RIP Bob

Read this morning that A.C. "Bob" Guhl died. He was, at one time, a Georgia state senator but randomly we met years before when we both worked for Dover Elevator Company in the SF Bay Area. My dad got sick and passed away during my tenure working for Bob, which is probably why I remember working for him so clearly: it was safer to be at work, concentrating on anything other than my dad in the hospital. I was 18 and hired as a temp to be his executive secretary and he would retire in three months time. He was tall, white-haired, serious, and barely said a word directly to me as I handed him papers, took dictation (yes, everybody - that's a thing, and I don't mean euphemistically), scheduled his life. On his last day, I was walking out of his office and he stopped me by actually calling me by name. Honest to god, I didn't even think he knew my actual name. He asked me to sit, folded his hands atop his enormous empty desk and said, "You probably think I don't care since I'm about to retire and we'll never see each other again. Anne, tell me what you're going to do with your life." I remember telling him, I remember him listening and asking questions, but honestly don't remember exactly what I said. I guess what matters is: he was very kind to me for a blip in time, and for that I am thankful. RIP, Bob.

Gym Bunny

'member how I claimed this blog wouldn't be all about me? Let me take that back for just a moment and say: I went to the gym today. For the first time. Ever. For reals. I headed to the 2nd floor so that I could survey my domain. 45 minutes on the treadmill, no big deal, but I suppose a very big deal in the grand scheme of things.

Calls are flooding in...

Everyone is SO worried about me...thanks for the calls...keep 'em coming...
Love, Pasteur E. Bola

Si je pouvais dîner avec 1-2 personnes mortes, je...

Si je pouvais dîner avec 1-2 personnes mortes, je choisirais H.G. Wells et Jules Verne. J’adore lire la science-fiction. Ces hommes sont considérés comme “les pères fondateurs” du genre de science-fiction. J’aime leurs histoires fantastiques et je serais ravie d’entendre leurs aventures en personne. M. Verne pourrait nous décrire des créatures magiques de la mer, et M. Wells pourrait nous raconter des Martiens et des hommes invisibles. Une bonne idée: M. Wells pourrait les conduire à dîner dans sa machine a explorer le temps! Si les hommes se rencontraient en personne, ils pourraient être jaloux l’un de l’autre. J’espère que leur réunion ne mènerait pas à une lutte - ou pire - une bataille de nourriture. Peut-être que je devrais les inviter à dîner au restaurant plutôt que chez moi.

Familiale by Jacques Prévert - une réponse

This was in response to my French 101 professor's assignment, "Écrivez une version de ce poème (Familiale) qui n’en fait pas satire, qui est une version sérieuse." Familiale is a poem by Jacques Prévert. Here is my childish effort. Please to enjoy:

 

“La guerre, la guerre,” disent la mère et le père
Le fils dit, “Je ne veux pas y aller.”
“Vous devez, vous devez,” disent la mère et le père
Le fils murmure doucement, “Ouais.”

“Notre fils est en guerre,” disent la mère et le père

Le fils dit, “Je vais bien.”
“Il va bien, il va bien,” disent la mère et le père
Le fils ne dit rien

“Notre fils est parti,” disent la mère et le père

Le fils ne parle plus
Ils pleurent pour lui, la mère et le père
La guerre, la guerre c’est tout.

Spenser: Far Higher

I voiced my displeasure with Robert B. Parker’s Early Autumn, moaning, “where’s the blood” and “gimme some murder!” My problem was not with the novel itself – I believe it to be beautifully written – but that it is much more a coming of age story than a crime novel. Early Autumn is about a relationship tested and a boy learning life lessons, and its pages provide a portrait of the detective I believe to be the most ethical of the detectives we have read: Spenser. I define ethics as, simply, the Golden Rule: treat other people as you would like to be treated. At first blush, perhaps too simple to use in this essay, and indeed the golden rule casts a wide net. The golden rule is, however, a way of living, and it is the way each detective moves through life –albeit a fictional life – that will be examined here. It occurs to me that in order to develop a list of suspects, police – or in this case, the detective –must prove motive. In the same way, I will determine the motivation of the detectives – why they behave the way they do – and conclude that Spenser is indeed far higher than the rest. I will then examine how Parker broadcasts the importance of leading an ethical life through Spenser’s actions.

