtown mass street actions, and scattered individual and collective acts of solidarity like student support strikes and sick outs. Additionally, small businesses and other allies were asked to close and closed in solidarity.
That latter model seemed more appropriate to the tasks at hand in Boston given its sparse recent militant labor history and that it is a regional financial, technological and educational hub rather than an industrial center. Thus successful actions in Boston on May Day 2012 would not necessarily exactly follow the long established radical and labor traditions of the West Coast. GSOB discussions have since reflected that understanding. The focus will be on action actions and activities that respond to and reflect the Boston political situation as attempts are made to create, re-create really, an on-going May Day tradition beyond the observance of the day by labor radicals and the immigrant communities.
Over the past several years, starting with the nation-wide actions in 2006, the Hispanic and other immigrant communities in and around Boston have been celebrating May Day as a day of action on the very pressing problem of immigration status as well as the traditional working-class solidarity holiday. It was no accident that Los Angeles, scene of massive immigration actions in the past and currently one of the areas facing the brunt of the deportation drives by the Obama administration, would be in the lead to call for national and international actions this year. One of the first steps GSOB took was to try to reach out to the already existing Boston May Day Coalition (BMDC), which has spearheaded the annual marches and rallies in the immigrant communities, in order to learn of their experiences and to coordinate actions. After making such efforts GSOB has joined forces with BMDC in order to coordinate the over-all May Day actions.
Taking a cue from the developing Occupy May Day movement, especially the broader and more inclusive messages coming out of Occupy Wall Street, GSOB has centered its slogans on the theme of “Occupy May First - A Day Without the 99%” in order to highlight the fact that in the capitalist system labor, of one kind or another, has created all the wealth but has not shared in the accumulated profits. Highlighting the increasing economic gap, political voiceless-ness, and social issues related to race, class, sexual inequality, gender and the myriad other oppressions the vast majority face under capitalist is in keeping with the efforts initiated by Occupy Boston last fall.
On May Day GSOB is calling on the 99% to strike, skip work, walk out of school, and refrain from shopping, banking and business in order to implement that general slogan. Working people are encouraged to request the day off, or to call in sick. Small businesses are encouraged to close for the day and join the rest of the 99% in the streets.
For students at all levels GSOB is calling for a walk-out of classes. Further for college students to occupy the universities. With a huge student population of over 250,000 in the Boston area no-one-size-fits- all strategy seems appropriate. Each kindergarten, elementary school, middle school, high school, college, graduate school and wayward think tank should plan its own strike actions and, at some point in the day, all meet at a central location in downtown Boston.
In the early hours on May 1st members of the 99% will converge on the Boston Financial District for a day of direct action to demand an end to corporate rule and a shift of power to the people. The Financial District Block Party will start at 7:00 AM on the corner of Federal Street & Franklin Street in downtown Boston. Banks and corporations are strongly encouraged to close down for the day.
At noon there will be a May Day rally at Boston City Hall Plaza jointly sponsored by BMDC and GSOB followed at approximately 2:00 PM by solidarity marches centered on the immigrant communities that will start in East Boston, Chelsea, and Revere and will culminate in Everett for a rally at 4:00 PM. Other activities that afternoon for those who chose not to go to East Boston will be scheduled in and around the downtown area.
That evening, for those who cannot for whatever reasons participate in the daytime actions, there will be a “Funeral March” for the banks forming at 7:00 PM at Copley Square that will march throughout the downtown area.
Whatever your own personal circumstances may be GSOB calls upon one and all to do one, or more, of the following- No work. No school. No chores. No shopping. No banking. Let’s show the 1% that we have the power. Let’s show the world what a day without the 99% really means. And let’s return to the old traditions of May Day as a day of international solidarity with our working and oppressed sisters and brothers around the world. GCOB urges -All Out For May Day 2012!
Check out GSOB on Facebook and the Facebook event page- http://www.facebook.com/#!/Occupy.May1.Boston
In late December 2011 the General Assembly (GA) of Occupy Los Angeles, in the aftermath of the stirring and successful November 2nd Oakland General Strike and December 12th West Coast Port Shutdown, issued a call for a national and international general strike centered on immigrant rights, environmental sustainability, a moratorium on foreclosures, an end to the wars, and jobs for all. These and other political issues that have become associated with the Occupy movement are to be featured in a whole range of actions set for May Day 2012.
May Day is the historic international working class holiday that has been celebrated each year in many parts of the world since the time of the Haymarket Martyrs in Chicago in 1886 and the struggle for the eight-hour work day. More recently it has, additionally, been a time for the hard-pressed immigrant communities here in America to join together in the fight against deportations and other discriminatory aspects of governmental immigration policy.
Some political activists here in Boston, mainly connected with Occupy Boston (OB), decided just after the new year to support that general strike call and formed the General Strike Occupy Boston working group (GSOB). GSOB has met, more or less weekly, since then to plan local May Day actions. The first step in that process was to bring a resolution incorporating the Occupy Los Angeles issues before the GA of Occupy Boston for approval. That resolution was approved by GA OB on January 8, 2012.
********
OB Endorses Call for General Strike
January 8th, 2012 • mhacker •
Passed Resolutions No comments The following proposal was passed by the General Assembly on Jan 7, 2012:
Occupy Boston supports the call for an international General Strike on May 1, 2012, for immigrant rights, environmental sustainability, a moratorium on foreclosures, an end to the wars, and jobs for all. We recognize housing, education, health care, LGBT rights and racial equality as human rights; and thus call for the building of a broad coalition that will ensure and promote a democratic standard of living for all peoples.
********
Early discussions within the GSOB centered on drawing the lessons of the West Coast actions last fall. Above all what is and what isn’t a general strike. Traditionally a general strike, as witness the recent actions in Greece and other countries, is called by workers’ organizations and/or parties for a specified period of time in order to shut down substantial parts of the capitalist economy over some set of immediate demands. A close analysis of the West Coast actions showed a slightly different model one based on community pickets of specified industrial targets, downtown mass street actions, and scattered individual and collective acts of solidarity like student support strikes and sick outs. Additionally, small businesses and other allies were asked to close and closed in solidarity.
That latter model seemed more appropriate to the tasks at hand in Boston given its sparse recent militant labor history and that it is a regional financial, technological and educational hub rather than an industrial center. Thus successful actions in Boston on May Day 2012 would not necessarily exactly follow the long established radical and labor traditions of the West Coast. GSOB discussions have since reflected that understanding. The focus will be on action actions and activities that respond to and reflect the Boston political situation as attempts are made to create, re-create really, an on-going May Day tradition beyond the observance of the day by labor radicals and the immigrant communities.
Over the past several years, starting with the nation-wide actions in 2006, the Hispanic and other immigrant communities in and around Boston have been celebrating May Day as a day of action on the very pressing problem of immigration status as well as the traditional working-class solidarity holiday. It was no accident that Los Angeles, scene of massive immigration actions in the past and currently one of the areas facing the brunt of the deportation drives by the Obama administration, would be in the lead to call for national and international actions this year. One of the first steps GSOB took was to try to reach out to the already existing Boston May Day Coalition (BMDC), which has spearheaded the annual marches and rallies in the immigrant communities, in order to learn of their experiences and to coordinate actions. After making such efforts GSOB has joined forces with BMDC in order to coordinate the over-all May Day actions.
Taking a cue from the developing Occupy May Day movement, especially the broader and more inclusive messages coming out of Occupy Wall Street, GSOB has centered its slogans on the theme of “Occupy May First - A Day Without the 99%” in order to highlight the fact that in the capitalist system labor, of one kind or another, has created all the wealth but has not shared in the accumulated profits. Highlighting the increasing economic gap, political voiceless-ness, and social issues related to race, class, sexual inequality, gender and the myriad other oppressions the vast majority face under capitalist is in keeping with the efforts initiated by Occupy Boston last fall.
On May Day GSOB is calling on the 99% to strike, skip work, walk out of school, and refrain from shopping, banking and business in order to implement that general slogan. Working people are encouraged to request the day off, or to call in sick. Small businesses are encouraged to close for the day and join the rest of the 99% in the streets.
For students at all levels GSOB is calling for a walk-out of classes. Further for college students to occupy the universities. With a huge student population of over 250,000 in the Boston area no-one-size-fits- all strategy seems appropriate. Each kindergarten, elementary school, middle school, high school, college, graduate school and wayward think tank should plan its own strike actions and, at some point in the day, all meet at a central location in downtown Boston.
In the early hours on May 1st members of the 99% will converge on the Boston Financial District for a day of direct action to demand an end to corporate rule and a shift of power to the people. The Financial District Block Party will start at 7:00 AM on the corner of Federal Street & Franklin Street in downtown Boston. Banks and corporations are strongly encouraged to close down for the day.
At noon there will be a May Day rally at Boston City Hall Plaza jointly sponsored by BMDC and GSOB followed at approximately 2:00 PM by solidarity marches centered on the immigrant communities that will start in East Boston, Chelsea, and Revere and will culminate in Everett for a rally at 4:00 PM. Other activities that afternoon for those who chose not to go to East Boston will be scheduled in and around the downtown area.
That evening, for those who cannot for whatever reasons participate in the daytime actions, there will be a “Funeral March” for the banks forming at 7:00 PM at Copley Square that will march throughout the downtown area.
Whatever your own personal circumstances may be GSOB calls upon one and all to do one, or more, of the following- No work. No school. No chores. No shopping. No banking. Let’s show the 1% that we have the power. Let’s show the world what a day without the 99% really means. And let’s return to the old traditions of May Day as a day of international solidarity with our working and oppressed sisters and brothers around the world. GCOB urges -All Out For May Day 2012!
Check out GSOB on Facebook and the Facebook event page- http://www.facebook.com/#!/Occupy.May1.Boston
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Ancient dreams, dreamed-What Peter Paul Markin Learned in the Red Scare 1950s Night- Magical Realism 101
Nighttime fears, who knows when they started. Maybe when Peter Paul Markin first learned of, thought of, had self-experience of night. Not just any kind of night, city night, the night blaring with lamppost light, and shadow throws. Stranger misshapen phantom shadows, wolf-eaten fairy tale shadows, and real shadows that contained jack-rollers, or worst. Jack-roll shadows, real enough, if one was not careful, or was too young or too old. He had heard that it happened, happened right up on Captain’s Walk to some old lady who didn’t hold on to her handbag quickly enough. And off the shadowy thief went with his booty. He, the thief, according to her description a young he maybe one of those depraved juvenile delinquents that she had heard about and was all over the news at six with black hair, black eyes and black heart, white, of course, there were no blacks, browns, yellows, red, in chummy “projects” shadow night, that would come later. Sounded just like Peter’s older heathen older brother who had made off with her certified one carat fake gold watch and fifteen cent car-fare. So much for heroic brotherly exploits.
Red-flagged Stalin-named night fears, walking down shadowy back school lanes toward darken sailors’ granite-etched cemetery rest thinking about icy blank, snow-frozen bleak Vorkutas of the mind although he could not have fathomed, not in a million years, his own Stalin night fears. And pick-ax travails awaiting heroic resisters. Knowing even in red-splotched time that some stories told did not make sense or that wasn’t the whole story or maybe he got it confused with the brother jack-roller story and shrieked in the night that no, no way was he to blame and no way that he would not fight, fight the good fight to the end, wherever that end might lead.