What motivates the other detectives, then? Block’s Matthew Scudder is a man forever atoning for his sin. He lights candles at the local Catholic church: “And, of course, one for Estrellita Rivera, who would never get to be eight” (The Sins of the Fathers, 19). Scudder does good because he did bad, not because doing good is the right thing to do. McBain’s Andy Parker is motivated by racism. We discussed at length in class that Andy is unaware of his racism. I disagree, but more to the point: being unaware is inexcusable. I highly doubt that after years on the force in that particular precinct, that Andy does not understand how his attitude and words can be so upsetting, harmful, and dangerous. Perhaps because I listened to the audio version of the book, I paid keener attention to the inflection of Andy’s voice each time he was accused of saying something racist, and Andy was not believable. “Hell, you know me better than that. I don’t care if a guy’s Puerto Rican or Chinese,” Andy says. Hernandez replies with a deadpan, “Sure” (See Them Die, 84). Hernandez agrees with me. Hammett’s Sam Spade may have his own code, but his motivation is revenge –revenge for his murdered partner. Spade triumphantly tells Brigid, “You killed Miles and you’re going over for it” (The Maltese Falcon, 213). Hammett’s Continental Op wants to see the guilty hang. His motivation is simple bloodlust. He solves each crime and the criminal is turned in, but at the end of nearly every story he nearly salivates as he declares their fates. “With her assistance it was no trick at all to gather up the rest of the evidence we needed to hang him (“The Tenth Clew,” 38). “You’re going to Seattle, Ed, to hang for Ashcraft’s suicide” (“The Golden Horseshoe,” 81). “The Chinese went to the gallows” (“The House in Turk Street,” 108). “They hanged him” (“The Farewell Murder,” 287). Placing Spenser upon a pedestal and declaring him far higher than the rest is almost unfair. At great personal cost – monetary, and his relationship with Susan – Parker takes on a summertime chore to raise, for all intents and purposes, an orphan. What a guy. Parker paints Spenser as a hero, but he is no Christ-like figure or superhero – he is just a man. Spenser’s motivation, shown time and again, is living by and passing on the assets of the golden rule.

I attempted to determine at what moment Spenser decides he must help Paul – I mean, reallyhelp the boy. Paul initially mistrusts Spenser. “What do you care? It’s not your business. Whyn’t you leave me alone?” “Because right now you’re in my keeping and I’m trying to decide what’s best to do with you” (26). Spenser knows that all the boy needs is guidance, and without it, he will remain adrift. For example, Paul hangs on the periphery of every conversation he comes near. This behavior resonates with me, recognized as a habit of an only child. As much as a teenager tries to act cool and aloof, those ears are open, not wanting to miss a thing: Paul overhears Spenser’s confrontation with Mel and Elaine (20-24); Paul sits right in the room “watching television” as his mom pawns him off in order to achieve a private evening (31-34); Paul witnesses Harold and Buddy bullying their way in (71-74). Just afterward, Spenser confesses that he feels sorry for Paul, and that is why he agrees to, in essence, babysit. I do not think Spenser has yet decided to take the boy on as a project, though, I think that comes later, and I think it is on page 62:“Your father ever take care of you?” Spenser asks. Paul replies, “No.” The reader is told little to nothing of Spenser’s relationship with his own father, but to my mind it is that simple exchange that threads the needle for Spenser. Paul must be taught to be, in Spenser’s word, “autonomous” (99).

Building a house is such a strong symbol in and of itself in the importance of living an ethical life. The Christian tradition would invoke the parable of the wise and foolish builders, and the importance of having a strong foundation. Of the many things Spenser knows he can teach Paul, that foundation is by far the most important. Though the symbolic house building is a lovely image, Parker’s lessons are spelled out beautifully on their own in simple life lessons. “A way of living better is to make the decisions you need to make based on what you can control”(114). Spenser and Paul have a long discussion about gun violence and his personal rules – Paul speaks first: “How come you didn’t shoot them?” “I didn’t need to” (75). “Why don’t you?” “Something to do with the sanctity of life. That kind of stuff” (76). It is Spenser’s summation and final conclusion that are the most telling: “You make rules for yourself and know that you’ll have to break them because they won’t always work” (76). Spenser gently guides Paul toward ethical action: “I also think it’s bad form to talk about your mother that way to a stranger.” “Why?” “It’s just not done” (28). Later, Spenser does so again: “How come you wouldn’t let her pay for it?” “It didn’t seem the right thing to do” (35). “I still don’t see why you want to pay for my dinner.” “I’m not sure. It has to do with propriety. Appropriateness. Doing things right”(37). Spenser explains to Susan, “The kid’s never been taught how to act. He doesn’t know anything. He’s got no pride. He’s got nothing he’s good at. He’s got nothing but the tube.” “I’ll teach him what I know. I know how to do carpentry. I know how to cook. I know how to punch. I know how to act” (98). Spenser leads by example, though, even when Paul is not there to witness. “Do you think [Paul would] think less of me than he does now?” Patty asks. “No. He’d think less of me” (67), Spenser replies. He continues, “I’m committed to another woman. I’m committed to protecting your son. Screwing his mom, pleasant as that would be, is not productive” (69).

Ethical living, according to Parker, stems from honesty. Right from the start, Spenser never lies to Paul. He is brutally honest and tells the boy what he needs to hear, no matter how hard it might be. At the cabin, Spenser gets right to the heart of the matter: “Your parents are no help to you. If anything, they hurt. You can’t depend on them. They got you to where you are. They won’t get better. You have to” (123). When Spenser tells Paul he plans to blackmail his parents, he says,“But remember, you probably will care. It probably will hurt. It’s okay for it to hurt. It’s very sensible that it should hurt” (160). Spenser knows that holding back the truth would only do Paul a disservice, and teaches Paul that it is literally bad to pull your punches, all the while delicately teaching him that honesty is the best policy.

In “The Simple Art of Murder,” Raymond Chandler claims a detective must be “the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world.” I would take Spenser in my world any day, and am thankful that Robert B. Parker was in my world for a time, even though I was not aware of him. Paul asks Spenser if Hawk is his friend. “He’s not good. But he’s a good man. You know the difference? You will. It’s a difference I’m going to help you learn” (108). With Early Autumn, Parker left a legacy by mapping out instructions for leading an ethical life. Spenser teaches Paul, and Parker teaches us, simply and effectively.

A Picture Speaks Volumes in Ed Brubaker’s Criminal, Volume One: Coward

Ed Brubaker’s Criminal, Volume One: Coward echoes several of the books we have read this term: Parker’s Early Autumn, Block’s Sins of the Fathers, and especially Macdonald’s The Goodbye Look. Brubaker tackles several themes, but the one I choose to focus on is that of fathers and sons. Fathers teach their sons many things; bravery among them. Our “hero” Leo Patterson is repeatedly accused of being a coward, and even accuses himself. If true, where did the pattern originate, and why do others continue to recognize it? The panel showing Leo on his subway ride home after his initial chat with Seymour and Jeff at the museum is the most significant thematically because it encapsulates his present and his past by invoking both memories of his father and visions of his future self.