Red bomb unnamed shelter blast fears, atomic blow-up fears none the less real for all of that. Get under the bed fears, or under the desk, down in the basement somewhere but mainly as victim and not as victor, once again being jack-rolled by some black-haired, black-eyed, black-hearted hustler who would not come out of the shadows, unnamed, damn unnamed, and unnamable, even worst. Conned fears into that good night and one best stay put and unnamed. And what happens, what the hell happens, when that little old lady now bereft of her sweet gold watch given by some old-time lover as a token, a sincere token of his favor, and who knows maybe her favors, and that black-haired, black-hearted devil, white of course, get into the same cave and start the human race over again. Once those fears start who knows where things lead.
Named, vaguely named, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg hated stalinite jews executed fears. All he knew. Peter Paul knew okay, was jews killed our catholic lord fears, close to the altar sign of the cross blessed fears the smell of incense still stuck in his nostrils from high mass, or was it low, burning incense and praying, praying that this one sacrifice would atone for the million year hurts brought by the vengeful night shadow. But just that minute, maybe less, a thought flashed, flashed so quickly that he almost missed thought, and he had stumbled into “what did they do anyway” fears, and why. And that why would haunt him through hard anti-semite nights, some liberations, and some knowledge that those atomic dreams that shadowed his nights were not named Julius and not named Ethel and sure as hell were not named jew, gold watch-wearing jew.
And once again as he walked down that shadowy back school lane (why, why in god’s name, did he court danger by leaving small-roomed house, the shelter-less house, bombs or the world to face the shadow night. Whole tomes could be written about that need later but now it remained a book sealed with seven seals). Against the cubed-glass glistening, flagless flag-pole rattling, dark asphalt-rutted pavement school yard night, Peter Paul, alone, and, and, alone with his fears and fears avoidance, clean, clear as he heads to stand alone in avoidance of old times sailors, tars, sailors’ homes AND deaths in barely readable fine- marked granite-grey lonely seaside graveyards looking out on ocean homelands and lost booty. Dead.
Red-flagged Stalin-named night fears, walking down shadowy back school lanes toward darken sailors’ granite-etched cemetery rest thinking about icy blank, snow-frozen bleak Vorkutas of the mind although he could not have fathomed, not in a million years, his own Stalin night fears. And pick-ax travails awaiting heroic resisters. Knowing even in red-splotched time that some stories told did not make sense or that wasn’t the whole story or maybe he got it confused with the brother jack-roller story and shrieked in the night that no, no way was he to blame and no way that he would not fight, fight the good fight to the end, wherever that end might lead.
Red bomb unnamed shelter blast fears, atomic blow-up fears none the less real for all of that. Get under the bed fears, or under the desk, down in the basement somewhere but mainly as victim and not as victor, once again being jack-rolled by some black-haired, black-eyed, black-hearted hustler who would not come out of the shadows, unnamed, damn unnamed, and unnamable, even worst. Conned fears into that good night and one best stay put and unnamed. And what happens, what the hell happens, when that little old lady now bereft of her sweet gold watch given by some old-time lover as a token, a sincere token of his favor, and who knows maybe her favors, and that black-haired, black-hearted devil, white of course, get into the same cave and start the human race over again. Once those fears start who knows where things lead.
Named, vaguely named, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg hated stalinite jews executed fears. All he knew. Peter Paul knew okay, was jews killed our catholic lord fears, close to the altar sign of the cross blessed fears the smell of incense still stuck in his nostrils from high mass, or was it low, burning incense and praying, praying that this one sacrifice would atone for the million year hurts brought by the vengeful night shadow. But just that minute, maybe less, a thought flashed, flashed so quickly that he almost missed thought, and he had stumbled into “what did they do anyway” fears, and why. And that why would haunt him through hard anti-semite nights, some liberations, and some knowledge that those atomic dreams that shadowed his nights were not named Julius and not named Ethel and sure as hell were not named jew, gold watch-wearing jew.
And once again as he walked down that shadowy back school lane (why, why in god’s name, did he court danger by leaving small-roomed house, the shelter-less house, bombs or the world to face the shadow night. Whole tomes could be written about that need later but now it remained a book sealed with seven seals). Against the cubed-glass glistening, flagless flag-pole rattling, dark asphalt-rutted pavement school yard night, Peter Paul, alone, and, and, alone with his fears and fears avoidance, clean, clear as he heads to stand alone in avoidance of old times sailors, tars, sailors’ homes AND deaths in barely readable fine- marked granite-grey lonely seaside graveyards looking out on ocean homelands and lost booty. Dead.
Out In The Be-Bop 1950s Hollywood Novel Night- Norman Mailer’s “The Deer Park”-A Review
Out In The Be-Bop 1950s Hollywood Novel Night- Norman Mailer’s “The Deer Park”-A Review
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Deer_Park
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for Norman Mailer’s The Deer Park.
Book Review
The Deer Park, Norman Mailer, Putnam, New York, 1955
At one time, like in the case of Ernest Hemingway, I tried to get my hands on everything that Norman Mailer wrote. In his prime he held out promise to match Brother Hemingway as the preeminent 20th century male American prose writer. Mailer certainly has the ambition, ego and skill to do so. In his inevitable search to write the great American novel, at least for his generation, I do not believe, however that he was successful. The Deer Park is an early attempt to tackle that task and while there are flashes of brilliance there is too much self-consciousness about making a great American novel on Mailer’s part and that gets reflected in the tinniness of his characters, male and female, to break away from a fairly ordinary look at a slice of the American pie, the Hollywood bright lights and back streets side.
Certainly the subject matter of the novel is an almost surefire way to get attention. Put Hollywood in exile in the desert, wayward movie stars, starlets and wannabes, and a male lead who is not sure what he wants to be but is sure that the stars shine for him somewhere and you have the makings of a great American novel. Throw in, almost obligatory for a ‘fifties’ novel and for a self-described leftist like Mailer , the tensions surrounding the ‘red scare’, Hollywood- style, and the cultural clamp down that shameful blacklist episode imposed and one should be onto something. But, strangely, Mailer gets bogged down in the sexual escapades of the main characters and never gets to the heart of the real question that the novel poses- How the hell does one safeguard his or her creative expression without selling out to every conceivable pressure that comes along. It did not work, but nice try Norman.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Deer_Park
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for Norman Mailer’s The Deer Park.
Book Review
The Deer Park, Norman Mailer, Putnam, New York, 1955
At one time, like in the case of Ernest Hemingway, I tried to get my hands on everything that Norman Mailer wrote. In his prime he held out promise to match Brother Hemingway as the preeminent 20th century male American prose writer. Mailer certainly has the ambition, ego and skill to do so. In his inevitable search to write the great American novel, at least for his generation, I do not believe, however that he was successful. The Deer Park is an early attempt to tackle that task and while there are flashes of brilliance there is too much self-consciousness about making a great American novel on Mailer’s part and that gets reflected in the tinniness of his characters, male and female, to break away from a fairly ordinary look at a slice of the American pie, the Hollywood bright lights and back streets side.
Certainly the subject matter of the novel is an almost surefire way to get attention. Put Hollywood in exile in the desert, wayward movie stars, starlets and wannabes, and a male lead who is not sure what he wants to be but is sure that the stars shine for him somewhere and you have the makings of a great American novel. Throw in, almost obligatory for a ‘fifties’ novel and for a self-described leftist like Mailer , the tensions surrounding the ‘red scare’, Hollywood- style, and the cultural clamp down that shameful blacklist episode imposed and one should be onto something. But, strangely, Mailer gets bogged down in the sexual escapades of the main characters and never gets to the heart of the real question that the novel poses- How the hell does one safeguard his or her creative expression without selling out to every conceivable pressure that comes along. It did not work, but nice try Norman.
Out In The Low-End Be-Bop 1950s Crime Noir Night- “The Killer That Stalked New York”- A Review
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia for the low-rent crime noir, The Killer Who Stalked New York.
DVD Review
The Killer Who Stalked New York, starring Evelyn Keynes, Charles Korvin, Columbia Pictures, 1950
I want my money back. And I want it now. Sure I know that this film had to have been the crumb-bum first feature, the B-film, on a Saturday afternoon double-feature but I still want my money back or at least the dough I spent on popcorn. I have reviewed many crime noir/film noir efforts in this space over the last couple of years but this one under review, The Killer Who Stalked New York, really hits the bottom. Poor acting overall, poor dialogue, poor plot line and, well, just poor. The only socially redeeming feature about this one is the black and white cinematography but that is hardly enough to float this one.
So what has my dander up? Well, for starters, just look at the movie title. Wouldn’t it make you think that some serious desperado was on the loose, some one of a half dozen 1950s bad guys who the likes of Robert Mitchum or Humphrey Bogart would have to set straight (or maybe somebody else has to straighten out). No the killer here is none other than a small pox epidemic, or threatened one anyway. Ya, I thought that would get your attention. There is a crime here but just a garden variety “hot jewels” scheme that would be a yawner on most days. But see one Sheila Bennet (played by Evelyn Keynes) is not only acting as a “mule” for some New York City low-life, her two-timing husband (played by Charles Korvin), but has contacted small pox down in pre-revolution Cuba. And it goes downhill from there
Naturally Sheila as a carrier is going to infect everybody that she comes in close contact with and so this one turns from a nickel and dime low-rent crime flick to a national (or at least big city) emergency thing with everybody getting vaccinated while the medical and police authorities are frantically hunting her down. But here is the coup de grace Sheila has been two-timed by her two-timing husband by her ever-loving younger sister so to add “spice” to this one and to drag it out for more than its five minutes of real energy she is the woman scorned who seeks “justice” by hunting down her hide-and-seek getaway husband (and thereby potentially spreading her disease all over the Big Apple). Hey, let’s call this a medical noir. And you can see now, see as clear as day, why I want my money back. At least my popcorn money and not in 1950 coin either.
DVD Review
The Killer Who Stalked New York, starring Evelyn Keynes, Charles Korvin, Columbia Pictures, 1950
I want my money back. And I want it now. Sure I know that this film had to have been the crumb-bum first feature, the B-film, on a Saturday afternoon double-feature but I still want my money back or at least the dough I spent on popcorn. I have reviewed many crime noir/film noir efforts in this space over the last couple of years but this one under review, The Killer Who Stalked New York, really hits the bottom. Poor acting overall, poor dialogue, poor plot line and, well, just poor. The only socially redeeming feature about this one is the black and white cinematography but that is hardly enough to float this one.
So what has my dander up? Well, for starters, just look at the movie title. Wouldn’t it make you think that some serious desperado was on the loose, some one of a half dozen 1950s bad guys who the likes of Robert Mitchum or Humphrey Bogart would have to set straight (or maybe somebody else has to straighten out). No the killer here is none other than a small pox epidemic, or threatened one anyway. Ya, I thought that would get your attention. There is a crime here but just a garden variety “hot jewels” scheme that would be a yawner on most days. But see one Sheila Bennet (played by Evelyn Keynes) is not only acting as a “mule” for some New York City low-life, her two-timing husband (played by Charles Korvin), but has contacted small pox down in pre-revolution Cuba. And it goes downhill from there
Naturally Sheila as a carrier is going to infect everybody that she comes in close contact with and so this one turns from a nickel and dime low-rent crime flick to a national (or at least big city) emergency thing with everybody getting vaccinated while the medical and police authorities are frantically hunting her down. But here is the coup de grace Sheila has been two-timed by her two-timing husband by her ever-loving younger sister so to add “spice” to this one and to drag it out for more than its five minutes of real energy she is the woman scorned who seeks “justice” by hunting down her hide-and-seek getaway husband (and thereby potentially spreading her disease all over the Big Apple). Hey, let’s call this a medical noir. And you can see now, see as clear as day, why I want my money back. At least my popcorn money and not in 1950 coin either.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Out In The 1960s Folk Revival Night- Sonny Terry And Brownie McGhee Hold Forth
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee doing, well justi doing what they do.
CD Review
The Best Of Sonny Terry And Brownie McGhee
One of the unanticipated results of the folk and blues revival of the early 1960’s was the re-discovery of many black blues, especially country blues, singers. John and Alan Lomax had recorded a number of them in the late 1930s and early 1940s and then they fell off of the map. The most famous ‘discovery’ of the early 1960’s was, of course, the reemergence of the legendary Mississippi John Hurt. On the fringes of that development came the new prominence of some working musicians who had previously fallen below the radar like the presently reviewed classic blues harmonica player Sonny Terry and driving guitar playing Brownie McGhee, one of the most productive duos of the period. This long time partnership developed and continued in spite of the fact that they had a fairly rocky personal relationship, especially toward the end of their careers. Well, stranger things have happened in the world of music.
In this compilation we get to see the range of musical talents that this pair had from the plaintive Let Me Be Your Big Dog through the pathetically sad Betty And Dupree’s Blues and a jaunty version of Freight Train. Along the way also listen to their version of Louise, Louise that has been recorded by many others including Mississippi Fred McDowell and Son House. There are also a couple of rousing songs like House Lady and The Devil’s Gonna Get You. And a couple that defy classification but will just make you feel good like I Got A Women. The total package is one that you will find yourself listening to much more than you would have thought.
CD Review
The Best Of Sonny Terry And Brownie McGhee
One of the unanticipated results of the folk and blues revival of the early 1960’s was the re-discovery of many black blues, especially country blues, singers. John and Alan Lomax had recorded a number of them in the late 1930s and early 1940s and then they fell off of the map. The most famous ‘discovery’ of the early 1960’s was, of course, the reemergence of the legendary Mississippi John Hurt. On the fringes of that development came the new prominence of some working musicians who had previously fallen below the radar like the presently reviewed classic blues harmonica player Sonny Terry and driving guitar playing Brownie McGhee, one of the most productive duos of the period. This long time partnership developed and continued in spite of the fact that they had a fairly rocky personal relationship, especially toward the end of their careers. Well, stranger things have happened in the world of music.
In this compilation we get to see the range of musical talents that this pair had from the plaintive Let Me Be Your Big Dog through the pathetically sad Betty And Dupree’s Blues and a jaunty version of Freight Train. Along the way also listen to their version of Louise, Louise that has been recorded by many others including Mississippi Fred McDowell and Son House. There are also a couple of rousing songs like House Lady and The Devil’s Gonna Get You. And a couple that defy classification but will just make you feel good like I Got A Women. The total package is one that you will find yourself listening to much more than you would have thought.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Ancient dreams, dreamed-What Peter Paul Markin Learned About His World Despite Himself- Magical Realism 101
A cloudless day, a cloudless Korean War day, talk of peace, merciless truce peace against some heathen communist red menace if not beaten exactly at least held at bay for now day. And blaring over some miniature black and white furry fuzzy television snow in the back room (what did he know of movie house-sized screens) Eisenhower, named, big chief go to Korea breakthrough this and that. Stern, straight-back, upright, remote grandfather Ike whom Peter Paul Markin would toast, milk toast and god bless, along with Big Brother on later noontime walk home to lunch-breaks television salutes. (No, not Orwellian 1984 Animal Farm Big Brother but gentle uncle or grandfatherly, not Ike grandfatherly, stern military but real gentle, Big Brother and maybe you could even talk to him about stuff and he wouldn’t laugh at you but maybe just put on a wry smile like he was realizing for the millionth time that kids say crazy stuff, real crazy, but harmless, stuff if you let them.) Stern too late military-industrial complex warning Ike whom Peter Paul Markin would come to later loathe for his being too late after the horse was let out of the barn, Ike loathe, when he too late himself realized that he was madly for adlai in that great Los Angeles mad rush summer sweat night a few years ahead.
But that mad rush story, and the loathing part too, is for another time and frankly is not a story that fits in with a kid, even a Peter Paul Markin ambient kid, just starting out in school notching up his first infinite school year finish and who this moment is trying to draw, yes, draw some conclusions out of what had just happened from bright dewy day September to moist and sweaty June rollout. He feeling, feeling then somewhere between “knowing it all” (christ, having that superior feeling based on a few letters, a few words, a couple of short stories read, a few numbers put together in different combinations, being able to tell time and tying his shoes, well kind of tying his shoes. This lad is headed for big falls, big falls indeed) and it, school, not being “all that big a deal” like his brother Prescott said. He, let down that a lot things that were supposed to be hurdles, high hurdles too, he just glided over (after learning some tie shoe tricks from Mike Mitchell who would later fall defending his country in some Mekong Delta swamp and no grandmother consolations against that childhood lost there, ever). It was to be the other stuff; the Rasputin evil blue eyes frantic romantic big fish in a small pond stuff that would unravel him in the end. That too, that saga of unraveling, is for another day.
Grandmother peace talk was in the sweltering air too, later to be learned that it was the only kind that mattered, over brooding sores and sons. The kind of peace being talked over many tables in working-class South Boston of distance cousins beaten up bad in some Inchon snow, North Adamsville uncles now coming home safe and sound, Steubenville, Ohio, unknowns but brothers, lost brothers, later to be seen on memorial stones overlooking harbors and Castle Island retreats. Blessed ocean view to wash away salty grandmother tears.
Somebody’s grandmother and some gold star mother too just look out the window across any street you will see them displayed in South Boston, North Adamsville, Steubenville still in Ohio and Muncie too, Indiana though. Maybe not so many such stars in Back Bay, Wellesley, and Grosse Point but how was he to know that then. He only heard grandmother talk, grandmother peace talk and sons and uncles home soon safe and sound. That is the peace talk that counts about uncles coming home safe and sound, thank god, in the grandmother sweet cakes smelling air. And not even the Fourth of July yet.
But back to figuring, back to hot, hot, hot end of June day not yet the Fourth of July with sweets, tonics (sodas now) , and ice creams to match those sweet cake smells, figuring out about why Miss Winot (whose name forever after he always spelled “why not” just like she pronounced it for the whole class that very first misty crying day of school when he wasn’t sure that he wanted to stay but he was sure he didn’t want to seem like a baby and run home to Ma like Billy Badger did. ( Billy a kid destined for fifteen minutes of fame, although not the kind that he craved, a seamless death and international notoriety in some back alley Mexican dusty street two pounds, or was it kilos, in his satchel trying, trying unsuccessfully to make that big score he always talked about making and winding up face down for his efforts.)
As Peter Paul placed a blanket, a mother-mandated scratch throwaway blanket so he would not soil his freshly-washed white shorts, only once worn, on grandmother’s sacred parcel one inch by one inch lawn, freshly mown, he thought of the fellowship fields. The welcome young fields that he would play in after the Fourth Of July dust settled down, with his new found clot of friends, all boys of course although being from a boy full family he wondered, wondered about girls, and being scared of them and maybe lifetime not understanding them when they squealed over every little thing. But he didn’t think much about it one way or the other, just a fly buzzing overhead annoyance kind of think.
Yes, Peter Paul laying face up on freshly mown grass near fellowship carved-out fields, fields for slides and swings, diamonded baseball, no, friendlier softball fields, the houses are too close together and to the field in case of oddball batted flies, of gimps, glues, copper-plated portraits, of sweet shaded elms, and one thousand other scenes realized that starting now he too, that nose-flattened against some frozen-paned front window brother of years gone by, had been to foreign places in the time of his time. And ahead some push, some unconsecrated, menaced push, to find his own place in the sun. But fret wondering, constantly wondering, what means this, what means that, and why all the changes, slow changes, fast changes, blip changes, but changes flashing by his head.
But that mad rush story, and the loathing part too, is for another time and frankly is not a story that fits in with a kid, even a Peter Paul Markin ambient kid, just starting out in school notching up his first infinite school year finish and who this moment is trying to draw, yes, draw some conclusions out of what had just happened from bright dewy day September to moist and sweaty June rollout. He feeling, feeling then somewhere between “knowing it all” (christ, having that superior feeling based on a few letters, a few words, a couple of short stories read, a few numbers put together in different combinations, being able to tell time and tying his shoes, well kind of tying his shoes. This lad is headed for big falls, big falls indeed) and it, school, not being “all that big a deal” like his brother Prescott said. He, let down that a lot things that were supposed to be hurdles, high hurdles too, he just glided over (after learning some tie shoe tricks from Mike Mitchell who would later fall defending his country in some Mekong Delta swamp and no grandmother consolations against that childhood lost there, ever). It was to be the other stuff; the Rasputin evil blue eyes frantic romantic big fish in a small pond stuff that would unravel him in the end. That too, that saga of unraveling, is for another day.
Grandmother peace talk was in the sweltering air too, later to be learned that it was the only kind that mattered, over brooding sores and sons. The kind of peace being talked over many tables in working-class South Boston of distance cousins beaten up bad in some Inchon snow, North Adamsville uncles now coming home safe and sound, Steubenville, Ohio, unknowns but brothers, lost brothers, later to be seen on memorial stones overlooking harbors and Castle Island retreats. Blessed ocean view to wash away salty grandmother tears.
Somebody’s grandmother and some gold star mother too just look out the window across any street you will see them displayed in South Boston, North Adamsville, Steubenville still in Ohio and Muncie too, Indiana though. Maybe not so many such stars in Back Bay, Wellesley, and Grosse Point but how was he to know that then. He only heard grandmother talk, grandmother peace talk and sons and uncles home soon safe and sound. That is the peace talk that counts about uncles coming home safe and sound, thank god, in the grandmother sweet cakes smelling air. And not even the Fourth of July yet.
But back to figuring, back to hot, hot, hot end of June day not yet the Fourth of July with sweets, tonics (sodas now) , and ice creams to match those sweet cake smells, figuring out about why Miss Winot (whose name forever after he always spelled “why not” just like she pronounced it for the whole class that very first misty crying day of school when he wasn’t sure that he wanted to stay but he was sure he didn’t want to seem like a baby and run home to Ma like Billy Badger did. ( Billy a kid destined for fifteen minutes of fame, although not the kind that he craved, a seamless death and international notoriety in some back alley Mexican dusty street two pounds, or was it kilos, in his satchel trying, trying unsuccessfully to make that big score he always talked about making and winding up face down for his efforts.)
As Peter Paul placed a blanket, a mother-mandated scratch throwaway blanket so he would not soil his freshly-washed white shorts, only once worn, on grandmother’s sacred parcel one inch by one inch lawn, freshly mown, he thought of the fellowship fields. The welcome young fields that he would play in after the Fourth Of July dust settled down, with his new found clot of friends, all boys of course although being from a boy full family he wondered, wondered about girls, and being scared of them and maybe lifetime not understanding them when they squealed over every little thing. But he didn’t think much about it one way or the other, just a fly buzzing overhead annoyance kind of think.
Yes, Peter Paul laying face up on freshly mown grass near fellowship carved-out fields, fields for slides and swings, diamonded baseball, no, friendlier softball fields, the houses are too close together and to the field in case of oddball batted flies, of gimps, glues, copper-plated portraits, of sweet shaded elms, and one thousand other scenes realized that starting now he too, that nose-flattened against some frozen-paned front window brother of years gone by, had been to foreign places in the time of his time. And ahead some push, some unconsecrated, menaced push, to find his own place in the sun. But fret wondering, constantly wondering, what means this, what means that, and why all the changes, slow changes, fast changes, blip changes, but changes flashing by his head.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Out In The Rebel Night- Rebels In The Time of Early Capitalism- E.J. Hobsbawn’s “Primitive Rebels”
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for social bandits a term used extensively in Primitive Rebels.