Memory is a tricky business, and Leo Patterson is a man with a lot on his mind. Throughout the graphic novel, his thought bubbles more than likely tally a larger word count than his speech bubbles, if one were to count them. The reader has been given Leo’s back-story and he confesses, “I’m scared of ending up like my father.” As he rides the subway train, he thinks about the proposition presented to him by his former crony Seymour and crooked cop Jeff as he stares off into the cityscape. He recalls what corrupt police have done to his friends and family, and as he stares at his own face, he remembers the countless widows and orphans made manifest by street violence. Leo knows that violent world, and he knows it because he was brought into it by his own father. Sure, Leo’s dad went to jail for him and died there for him, but at what cost to his son, in the end? Leo is left fatherless, as Greta’s daughter Angie is, and fatherless by the same root cause. Sure, he has the addled junkie Ivan, but Leo has become more of a father to him than Ivan ever was in return. Leo says he can “never forget,” and so that paternal memory nags at him in empty moments like a subway ride.
Thoughts of memory lead to thoughts of present, and of future. Even if the thought bubble were not there, the panel would speak. Leo is a man looking at his own reflection: a moment of reflection. Buildings, streets and their garbage whizz by, yet there is his image, strong and clear, reflected in plexiglass. I am no artist, so I cannot determine if those lines are scratches on the subway window or representations of the outside world passing by. I believe that they tie in beautifully with the words in the panel, be they scratches or lines: they are scars. We are given Leo’s thoughts: “Those wounds were scars that’d be easier to hide, but they were scars all the same.” Brubaker – through Leo – is absolutely correct. Leo sees his reflection, and he can see both actual scars – some from battle and some from age – as well as deeply embedded internal scars.
Travelling via subway, it should not be forgotten that there is one sense that could be missed altogether, especially when reading a book, and that is sound. Leo is having a moment of reflection, but certainly not silent reflection. Blocking out subway noise – musicians, lunatic homeless, screaming children, fervent preaching – is not an easy task, and I daresay Leo has no intention of trying. Entirely shutting out the noisy world leads to the type of silent contemplation that could lead to deep depression – and an uncovering of past internal scars – and Leo wants no part of that. He is thinking of his past, and he is thinking of his dad, and he does not want to become his dad. It could be imagined that the one noise that supersedes all is the train on the tracks – that clack-clack-clack. I imagine that repetitive trance-inducing auditory pattern creating a mantra in his head: I won’t be like him, I won’t be like him, I won’t be like him… Leo tells Greta that “Violence just…it’s got a ripple effect. You know that. And I try not to cause any ripples.” Ripples echo outward both visually and acoustically, and Leo gets a dose of both in the reflection of his image.
The difficulty in looking at oneself – and I mean really looking at oneself in a literal sense, i.e., the window reflection – is that what one sees is a representation; in actuality, what is seen is a backwards image. There is no way to see oneself as others do. I realize the panel I chose is incredibly simple, but I honestly think it speaks volumes about the entire graphic novel. In the end, the story is not about pickpockets, shootouts and drug deals. When Leo needs a hideout, he heads to his ancestral homestead – the place where past, present and future meld. Beyond the blood, violence, and death is a man with a history. In the end, the past does invoke the future – the violence he is capable of – or, as Leo puts, it, “of what’s inside of me.” His redemption complete – saving young Angie and returning the heroin – Leo and his family farm both end as ashes blowing past the window of a rapid subway train.

Cain Explores the Malleability of Human Nature in Double Indemnity

Our professor has strongly cautioned us not to use “you” in writing our papers. I can now see why, after reading James M. Cain’s Double Indemnity. An author writing, “You’ve read in the papers” (3), or, “I think I told you about Norton and Keyes” (56), points a finger directly at the reader. There but for the grace of god goes…you. Cain shows us a path we could all take – what Jeff Lindsay’s Dexter terms his “dark passenger.” If nothing has been learned from the novels we have read so far, we have certainly learned there is a seedy underbelly beneath any ray of sunshine on these mean streets. You – even you – could plan and commit a murder. Huff is just a guy doing his job, and by the end of a routine evening decides to murder so that he can have a woman and help her spend the insurance money. It is that split-second decision-making that Cain shows us is critical. By manipulating both his characters and his readers, Cain shows the balance of the nature of good and evil on a razor’s edge.

P. T. Barnum is credited with coining the phrase, “there’s a sucker born every minute,” and the sentiment continues to prove right with each passing generation. Given the right circumstance, anyone can be duped. Cain gives us an immediate instance with Huff’s entrance into the Nirdlinger home. “To move this stuff, you’ve got to get in” (4), Huff explains, and charms his way past the maid with very little effort. Another manipulation, and done so easily, Huff cons Nirdlinger with a ruse involving policy rates in order to cook the books back at the office. “When you offer a man about twenty bucks more than he thought he had when you came in, he wouldn’t ask too many questions about why you offer it to him” (32). Insurance claims adjustor Keyes explains his own cautious nature in this way: “I don’t often like somebody. At my trade, you can’t afford to. The whole human race looks – a little bit crooked” (104). Keyes is right to be wary, though even he is taken by the larger con and is misled along the way by Huff. The one character who believes so strongly not to trust other people, even his instinct – his nature – is malleable enough that even he is played for a fool.
By the end of the novel, we know that Huff has recounted all details as part of his confession. He not only confesses the crime, but meticulously explains his brilliant cover-up. The reader cannot help but notice the abundant effort taken in order to create the perfect crime, though Huff assured us at the start, “there won’t be any slips” (18). Huff creates his alibi with an eyewitness – his Filipino houseboy – as well as a long series of phone calls that concrete him at his home on the night of the murder. “[Joe Pete, the security guard] had to keep a log, and enter everything he did, not only by date, but also by time” (41). Even seeing a show a day early and getting the program evening-of, taking every possibility into account, is amazingly calculated. (As an aside, I have my doubts that any folded theater program could slow a bullet, but I will admit I have never tried.) Each step in the murder plot is thoughtfully explained away by concealed evidence and misplaced clues – a narrow-ledged balance beam of good and evil.

Cain even plays fast and loose with the reader’s affections toward his characters. Take Huff, for example. We see him fall for Phyllis right out of the gate, and the very next thing Cain does is has Keyes give him an attaboy: “If other departments of this company would show half of the sense that you show…” (8). Maybe Huff is a good guy, and maybe he can avoid that calculating spider, Phyllis. Huff continues his fall, though, and when he decides to murder Nirdlinger, Phyllis even gives him an out: “I don’t love [Nirdlinger], but he’s never done anything to me” (18). Right there, Huff could walk away, no harm done – except adultery – a crime to be dealt with by another court entirely. When discussing their plans for murder, Phyllis explains, “[Nirdlinger]’s not happy. He’ll be better off – dead” (18). Murder becomes easier if the murder’s conscience can be eased knowing that the victim is actually being done a favor. After all the calculating and cover-up, Cain plays with our need for redemption by feeding our gullibility. The perfect murder has been accomplished with its bow neatly tied, and Huff wins us back again by confessing. “I couldn’t think of anything but Lola, a lot of cops around her, maybe beating her up, trying to make her spill something that she knew no more about than the man in the moon” (101). Huff’s downfall leads to Lola’s redemption: his evil, now confessed, becomes her salvation. A bit wobbly on that razor’s edge balance-beam, but that careful balance leads to a strong dismount: you, the reader, have been duped, too.

One law of thermodynamics states that the universe tends toward entropy, or simply: disorder. Taken to an extreme, it could follow that human nature tends toward evil, if part of evil’s definition is disorder. Problem is: I don’t buy it; I think human nature tends toward good. If I were younger, this paper would have been easier to write, as I find it more and more difficult to declare anything as cut and dried, definitively one way or the other. What I think does not matter, though; the point is what Cain shows us, which is how fragile that good/evil tipping point can be and how those suckers born every minute can be sucked in.