BOOK REVIEW
PRIMITIVE REBELS, E. J. HOBSBAWN, W.W. NORTON AND CO., NEW YORK, 1959
The recently deceased British historian E.J. Hobsbawn, notwithstanding his unrepentant Stalinism to the end, wrote many interesting historical studies in his very long career. The book under review, Primitive Rebels, was an early effort to trace the sociological roots of rebellion in the period of the rise of capitalism. We all know that the development of the capitalist mode of production as it started in Europe was both a long and an uneven process. The way various sections of the poor in European society, mainly rural and small town workers, responded and adjusted to its demands is the core of this study. Not all resistance movements of the time led naturally to the three great political movements that defined the plebian respond to early capitalism-socialism, communism and anarchism- but those are the ones that drew masses of people around their programs and this is the focus of this work.
Professor Hobsbawn divided his study into two basic parts. The agrarian response, particularly in heavily agrarian Southern Europe, and the urban response, particularly in the small towns of Northern Europe, where much of capitalist development gained a huge foothold. Although there are some similarities in the response of both components local conditions such as tradition, geography and custom played a key role in whether the response became an organized one or faded in the capitalist onslaught. To that end he touches upon the history of social banditry and millennialism in the agrarian milieu and the strong pull of anarchism especially in Spain on the other. His case study on peasant anarchism in the period of the Spanish Civil War is worth the attention of Marxists in order to buttress their case for why that political response (or, better, non-political response) was totally inadequate in the face of the necessity of taking state power in order to defeat Franco (the war and then revolution argument).
The strongest part of the book is in his study of the urban plebeians, their rituals and their revolutionary organizations. Here the theories and practice of the great 19th century revolutionary Louis Blanqui and his followers draw Hobsbawn’s interest. Even stronger is his study of the relationship between religion, mainly of the non-conforming sort, and the development of the organized labor movement in Britain. This goes a long way to explaining why the British labor movement was stalled, and still is stalled, in its tracks. In the end, however, the great lesson to be drawn from this work concerns today. I would ask where are the pockets of resistance to late capitalism comparable to those that emerged under early capitalism and how will they response to the effects of “globalization” of the capitalist mode of production. We await our chronicler of that subject.
BOOK REVIEW
PRIMITIVE REBELS, E. J. HOBSBAWN, W.W. NORTON AND CO., NEW YORK, 1959
The recently deceased British historian E.J. Hobsbawn, notwithstanding his unrepentant Stalinism to the end, wrote many interesting historical studies in his very long career. The book under review, Primitive Rebels, was an early effort to trace the sociological roots of rebellion in the period of the rise of capitalism. We all know that the development of the capitalist mode of production as it started in Europe was both a long and an uneven process. The way various sections of the poor in European society, mainly rural and small town workers, responded and adjusted to its demands is the core of this study. Not all resistance movements of the time led naturally to the three great political movements that defined the plebian respond to early capitalism-socialism, communism and anarchism- but those are the ones that drew masses of people around their programs and this is the focus of this work.
Professor Hobsbawn divided his study into two basic parts. The agrarian response, particularly in heavily agrarian Southern Europe, and the urban response, particularly in the small towns of Northern Europe, where much of capitalist development gained a huge foothold. Although there are some similarities in the response of both components local conditions such as tradition, geography and custom played a key role in whether the response became an organized one or faded in the capitalist onslaught. To that end he touches upon the history of social banditry and millennialism in the agrarian milieu and the strong pull of anarchism especially in Spain on the other. His case study on peasant anarchism in the period of the Spanish Civil War is worth the attention of Marxists in order to buttress their case for why that political response (or, better, non-political response) was totally inadequate in the face of the necessity of taking state power in order to defeat Franco (the war and then revolution argument).
The strongest part of the book is in his study of the urban plebeians, their rituals and their revolutionary organizations. Here the theories and practice of the great 19th century revolutionary Louis Blanqui and his followers draw Hobsbawn’s interest. Even stronger is his study of the relationship between religion, mainly of the non-conforming sort, and the development of the organized labor movement in Britain. This goes a long way to explaining why the British labor movement was stalled, and still is stalled, in its tracks. In the end, however, the great lesson to be drawn from this work concerns today. I would ask where are the pockets of resistance to late capitalism comparable to those that emerged under early capitalism and how will they response to the effects of “globalization” of the capitalist mode of production. We await our chronicler of that subject.
Out On The Be-Bop 1950s Night- Norman Mailer’s “Marilyn”
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for American novelist Norman Mailer.
Book Review
Marliyn, Norman Mailer
I had recently been re-reading Norman Mailer’s Marilyn- his take on the life of the legendary screen star Marilyn Monroe at a time when I had just viewed the American Masters (PBS) documentary on the musical career of the singer/songwriter Joni Mitchell. And although there is no obvious connection between the lives or the talents of the two women there is a tale of two generations hidden here. Marilyn represented for my parent’s generation, the generation that survived the Great Depression (1930s-style) and fought and bled through World War II the epitome of blond glamour, sex and talent. To my more ‘sedate’ generation long straight-haired blond Joni represented the introspective, searching quiet beauty that we sought to represent our longings for understanding of this easily misunderstood world. As this book and the Joni Mitchell documentary point out however they ‘represented’ our different male fantasy perspectives they also shared a common vulnerability attempting to be independent women. Such is the life of the great creative talents.
Mailer traces Monroe rise from poverty, the early struggle to find herself a niche in acting circles, through to the rocky and sometimes sleazy road (the inevitable casting couch) to stardom. As always with Mailer one gets his take on what the symbol of Marilyn meant to my parent’s generation, and let us face it especially for men. His portrayal does not evoke his preferred hipster, beat personality but its counterpoint in the 1950’s the heyday of Marilyn’s fame. Mailer also goes through Marilyn various affairs with men particularly the doomed marriage to the playwright Arthur Miller. Finally he gives some very interesting details on the behind the scenes drama in the creation of many of her well-known films. Marilyn while she was alive never drew my eye for the reasons that Joni Mitchell did. But much later, having seen the classic The Misfits in a film revival theater I will say just one thing about her looks and performance in that film. Wow. The marriage to Miller may have not worked out but she did right by him and herself with that performance. Yes, indeed.
Book Review
Marliyn, Norman Mailer
I had recently been re-reading Norman Mailer’s Marilyn- his take on the life of the legendary screen star Marilyn Monroe at a time when I had just viewed the American Masters (PBS) documentary on the musical career of the singer/songwriter Joni Mitchell. And although there is no obvious connection between the lives or the talents of the two women there is a tale of two generations hidden here. Marilyn represented for my parent’s generation, the generation that survived the Great Depression (1930s-style) and fought and bled through World War II the epitome of blond glamour, sex and talent. To my more ‘sedate’ generation long straight-haired blond Joni represented the introspective, searching quiet beauty that we sought to represent our longings for understanding of this easily misunderstood world. As this book and the Joni Mitchell documentary point out however they ‘represented’ our different male fantasy perspectives they also shared a common vulnerability attempting to be independent women. Such is the life of the great creative talents.
Mailer traces Monroe rise from poverty, the early struggle to find herself a niche in acting circles, through to the rocky and sometimes sleazy road (the inevitable casting couch) to stardom. As always with Mailer one gets his take on what the symbol of Marilyn meant to my parent’s generation, and let us face it especially for men. His portrayal does not evoke his preferred hipster, beat personality but its counterpoint in the 1950’s the heyday of Marilyn’s fame. Mailer also goes through Marilyn various affairs with men particularly the doomed marriage to the playwright Arthur Miller. Finally he gives some very interesting details on the behind the scenes drama in the creation of many of her well-known films. Marilyn while she was alive never drew my eye for the reasons that Joni Mitchell did. But much later, having seen the classic The Misfits in a film revival theater I will say just one thing about her looks and performance in that film. Wow. The marriage to Miller may have not worked out but she did right by him and herself with that performance. Yes, indeed.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Ancient dreams, dreamed-What Peter Paul Markin Learned About His World- Magical Realism 101
A young, very young not ready for school young, tow-headed boy, Peter Paul Markin by name, fiery blue, ocean-spooned blue eyes, bulging out of his small head (later in frantic romantic times they would be called bedroom come hither eyes or, in bad times, also frantic romantic, Rasputin-like evil eyes or some such thing but just then they were just fiery innocent blue eyes) watched the still accumulating snow falling out the front window. His nose, childhood cold sniffling red nose, flattened against all caution on the frozen front window pane watching the snow fall as he wondered, and wondered. Cursed wondered. Although he did not know it then or if he did he could not name it except as gnaw, lifetime curse wondered what everything is this blessed universe was about and why, why to distraction, why. Maybe it was something sunken deep in those homeland ocean blue eyes, but there he was wondering.
Wondering, young as he was, why he was cooped up, and bundled up, quilt covering him (funny word he thought, all q-starting words were funny then except when he had to utter them which he had the devil’s own time doing and was constantly getting laughed at, laughed at by brothers and playmates, even Ma, jesus even Ma, to establish wonder hurts and maybe a clue to those Rasputin evil eyes). And under the quilt a blanket and under the blanket a sweater to cut down on precious heating expenses as he sat in front of that frozen front window in that cold-water flat down in the Adamsville Housing Authority apartment complex. (The “projects” that even as young as he was, too young for school young, understood and called the place and understood, and was made to understand, constantly understand, by a fuming maternal grandmother across town that it was no place for Mayfair swells, if he had known who or what those people were then.)
And wondering why, when it came right down to it, the projects or not, that he had to share a small crowded room with his brothers who shunned him over into some scarecrow corner and made him “like” it, or threatened to. And why his mother and father were always bickering (or what he thought was bickering because they sure were not happy when they were talking about not having enough money for this or that, especially for kids’ treat stuff like going to the Paragon Amusement Park up in Olde Saco like they did last summer).
But this day, this snowing January day, right after the New Year and just after one of his older brothers, Prescott, had returned to school, the first grade, over at Adamsville South Elementary School at the close of Christmas vacation he was wondering most about what it would be like when he is chance to go to school. There was no hint of the madnesses or crazes that he would later have cause to wonder about once he actually got there it was just wonder. Just brother kinship, brother gone loneliness, about it wondering. And about the great big world of books, and crayons, and pastes, and drawing, and learning letters (although he knew a few already) and singing songs and well, everything that Prescott told him about, with an air of “know it all” but also an air of “it is not all that it is cracked up to be.”
See what Peter Paul was wondering about really was not so much about what Prescott had to say when he came home from school each day and he peppered him with questions about what he did, or didn’t do, or about being a “know it all” or even about the shortcomings of knowing it all but when he would, counting the days in his head, be able to see for himself what it was all about and then be able to wonder some different wonder. Maybe some of that sing-song wonder or book wonder that he had heard so much about.
Oh maybe there was just a little hint of madness after all, or of crazes beyond that sadness, brother kinship sadness, sadness and not understanding of time marching as he, that older brother, had gone off to foreign places, foreign elementary school reading, ‘riting, ‘rithmetic places and, he, the nose flattened against the window brother, was left to ponder his own place in those kind of places, those foreign-sounding places, when his time came. If he has a time, had the time for the time of his time, in that red scare (but what knows he of red scares only brother scares), cold war, cold nose, dust particles in the clogging air 1950s night.
Wondering, young as he was, why he was cooped up, and bundled up, quilt covering him (funny word he thought, all q-starting words were funny then except when he had to utter them which he had the devil’s own time doing and was constantly getting laughed at, laughed at by brothers and playmates, even Ma, jesus even Ma, to establish wonder hurts and maybe a clue to those Rasputin evil eyes). And under the quilt a blanket and under the blanket a sweater to cut down on precious heating expenses as he sat in front of that frozen front window in that cold-water flat down in the Adamsville Housing Authority apartment complex. (The “projects” that even as young as he was, too young for school young, understood and called the place and understood, and was made to understand, constantly understand, by a fuming maternal grandmother across town that it was no place for Mayfair swells, if he had known who or what those people were then.)
And wondering why, when it came right down to it, the projects or not, that he had to share a small crowded room with his brothers who shunned him over into some scarecrow corner and made him “like” it, or threatened to. And why his mother and father were always bickering (or what he thought was bickering because they sure were not happy when they were talking about not having enough money for this or that, especially for kids’ treat stuff like going to the Paragon Amusement Park up in Olde Saco like they did last summer).
But this day, this snowing January day, right after the New Year and just after one of his older brothers, Prescott, had returned to school, the first grade, over at Adamsville South Elementary School at the close of Christmas vacation he was wondering most about what it would be like when he is chance to go to school. There was no hint of the madnesses or crazes that he would later have cause to wonder about once he actually got there it was just wonder. Just brother kinship, brother gone loneliness, about it wondering. And about the great big world of books, and crayons, and pastes, and drawing, and learning letters (although he knew a few already) and singing songs and well, everything that Prescott told him about, with an air of “know it all” but also an air of “it is not all that it is cracked up to be.”
See what Peter Paul was wondering about really was not so much about what Prescott had to say when he came home from school each day and he peppered him with questions about what he did, or didn’t do, or about being a “know it all” or even about the shortcomings of knowing it all but when he would, counting the days in his head, be able to see for himself what it was all about and then be able to wonder some different wonder. Maybe some of that sing-song wonder or book wonder that he had heard so much about.
Oh maybe there was just a little hint of madness after all, or of crazes beyond that sadness, brother kinship sadness, sadness and not understanding of time marching as he, that older brother, had gone off to foreign places, foreign elementary school reading, ‘riting, ‘rithmetic places and, he, the nose flattened against the window brother, was left to ponder his own place in those kind of places, those foreign-sounding places, when his time came. If he has a time, had the time for the time of his time, in that red scare (but what knows he of red scares only brother scares), cold war, cold nose, dust particles in the clogging air 1950s night.
Out In The 1950s Technicolor Crime Noir Night- Van Heflin’s “Black Widow”-A Review
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the 1950s film noir Black Widow
DVD Review
Black Widow, starring Gene Tierney, Van Heflin, Ginger Rodgers, George Raft, 1954
No question the draw of crime noir for this reviewer is the great black and white photography and the shadowy effects that medium has on heightening the drama of a film, especially films set in big grimy, hard-boiled cities like New York where the seamy side is hard to draw in unless you use such technique. And in the end that is what kind of does in this Technicolor film under review, Black Widow. Many of the actors, Gene Tierney, Van Heflin and George Raft in particular, cut their teeth on noir but here much of that skill goes to waste along with some soapy and indifferent dialogue that is calculated to make true aficionados of the genre weep.
That said, the plot line here and the mis-directions away from the real killer are actually not too bad. Writer Van Heflin unwittingly takes a budding Podunk girl, a budding Podunk writer gal, just freshly arrived in the big city under his wing. She is no fading violet though when it comes to moving her own career along. Unfortunately she has an affair and becomes, oh no, pregnant with an older man, an older married man whose actor wife (played by Ginger Rodgers) is, well, to be kind a bitch on wheels. Especially to those who try to take her “kept” husband away. Needless to say old Brother Heflin has to move heaven and earth to get out from under the “frame” someone has gone to great lengths to place around his poor writers head. Including sowing doubts in the head of his actor wife (played in kind of a syrupy way by Gene Tierney. She is no Laura here.). The plot line however cannot make up for that 1950s “color” that makes this one a wash.
DVD Review
Black Widow, starring Gene Tierney, Van Heflin, Ginger Rodgers, George Raft, 1954
No question the draw of crime noir for this reviewer is the great black and white photography and the shadowy effects that medium has on heightening the drama of a film, especially films set in big grimy, hard-boiled cities like New York where the seamy side is hard to draw in unless you use such technique. And in the end that is what kind of does in this Technicolor film under review, Black Widow. Many of the actors, Gene Tierney, Van Heflin and George Raft in particular, cut their teeth on noir but here much of that skill goes to waste along with some soapy and indifferent dialogue that is calculated to make true aficionados of the genre weep.
That said, the plot line here and the mis-directions away from the real killer are actually not too bad. Writer Van Heflin unwittingly takes a budding Podunk girl, a budding Podunk writer gal, just freshly arrived in the big city under his wing. She is no fading violet though when it comes to moving her own career along. Unfortunately she has an affair and becomes, oh no, pregnant with an older man, an older married man whose actor wife (played by Ginger Rodgers) is, well, to be kind a bitch on wheels. Especially to those who try to take her “kept” husband away. Needless to say old Brother Heflin has to move heaven and earth to get out from under the “frame” someone has gone to great lengths to place around his poor writers head. Including sowing doubts in the head of his actor wife (played in kind of a syrupy way by Gene Tierney. She is no Laura here.). The plot line however cannot make up for that 1950s “color” that makes this one a wash.
Monday, March 19, 2012
On Coming Of Political Age In The Age Of The Generation Of ‘68 - Norman Mailer’s The Presidential Papers
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for th elate American author Norman Mailer.
COMMENTARY/BOOK REVIEW
THE PRESIDENTIAL PAPERS, NORMAN MAILER, VIKING, 1963
At one time, as with Ernest Hemingway, I tried to get my hands on everything that Norman Mailer wrote. In his prime he held out promise to match Ernest as the preeminent male American prose writer. Mailer certainly has the ambition, ego and skill to do so. Although he wrote several good novels in his time I believe that his journalistic work, as he himself might have partially admitted, especially his political, social and philosophical musings are what will insure his place in the literary pantheon. With that in mind I was recently re-reading his work on the 1960 political campaign-the one that pitted John F. Kennedy against Richard M. Nixon- that is the center of the book under review. There are other essays in this work, some of merely passing topical value and interest, but what remains of interest today is a very perceptive analysis of the forces at work in that pivotal election. Theodore White won his spurs breaking down the mechanics of the campaign and made a niche for himself with The Making of a President, 1960. Mailer in a few pithy articles gave the overview of the personalities and the stakes involved for the America of that time.
Needless to say the Kennedy victory of that year has interest today mainly for the forces that it unleashed in the base of society, especially but not exclusively among the youth. His rather conventional bourgeois Cold War foreign and domestic politics never transcended those of the New Deal but his style, his youth and his élan seemingly gave the go ahead to all sorts of projects to order in order to ‘‘seek a newer world”. And we took him up on this. This writer counted himself among those youth who saw the potential to change the world. We also knew that if the main villain of the age , one Richard Milhous Nixon, had been successful in 1960 as he graphically demonstrated when he later became president we would not be seeing any new world but the same old, same old.
I had been haphazardly interested in politics from an early age. Names like the Rosenbergs, Joseph McCarthy, Khrushchev and the like were familiar if not fully understood. It was the 1960 presidential campaign that brought me to political age. Mailer addresses the malaise of American political life during the stodgy Eisenhower years that created the opening for change-and Kennedy and his superb organization rushed in. These chances, as a cursory perusal of the last 40 odd years of bourgeois presidential politics makes painfully clear, do not come often. The funny thing is that during all of 1960 I was actually “Madly for Adlai,” that is I preferred Adlai Stevenson, the twice defeated previous Democratic candidate, but when the deal went down at the advanced age of 14 I walked door to door talking up Kennedy. Of course, in Massachusetts that was not a big deal but I still recall today that I had a very strong sense I did not want to be left out of the new age aborning. That, my friends, in a small way is the start of that slippery road to the lesser evilism that dominates American politics and that took me a fairly long time to break with.
Mailer has some very cutting, but true, remarks about the kind of people who populate the political milieu down at the base of bourgeois politics, those who make it to the political conventions. Except that today they are better dressed and more media savvy nothing has changed. Why? Bourgeois politics, not being based on any fidelity to program except as a throwaway, is all about winning (and keeping on winning). This does not bring out the better angels of our nature. For those old enough to remember that little spark of youth that urged us on to seek that newer world and for those too young to have acquired knowledge of anything but the myth Mailer’s little book makes for interesting and well-written reading.
COMMENTARY/BOOK REVIEW
THE PRESIDENTIAL PAPERS, NORMAN MAILER, VIKING, 1963
At one time, as with Ernest Hemingway, I tried to get my hands on everything that Norman Mailer wrote. In his prime he held out promise to match Ernest as the preeminent male American prose writer. Mailer certainly has the ambition, ego and skill to do so. Although he wrote several good novels in his time I believe that his journalistic work, as he himself might have partially admitted, especially his political, social and philosophical musings are what will insure his place in the literary pantheon. With that in mind I was recently re-reading his work on the 1960 political campaign-the one that pitted John F. Kennedy against Richard M. Nixon- that is the center of the book under review. There are other essays in this work, some of merely passing topical value and interest, but what remains of interest today is a very perceptive analysis of the forces at work in that pivotal election. Theodore White won his spurs breaking down the mechanics of the campaign and made a niche for himself with The Making of a President, 1960. Mailer in a few pithy articles gave the overview of the personalities and the stakes involved for the America of that time.
Needless to say the Kennedy victory of that year has interest today mainly for the forces that it unleashed in the base of society, especially but not exclusively among the youth. His rather conventional bourgeois Cold War foreign and domestic politics never transcended those of the New Deal but his style, his youth and his élan seemingly gave the go ahead to all sorts of projects to order in order to ‘‘seek a newer world”. And we took him up on this. This writer counted himself among those youth who saw the potential to change the world. We also knew that if the main villain of the age , one Richard Milhous Nixon, had been successful in 1960 as he graphically demonstrated when he later became president we would not be seeing any new world but the same old, same old.
I had been haphazardly interested in politics from an early age. Names like the Rosenbergs, Joseph McCarthy, Khrushchev and the like were familiar if not fully understood. It was the 1960 presidential campaign that brought me to political age. Mailer addresses the malaise of American political life during the stodgy Eisenhower years that created the opening for change-and Kennedy and his superb organization rushed in. These chances, as a cursory perusal of the last 40 odd years of bourgeois presidential politics makes painfully clear, do not come often. The funny thing is that during all of 1960 I was actually “Madly for Adlai,” that is I preferred Adlai Stevenson, the twice defeated previous Democratic candidate, but when the deal went down at the advanced age of 14 I walked door to door talking up Kennedy. Of course, in Massachusetts that was not a big deal but I still recall today that I had a very strong sense I did not want to be left out of the new age aborning. That, my friends, in a small way is the start of that slippery road to the lesser evilism that dominates American politics and that took me a fairly long time to break with.
Mailer has some very cutting, but true, remarks about the kind of people who populate the political milieu down at the base of bourgeois politics, those who make it to the political conventions. Except that today they are better dressed and more media savvy nothing has changed. Why? Bourgeois politics, not being based on any fidelity to program except as a throwaway, is all about winning (and keeping on winning). This does not bring out the better angels of our nature. For those old enough to remember that little spark of youth that urged us on to seek that newer world and for those too young to have acquired knowledge of anything but the myth Mailer’s little book makes for interesting and well-written reading.
Writer’s Corner- William Kennedy’s “Ironweed”- Tales Of The Albany Irish Diaspora
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for part of William Kennedy’s Albany saga, Ironweed.
Book Review
Ironweed, William Kennedy, The Viking Press, New York, 1983
The paragraphs below were used to review the book that this film is based on. Since the film very closely follows the story line of the book the comments there can, for the most part, stand here. I would only add that Jack Nicholson’s role as ex- baseball player, hard guy, and hobo “alkie” Fran is probably more understated that the book character (and more understated for him, given some of his more in-your-face roles like in The Shining or Five Easy Pieces). Meryl Streep, well is Merlyn Streep, and plays the role of Helen, Fran’s street companion/lover, to a tee (although she might be a tad bit more beautiful that your average woman rummy). The surprise treat is the secondary role played by raspy singer-songwriter Tom Waits as Fran’s sidekick, Rudy. On reflection though, for those, like me, who know Waits’ later musical, work his role should not be surprised. Who else lately could fill that kind of ‘lost soul’ hobo role so naturally?
William Kennedy is, at least in his Albany stories, my kind of writer. He writes about the trials and tribulations of the Irish diaspora as it penetrated the rough and tumble of American urban WASP-run society, for good or evil. I know those people, their follies and frauds, like the back of my hand. Check. Kennedy writes, as here, about that pervasive hold that Catholicism has even on its most debased sons and daughters, saint and sinner alike. I know those characteristics all too well. Check. He writes about that place in class society where the working class meets the lumpen-proletariat-the thieves, grifters, drifters and con men- the human dust. I know that place well, much better than I would ever let on. Check. He writes about the sorrows and dangers of the effects alcohol on working class families. I know that place too. Check. And so on. Oh, did I mention that he also, at some point, was an editor of some sort associated with the late Hunter S. Thompson down in Puerto Rico. I know that mad man’s work well. Check
The above, in a tangential way, gets you pretty much all you need to know about the why of reading this book (and other stories by Kennedy), except a little something about the plot line. Well, that is fairly simple. Old time baseball star Fran and his erstwhile companion, a gifted singer, Helen are drunks working their way through the edges between skid row and respectability. And, mainly, losing to the lure of the bottle and to the hard, hard struggle that it takes just to get through the day when your options are limited. Put that task together with trying to survive in the jungles, with its endless twisted characters, of Great Depression (that other one in the 1930s) Albany, trying to figure out when life went wrong and trying to figure out why it all went wrong- while fighting a losing battle against society’s expectations- and one’s family’s. This will provide enough dramatic tension to keep you interested. Oh did I mention that Kennedy writes with verve, with an uncanny understanding of his characters (although only Fran and Helen get the full treatment here) and with no holds barred, or punches pulled down there on cheap street. See, that is why Kennedy and Thompson connected in the literary world. They KNOW the underside of life. Read this thing, please.
Book Review
Ironweed, William Kennedy, The Viking Press, New York, 1983
The paragraphs below were used to review the book that this film is based on. Since the film very closely follows the story line of the book the comments there can, for the most part, stand here. I would only add that Jack Nicholson’s role as ex- baseball player, hard guy, and hobo “alkie” Fran is probably more understated that the book character (and more understated for him, given some of his more in-your-face roles like in The Shining or Five Easy Pieces). Meryl Streep, well is Merlyn Streep, and plays the role of Helen, Fran’s street companion/lover, to a tee (although she might be a tad bit more beautiful that your average woman rummy). The surprise treat is the secondary role played by raspy singer-songwriter Tom Waits as Fran’s sidekick, Rudy. On reflection though, for those, like me, who know Waits’ later musical, work his role should not be surprised. Who else lately could fill that kind of ‘lost soul’ hobo role so naturally?
William Kennedy is, at least in his Albany stories, my kind of writer. He writes about the trials and tribulations of the Irish diaspora as it penetrated the rough and tumble of American urban WASP-run society, for good or evil. I know those people, their follies and frauds, like the back of my hand. Check. Kennedy writes, as here, about that pervasive hold that Catholicism has even on its most debased sons and daughters, saint and sinner alike. I know those characteristics all too well. Check. He writes about that place in class society where the working class meets the lumpen-proletariat-the thieves, grifters, drifters and con men- the human dust. I know that place well, much better than I would ever let on. Check. He writes about the sorrows and dangers of the effects alcohol on working class families. I know that place too. Check. And so on. Oh, did I mention that he also, at some point, was an editor of some sort associated with the late Hunter S. Thompson down in Puerto Rico. I know that mad man’s work well. Check
The above, in a tangential way, gets you pretty much all you need to know about the why of reading this book (and other stories by Kennedy), except a little something about the plot line. Well, that is fairly simple. Old time baseball star Fran and his erstwhile companion, a gifted singer, Helen are drunks working their way through the edges between skid row and respectability. And, mainly, losing to the lure of the bottle and to the hard, hard struggle that it takes just to get through the day when your options are limited. Put that task together with trying to survive in the jungles, with its endless twisted characters, of Great Depression (that other one in the 1930s) Albany, trying to figure out when life went wrong and trying to figure out why it all went wrong- while fighting a losing battle against society’s expectations- and one’s family’s. This will provide enough dramatic tension to keep you interested. Oh did I mention that Kennedy writes with verve, with an uncanny understanding of his characters (although only Fran and Helen get the full treatment here) and with no holds barred, or punches pulled down there on cheap street. See, that is why Kennedy and Thompson connected in the literary world. They KNOW the underside of life. Read this thing, please.
Out Of The 1940s Crime Noir Night- American Psycho 101- “Born To Kill”- A Review
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the 1940s crime noir Born To Kill.
DVD Review
Born To Kill, starring Claire Trevor, Lawrence Tierney, Warner Brothers 1948
No question the possible combinations of criminal conspiracies and conspirators in any crime noir are almost infinite. Here stone-cold killer meets stone-cold femme fatale (well mostly stone cold that is) in one of those crime noir efforts that you can’t really root for anybody to break out of the trap- the crime doesn’t pay trap that is a signature message of these vehicles. That is the plight of the ”inmates” of the film under review, Born To Kill, that despite its title is not a relentless slice and dice at every clip crime noir out of the 1940s. But neither is it one that will have you bursting out crying at the end.
Here’s why. One very stone-cold killer (played frankly, a little woodenly given later pyscho killers that the movies have produced, by Lawrence Tierney) with a very short, make that a very,very short fuse, gets offended by some guy in Reno trying to “make time” with some frail that he is interested in and in a fit of pique beats him senseless, and dead. A familiar crime theme although not usually is Reno. The frail comes in and observes the foul deed and she too must fall. On advice of a friend, who should have fled from this guy on day one and counted himself lucky, our American pyscho is told to scram until things cool down. So he beat it to the coast, ‘Frisco, of course. And through that set of circumstances he meets our stone-cold femme fatale (played more convincingly by Claire Trevor). Nothing good can come of this combination and nothing does.
Why? Well our pyscho has post –World War II American-sized dreams of riches and power and he expects to gather it in through his association with our dear femme fatale’s sister who controls a media empire (newspapers back in the day, okay). Except, well, of course, an except Ms. Femme Fatale has gotten under his skin and he under hers. Remember now our boy has a short fuse so you know that nothing but murder and mayhem are going to come out of all this if he gets a little bit miffed. And he does by of all people the guy who was trying to help him scram back in Reno (played by perennial bad boy Elisha Cook,Jr.) Go figure. As for the rest, see the film and learn yet again that even pyschos get their just desserts-if only in the movies.
DVD Review
Born To Kill, starring Claire Trevor, Lawrence Tierney, Warner Brothers 1948
No question the possible combinations of criminal conspiracies and conspirators in any crime noir are almost infinite. Here stone-cold killer meets stone-cold femme fatale (well mostly stone cold that is) in one of those crime noir efforts that you can’t really root for anybody to break out of the trap- the crime doesn’t pay trap that is a signature message of these vehicles. That is the plight of the ”inmates” of the film under review, Born To Kill, that despite its title is not a relentless slice and dice at every clip crime noir out of the 1940s. But neither is it one that will have you bursting out crying at the end.
Here’s why. One very stone-cold killer (played frankly, a little woodenly given later pyscho killers that the movies have produced, by Lawrence Tierney) with a very short, make that a very,very short fuse, gets offended by some guy in Reno trying to “make time” with some frail that he is interested in and in a fit of pique beats him senseless, and dead. A familiar crime theme although not usually is Reno. The frail comes in and observes the foul deed and she too must fall. On advice of a friend, who should have fled from this guy on day one and counted himself lucky, our American pyscho is told to scram until things cool down. So he beat it to the coast, ‘Frisco, of course. And through that set of circumstances he meets our stone-cold femme fatale (played more convincingly by Claire Trevor). Nothing good can come of this combination and nothing does.
Why? Well our pyscho has post –World War II American-sized dreams of riches and power and he expects to gather it in through his association with our dear femme fatale’s sister who controls a media empire (newspapers back in the day, okay). Except, well, of course, an except Ms. Femme Fatale has gotten under his skin and he under hers. Remember now our boy has a short fuse so you know that nothing but murder and mayhem are going to come out of all this if he gets a little bit miffed. And he does by of all people the guy who was trying to help him scram back in Reno (played by perennial bad boy Elisha Cook,Jr.) Go figure. As for the rest, see the film and learn yet again that even pyschos get their just desserts-if only in the movies.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Out In The Be-Bop 1950s Night- The Non-Essential Elvis- A CD Review
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Elvis Presley performing the essential That’s When Your Heartaches Begin.
The Essential Elvis Presley, Two CD set, Elvis Presley, Sony Music 2007
There are a thousand, thousand ways to package the be-bop rock and roll minute king of the 1950s teenage angst night. And for his early work he should be packaged, packaged to eternity. It is the rest of his work that is the problem and hence the problem with this two CD set of what the producers have picked as essential. There are just too many dud, and semi-duds from his later period (the 1960s and 1970s Las Vegas flame-out period.
Any essential product has to be top-heavy with 1950s stuff get a nod from me.
From this compilation the obvious classics That’s All Right, Heartbreak Hotel, Blue Suede Shoes, Hound Dog, Don’t Be Cruel, Jailhouse Rock and It’s Now or Never rate a nod. Th rest though are strictly a mishmash. And I know from where I speak. Why? Until very, very recently I actually, if you can believe this, did not think much of Brother Presley’s music. And I was (and still am somewhat) nothing but a be-bop rock and roll baby-boomer boy who could listen to the stuff all day and night. A while back I got a hold of a five CD set of Elvis’ work from the Sun Record days mainly. That’s the Elvis who will live in rock and roll history. Stuff like It’s All Right, Mama, I Forgot To Remember To Forget, Good Rockin’ Tonight, That’s Where Your Heartaches Begin, Your Right She Left and a ton of others. Ya, the stuff from the days when he was hungry, and we were too. This compilation will not satisfy that hunger.
The Essential Elvis Presley, Two CD set, Elvis Presley, Sony Music 2007
There are a thousand, thousand ways to package the be-bop rock and roll minute king of the 1950s teenage angst night. And for his early work he should be packaged, packaged to eternity. It is the rest of his work that is the problem and hence the problem with this two CD set of what the producers have picked as essential. There are just too many dud, and semi-duds from his later period (the 1960s and 1970s Las Vegas flame-out period.
Any essential product has to be top-heavy with 1950s stuff get a nod from me.
From this compilation the obvious classics That’s All Right, Heartbreak Hotel, Blue Suede Shoes, Hound Dog, Don’t Be Cruel, Jailhouse Rock and It’s Now or Never rate a nod. Th rest though are strictly a mishmash. And I know from where I speak. Why? Until very, very recently I actually, if you can believe this, did not think much of Brother Presley’s music. And I was (and still am somewhat) nothing but a be-bop rock and roll baby-boomer boy who could listen to the stuff all day and night. A while back I got a hold of a five CD set of Elvis’ work from the Sun Record days mainly. That’s the Elvis who will live in rock and roll history. Stuff like It’s All Right, Mama, I Forgot To Remember To Forget, Good Rockin’ Tonight, That’s Where Your Heartaches Begin, Your Right She Left and a ton of others. Ya, the stuff from the days when he was hungry, and we were too. This compilation will not satisfy that hunger.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Vietnam At The End- The American End- An Insider’s Story- Frank Snepp’s “Decent Interval”- A Book Review
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry on the Fall of Saigon in 1975.
Book Review
Decent Interval: An Insider’s Account Of Saigon’s Indecent End Told By The CIA’s Chief Strategy Analyst In Vietnam, Frank Snepp, Random House, New York, 1977
Sometimes a picture is in fact better than one thousand words. In this case the famous, or infamous depending on one’s view, photograph of the last American “refugees” being evacuated from the American Embassy in Saigon (now, mercifully, Ho Chi Minh City) tells more about that episode of American imperial hubris that most books. Still, as is the case with this little gem of a book, ex- CIA man Frank Snepp’s insider account of that fall from the American side, it is nice to have some serious analytical companionship to that photo. Moreover, a book that gives numerous details about what happened to who in those last days in a little over five hundred pages and who the good guys and bad guys really were. Especially now, as two or three later generations only see Vietnam through the hoary eyes of old veterans (both military and radical anti-war) from that period like me to tell the tale.
Naturally, a longtime CIA man who in a fit of his own hubris decides, in effect, to blow the whistle on the American fiasco, has got his own axes to grind, and his own agenda for doing so. Bearing that in mind this is a fascinating look at that last period of American involvement in Vietnam from just after the 1973 cease-fire went into place until that last day of April in 1975 when the red flag flew over Saigon after a thirty plus year struggle for national liberation. For most Americans the period after the withdrawal of the last large contingents of U.S. troops from combat in 1972 kind of put paid to that failed experiment in “nation-building”-American-style.
For the rest of us who wished to see the national liberation struggle victorious we only had a slight glimmer that sometime was afoot until fairly late- say the beginning of 1975, although the rumor mill was running earlier. So Mr. Snepp’s book is invaluable to fill in the blanks for what the U.S., the South Vietnamese and the North Vietnamese were doing, or not doing.
Snepp’s lively account, naturally, centers on the American experience and within that experience the conduct of the last ambassador to Saigon, Graham Martin. Snepp spares no words to go after Martin’s perfidious and maniacal role, especially in the very, very last days when the North Vietnamese were sweeping almost unopposed into Saigon. But there is more, failures of intelligence, some expected, others just plain wrong, some missteps about intentions, some grand-standing and some pure-grade anti-communist that fueled much of the scene.
And, of course, no story of American military involvement anyplace is complete without plenty of material about, well the money. From Thieu’s military needs (and those of his extensive entourage) to the American military (and their insatiable need for military hardware), to various American administrations and their goals just follow the money trail and you won’t be far off the scent. And then that famous, or infamous, photograph of that helicopter exit from the roof of the American Embassy in just a nick of time makes much more sense. Nice work, Frank Snepp. The whistleblower’s art is not appreciated but always needed. Just ask Private Bradley Manning.
Book Review
Decent Interval: An Insider’s Account Of Saigon’s Indecent End Told By The CIA’s Chief Strategy Analyst In Vietnam, Frank Snepp, Random House, New York, 1977
Sometimes a picture is in fact better than one thousand words. In this case the famous, or infamous depending on one’s view, photograph of the last American “refugees” being evacuated from the American Embassy in Saigon (now, mercifully, Ho Chi Minh City) tells more about that episode of American imperial hubris that most books. Still, as is the case with this little gem of a book, ex- CIA man Frank Snepp’s insider account of that fall from the American side, it is nice to have some serious analytical companionship to that photo. Moreover, a book that gives numerous details about what happened to who in those last days in a little over five hundred pages and who the good guys and bad guys really were. Especially now, as two or three later generations only see Vietnam through the hoary eyes of old veterans (both military and radical anti-war) from that period like me to tell the tale.
Naturally, a longtime CIA man who in a fit of his own hubris decides, in effect, to blow the whistle on the American fiasco, has got his own axes to grind, and his own agenda for doing so. Bearing that in mind this is a fascinating look at that last period of American involvement in Vietnam from just after the 1973 cease-fire went into place until that last day of April in 1975 when the red flag flew over Saigon after a thirty plus year struggle for national liberation. For most Americans the period after the withdrawal of the last large contingents of U.S. troops from combat in 1972 kind of put paid to that failed experiment in “nation-building”-American-style.
For the rest of us who wished to see the national liberation struggle victorious we only had a slight glimmer that sometime was afoot until fairly late- say the beginning of 1975, although the rumor mill was running earlier. So Mr. Snepp’s book is invaluable to fill in the blanks for what the U.S., the South Vietnamese and the North Vietnamese were doing, or not doing.
Snepp’s lively account, naturally, centers on the American experience and within that experience the conduct of the last ambassador to Saigon, Graham Martin. Snepp spares no words to go after Martin’s perfidious and maniacal role, especially in the very, very last days when the North Vietnamese were sweeping almost unopposed into Saigon. But there is more, failures of intelligence, some expected, others just plain wrong, some missteps about intentions, some grand-standing and some pure-grade anti-communist that fueled much of the scene.
And, of course, no story of American military involvement anyplace is complete without plenty of material about, well the money. From Thieu’s military needs (and those of his extensive entourage) to the American military (and their insatiable need for military hardware), to various American administrations and their goals just follow the money trail and you won’t be far off the scent. And then that famous, or infamous, photograph of that helicopter exit from the roof of the American Embassy in just a nick of time makes much more sense. Nice work, Frank Snepp. The whistleblower’s art is not appreciated but always needed. Just ask Private Bradley Manning.
Out In The Be-Bop 1960s Night- Back From Edge City
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of the
Youngbloods performing the rock classic, Get Together.
Classic Rock : 1969: various artists, Time-Life Music, 1988
Scene: Brought to mind by a the cover art on this CD of a Doors/Youngbloods stripped down, just slightly behind the note, waiting to explode, band getting ready to belt out some serious rock in the heat of the “Generation of ‘68” night once the "high" wears off, a little.
Everybody had a million stories about Captain Crunch (real name, Steven Stein, Columbia Class of 1958). Ya, Captain Crunch the “owner” of the merry prankster, magical mystery tour, yellow brick road bus that you were “on” or “off” from early 1966 to now, the summer of 1969 now. One story, not the story that I am going to tell you but another story, had it that the Captain had gotten the dough for the bus from his "take" in some ghost of Pancho Villa drug deal down Sonora, Mexico way and that when his friend Ken Kesey, the author, outfitted his Further In yellow brick school bus, the Captain decided to do the same. He named his bus, the one that I am sitting in right now The Sphinx. Nice name, right, just like the Captain, except he was a guy everybody went to, and I mean everybody including me, when you needed to try to figure something out. Like how to figure the universe and your place in it, or how to open a can of beans. Everything except how to run the Sphinx, which was strictly Ramrod Ricks’ job and nobody messed with him when the Sphinx was involved.
Oh ya, and except when the name Mustang Sally came up (real name Susan Sharpe, Michigan, 1959) the Captain’s "main squeeze" girlfriend. Except when she wanted to be squeezed by someone else. Then the Captain saw red, or some hot color but that is not what I want to talk about because almost every guy, including me, has had a blind spot for some woman since about the time old-time Adam and Eve were playing house.
So this story is not going to be about dames, or about guys getting hung up hard on them since that is not a subject the Captain handled too well. What he did handle well, and nobody questioned that, was helping you figure your place in the non-girl obsessed universe. And his most famous success, although he might not call it that, was with Jimmy Morse, you know, the lead vocalist for the Blood Brotherhood. And although it didn’t have anything to with girls, women I mean, a woman was involved at the start, Mustang Sally, of course.
Sally had a thing for young musicians so once the Captain organized the bus back in ’66 and Sally was the first who came on board she was always, Captain grinding his teeth, on the look-out for such guys. So down in the desert, the high desert just east of Joshua Tree, she “found” Jimmy living among the rocks with some Indians, some renegade tribal warrior band of Hopis, complete with their own shamanic medicine man.
See, Jimmy knew he had the music down, the beat, the rock beat like a million other guys who came of age with Elvis, Jerry Lee and Chuck in that blazing 1950s be-bop rock night. What he was missing, knew he was missing, knew he wanted to be not missing was that cosmic karma thing that separated you out from some so-so- joe be-bopper. Ya, Jimmy had it bad, star-lust bad. So there he was among the rocks. Sally, and I know this because she told me one night when we talking about past lovers and were cutting up old torches in general, went for Jimmy real quickly. But it was also over really quickly she said, like some fade-out burning ember charcoal thing.
But that is where the Captain took over. The Captain, as much as he hated Sally’s hankerings, was a serious musical guy. Music was hanging over the bus all the time. So while Sally wanted their bodies the Captain wanted their muses, or to be their muse if a guy can be such a thing. So when Jimmy came on the bus, and he stayed for about six months, a time before I got on the bus, the Captain kept pushing him to find his inner spirit. And that inner spirit was found, I guess, through many acid trips. But not just that though. See the Captain kept pushing Jimmy toward that shamanic medicine-man-cure-the-wounded-earth-thing that he had started to get into with the Hopis. So when you see Jimmy whirling dervish, trance-like, evoking strange (strange to us) sounds just remember who “taught” him that.
Youngbloods performing the rock classic, Get Together.
Classic Rock : 1969: various artists, Time-Life Music, 1988
Scene: Brought to mind by a the cover art on this CD of a Doors/Youngbloods stripped down, just slightly behind the note, waiting to explode, band getting ready to belt out some serious rock in the heat of the “Generation of ‘68” night once the "high" wears off, a little.
Everybody had a million stories about Captain Crunch (real name, Steven Stein, Columbia Class of 1958). Ya, Captain Crunch the “owner” of the merry prankster, magical mystery tour, yellow brick road bus that you were “on” or “off” from early 1966 to now, the summer of 1969 now. One story, not the story that I am going to tell you but another story, had it that the Captain had gotten the dough for the bus from his "take" in some ghost of Pancho Villa drug deal down Sonora, Mexico way and that when his friend Ken Kesey, the author, outfitted his Further In yellow brick school bus, the Captain decided to do the same. He named his bus, the one that I am sitting in right now The Sphinx. Nice name, right, just like the Captain, except he was a guy everybody went to, and I mean everybody including me, when you needed to try to figure something out. Like how to figure the universe and your place in it, or how to open a can of beans. Everything except how to run the Sphinx, which was strictly Ramrod Ricks’ job and nobody messed with him when the Sphinx was involved.
Oh ya, and except when the name Mustang Sally came up (real name Susan Sharpe, Michigan, 1959) the Captain’s "main squeeze" girlfriend. Except when she wanted to be squeezed by someone else. Then the Captain saw red, or some hot color but that is not what I want to talk about because almost every guy, including me, has had a blind spot for some woman since about the time old-time Adam and Eve were playing house.
So this story is not going to be about dames, or about guys getting hung up hard on them since that is not a subject the Captain handled too well. What he did handle well, and nobody questioned that, was helping you figure your place in the non-girl obsessed universe. And his most famous success, although he might not call it that, was with Jimmy Morse, you know, the lead vocalist for the Blood Brotherhood. And although it didn’t have anything to with girls, women I mean, a woman was involved at the start, Mustang Sally, of course.
Sally had a thing for young musicians so once the Captain organized the bus back in ’66 and Sally was the first who came on board she was always, Captain grinding his teeth, on the look-out for such guys. So down in the desert, the high desert just east of Joshua Tree, she “found” Jimmy living among the rocks with some Indians, some renegade tribal warrior band of Hopis, complete with their own shamanic medicine man.
See, Jimmy knew he had the music down, the beat, the rock beat like a million other guys who came of age with Elvis, Jerry Lee and Chuck in that blazing 1950s be-bop rock night. What he was missing, knew he was missing, knew he wanted to be not missing was that cosmic karma thing that separated you out from some so-so- joe be-bopper. Ya, Jimmy had it bad, star-lust bad. So there he was among the rocks. Sally, and I know this because she told me one night when we talking about past lovers and were cutting up old torches in general, went for Jimmy real quickly. But it was also over really quickly she said, like some fade-out burning ember charcoal thing.
But that is where the Captain took over. The Captain, as much as he hated Sally’s hankerings, was a serious musical guy. Music was hanging over the bus all the time. So while Sally wanted their bodies the Captain wanted their muses, or to be their muse if a guy can be such a thing. So when Jimmy came on the bus, and he stayed for about six months, a time before I got on the bus, the Captain kept pushing him to find his inner spirit. And that inner spirit was found, I guess, through many acid trips. But not just that though. See the Captain kept pushing Jimmy toward that shamanic medicine-man-cure-the-wounded-earth-thing that he had started to get into with the Hopis. So when you see Jimmy whirling dervish, trance-like, evoking strange (strange to us) sounds just remember who “taught” him that.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
It Don’t Mean A Thing If You Ain’t Got That Swing- Benny Goodman At Carnegie Hall-1938- A CD Review
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Benny Goodman his band performing, well, performing swing music, what else.
CD Review
Benny Goodman At Carnegie Hall-1938, Benny Goodman and his 1938 version band, Columbia Records, Sony Music, 1999
“Did you hear it, did you hear? Benny Goodman and his band, the king of swing himself, is coming to the Olde Saco Ballroom next month for two nights only,” shouted Delores LeBlanc to Betty La Croix over the hum of the separating machine that she was tending at the MacAdams Textile Mill. The central building over on Main Street (really U.S. Route One but everybody calls it Main Street and calls it that even to strangers looking for directions to Kennebunkport or going north up Portland way) not the smaller complex by the Olde Saco River which is slated to be closed soon for lack of work.
Betty, too proud, too female acting like a female quiet proud, too proper French-Canadian Catholic female to act like some “wrong side of the tracks” girl proud, to yell back over the drone of her own tended machine, just gave a gleeful nod. Delores continues over the drumbeat, “Let’s get tickets right away for both shows because after his concert last year down in New York at that Carnegie Hall the place will be packed and we don’t want to miss the event of 1939 and maybe the whole century here in old musty, fussy nothing ever happens except the river flows by Olde Saco. Once again Betty nodded, although not gleefully this time. Not gleefully at all.
The cause of that non-glee is, well, not to leave you all mixed-up and guessing, boy trouble, really man trouble. It seems that Betty (although she is just too proper and too female, well you know the drill already so I won’t go on) had the previous night had her fifteenth, no sixteenth, fight and never make-up with Delores’ brother Jean. And whether the year was 1039, 1539, or like now, 1939, the issue, to put it delicately, was sex. Or rather why Betty wanted to wait all the way until marriage, and not before, no way not before, to give in to one Jean Claude LeBlanc. Yes, Betty was a mother-can-be-proud proper French-Canadian Catholic, although in the heat of the moment a couple of times down at the Squaw Rock “parking “ end of Olde Saco Beach, a spot chosen by the local younger set for its position far from parental and police eyes she almost succumbed to Jean’s urgings.
Needless to say All-American boy, really all All-American French-Canadian boy and former star of the Olde Saco High football team, the one that beat Auburn for the state title a couple of years back, Jean Claude LeBlanc, was all for “doing the do” right now as a test run for marriage, or so that is how he presented it to Betty last Saturday (and many a previous Saturday night) down in those dunes of Olde Saco Beach as they watched old Neptune do his ocean magic. And Jean almost made the sale that night, except by the time Betty decided yes, she wasn’t in the mood any longer. At least she didn’t use the headache excuse. Jesus.
And what does all this eternal young love squabbling, good-looking sexed-up guy charging forth, nice girl holding back for dear life, post-drugstore soda for two listening to the latest tunes or old Bijou movie date, ending the night down at some forlorn beach and endless possibilities have to do with Benny Goodman. Benny Goodman, king of swing-ness, the be-bop night, and the possibilities of seeing said king in person. Well where have you been? How do you thing our boy Jean, champion football mover and persona non grata for life within ten miles of Auburn but a little bashful in the sex department when he came right down to it, tried to get one Betty La Croix in the mood. Take one guess. No, I will give you a hint-think clarinet, a heavenly deep beat-pacing, fingers snapping, clarinet that sets those drums a rolling, those trumpets blowing to Gabriel’s heaven, and sets those sexy saxes on fire to blow the walls of Jericho down. A little Body And Soul or Swing Time In The Mountains. Maybe Blue Skies. Get it.
But back to Betty and Jean, and Betty’s dilemma. Back right away because after Delores and Betty finish their conversation, or rather Delores finishes here monologue, here comes Jean down the aisle to Betty’s machine. He nods to Delores, the appropriate publicly polite brotherly greeting, although at home in the LeBlanc household over on Fourteenth Street in the “Little Quebec " section of town there is a daily war going on, and has been since, well, since Delores found out that she, with just a few hours work in the family’s sole bathroom, could set the guys stirring. Maybe since about fourteen. And did so, did spend those girlish work hours, to Jean’s intense displeasure when he needed to attend to his own toilet for some hot date, or the last couple of years, for Betty.
Standing, a little sheepishly, but also with just that certain touch of fox that attracted Betty to him in the first place, Jean lays his great scheme on one Betty La Croix. He will spring for the tickets to both of Benny Goodman’s shows if she will just make up with him. She hesitates, thinking back to that last Saturday and how Benny and the gang, via Jean’s car radio, the ocean swells, and Buddha Swings, got her almost in the mood to “do the do.” Finally, Betty looked over at Delores and gave her that kind of “sorry I can’t go with you” look that Delores had learned to expect when Jean came anywhere with five feet of her. Delores, also thought, in her own publicly proper French-Canadian Catholic girl devilish thought, that Betty was not going to be able to withstand two nights of Benny swing, Jean ardor and Olde Saco ocean swell. But, damn, that’s her problem. Delores, never a social glum (at least since that fourteen and set guys stirring revelation) wondered to herself if that dreamy Jean Jacques La Croix (yes, Betty’s brother) was going? For him (with promise of be-bop Benny in the background) she might check those ocean swells out too.
CD Review
Benny Goodman At Carnegie Hall-1938, Benny Goodman and his 1938 version band, Columbia Records, Sony Music, 1999
“Did you hear it, did you hear? Benny Goodman and his band, the king of swing himself, is coming to the Olde Saco Ballroom next month for two nights only,” shouted Delores LeBlanc to Betty La Croix over the hum of the separating machine that she was tending at the MacAdams Textile Mill. The central building over on Main Street (really U.S. Route One but everybody calls it Main Street and calls it that even to strangers looking for directions to Kennebunkport or going north up Portland way) not the smaller complex by the Olde Saco River which is slated to be closed soon for lack of work.
Betty, too proud, too female acting like a female quiet proud, too proper French-Canadian Catholic female to act like some “wrong side of the tracks” girl proud, to yell back over the drone of her own tended machine, just gave a gleeful nod. Delores continues over the drumbeat, “Let’s get tickets right away for both shows because after his concert last year down in New York at that Carnegie Hall the place will be packed and we don’t want to miss the event of 1939 and maybe the whole century here in old musty, fussy nothing ever happens except the river flows by Olde Saco. Once again Betty nodded, although not gleefully this time. Not gleefully at all.
The cause of that non-glee is, well, not to leave you all mixed-up and guessing, boy trouble, really man trouble. It seems that Betty (although she is just too proper and too female, well you know the drill already so I won’t go on) had the previous night had her fifteenth, no sixteenth, fight and never make-up with Delores’ brother Jean. And whether the year was 1039, 1539, or like now, 1939, the issue, to put it delicately, was sex. Or rather why Betty wanted to wait all the way until marriage, and not before, no way not before, to give in to one Jean Claude LeBlanc. Yes, Betty was a mother-can-be-proud proper French-Canadian Catholic, although in the heat of the moment a couple of times down at the Squaw Rock “parking “ end of Olde Saco Beach, a spot chosen by the local younger set for its position far from parental and police eyes she almost succumbed to Jean’s urgings.
Needless to say All-American boy, really all All-American French-Canadian boy and former star of the Olde Saco High football team, the one that beat Auburn for the state title a couple of years back, Jean Claude LeBlanc, was all for “doing the do” right now as a test run for marriage, or so that is how he presented it to Betty last Saturday (and many a previous Saturday night) down in those dunes of Olde Saco Beach as they watched old Neptune do his ocean magic. And Jean almost made the sale that night, except by the time Betty decided yes, she wasn’t in the mood any longer. At least she didn’t use the headache excuse. Jesus.
And what does all this eternal young love squabbling, good-looking sexed-up guy charging forth, nice girl holding back for dear life, post-drugstore soda for two listening to the latest tunes or old Bijou movie date, ending the night down at some forlorn beach and endless possibilities have to do with Benny Goodman. Benny Goodman, king of swing-ness, the be-bop night, and the possibilities of seeing said king in person. Well where have you been? How do you thing our boy Jean, champion football mover and persona non grata for life within ten miles of Auburn but a little bashful in the sex department when he came right down to it, tried to get one Betty La Croix in the mood. Take one guess. No, I will give you a hint-think clarinet, a heavenly deep beat-pacing, fingers snapping, clarinet that sets those drums a rolling, those trumpets blowing to Gabriel’s heaven, and sets those sexy saxes on fire to blow the walls of Jericho down. A little Body And Soul or Swing Time In The Mountains. Maybe Blue Skies. Get it.
But back to Betty and Jean, and Betty’s dilemma. Back right away because after Delores and Betty finish their conversation, or rather Delores finishes here monologue, here comes Jean down the aisle to Betty’s machine. He nods to Delores, the appropriate publicly polite brotherly greeting, although at home in the LeBlanc household over on Fourteenth Street in the “Little Quebec " section of town there is a daily war going on, and has been since, well, since Delores found out that she, with just a few hours work in the family’s sole bathroom, could set the guys stirring. Maybe since about fourteen. And did so, did spend those girlish work hours, to Jean’s intense displeasure when he needed to attend to his own toilet for some hot date, or the last couple of years, for Betty.
Standing, a little sheepishly, but also with just that certain touch of fox that attracted Betty to him in the first place, Jean lays his great scheme on one Betty La Croix. He will spring for the tickets to both of Benny Goodman’s shows if she will just make up with him. She hesitates, thinking back to that last Saturday and how Benny and the gang, via Jean’s car radio, the ocean swells, and Buddha Swings, got her almost in the mood to “do the do.” Finally, Betty looked over at Delores and gave her that kind of “sorry I can’t go with you” look that Delores had learned to expect when Jean came anywhere with five feet of her. Delores, also thought, in her own publicly proper French-Canadian Catholic girl devilish thought, that Betty was not going to be able to withstand two nights of Benny swing, Jean ardor and Olde Saco ocean swell. But, damn, that’s her problem. Delores, never a social glum (at least since that fourteen and set guys stirring revelation) wondered to herself if that dreamy Jean Jacques La Croix (yes, Betty’s brother) was going? For him (with promise of be-bop Benny in the background) she might check those ocean swells out too.
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