The Past is Ever-Present in Ross Macdonald’s The Goodbye Look

What does Ross Macdonald say about the relationships between parents and children?

The Past is Ever-Present in Ross Macdonald’s The Goodbye Look

The intricacies of a family dynamic can be simply fascinating. Ross Macdonald explores a few recognizable intricacies in his novel The Goodbye Look, as multi-generational tales weave throughout what begins as a simple theft investigation. A self-identified amateur counselor (17-18), Macdonald’s detective Lew Archer encounters more than he bargains for with each new threshold he crosses. Archer is more of an observer than a detector, and he observes each family with an overlying assumption about all families. Children, no matter what age, remain children in the eyes of their parents. Macdonald shows the reader that parents and children share both a reciprocal blessing and curse: they provide a mirror image, they taunt, and they disappoint.

Nick, son of wealthy Irene and Larry Chalmers, should want for nothing, yet he is troubled. Nick’s parents cannot help but feel at fault, and turn a mirror on themselves to look for clues. Irene Chalmers admits that she and her husband have spent “thousands of dollars” (13) on their disappearing son over the years, between Pinkerton sleuths and psychiatry. And why not: he is their precious boy. Larry knows what it is to love a son and be loved by a dad. Irene says that her husband “still worships the ground his father walked on” (10) and “used to read [his war correspondence letters] aloud to Nick.” Larry sees much of his own personality in Nick, noting in one instance, “I suppose he got it by osmosis from me” (58). Lawyer John Truttwell suggests a historical and reciprocal mirror: “I think [Nick] idolizes his father, but feels he can’t measure up. Which is exactly how Larry Chambers felt about his own father, the Judge” (60). In the case of the Chalmers family, Macdonald shows us that the family mirror is more of a reflecting pool, with ripples that echo throughout.

Mirrors can reflect and repeat other behaviors, such as cruelty – the urge to taunt. Kids can be so cruel, as the saying goes, but so can parents. Not to pile on the aphorism, but, “you always hurt the one you love” is cliché for a reason. Macdonald especially displays this behavior in the mother-daughter relationship of Jean and Louise. The reader doesn’t need to see this family confrontation to recognize it; nearly two pages of dialogue are simply overheard as the women hiss and spit their words. “You better take my advice” (72), Louise cautions, and, “You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you?” (73), flies accusingly from her lips. Louise warns, “‘Don’t think you’re coming back to live with me,’ to which Jean snaps, ‘I wouldn’t stay if you begged me on your knees’” (73). Interestingly, not a half-page later, Jean herself begs to stay. Button-pushing is a generational inheritance. It is no coincidence that Jean refers to her missing father as “Daddy” throughout, though she’s nearly 40 years old. The childlike “Daddy” invokes a protector – a noble man cherished by his brood. “I’m going to find my Daddy” (75), she says, knowing it must drive her mother crazy. Giving the man who abandoned his family such a precious title is a deep cut, indeed. Children and parents have reciprocal ability to taunt, and it cuts both ways.

Macdonald provides a good amount of family disappointment and regret for every family unit in the novel. After her daughter’s death, Louise reflects “Poor Jean and I could never get along,” followed closely by “Jean should have listened to me” (134). Though Irene claims, “It doesn’t show but [John is] terribly emotional, especially where Nick is concerned” (64), John Chalmers later cautions his suicidal son, “You’ve got to act like a man” (57). Disappointment even purposefully rears its head, as in Betty’s admission that she intends to marry Nick “whether my father wants me to or not. I’d naturally prefer to have his approval” (23). A family unit is just that – a unit – as pointed out by John Chalmers: “I talked about our need to stick together” (91). Notice the word chosen is need, not want. That need creates the ties that bind, and that need can bring inevitable disappointment.

Macdonald weaves webs of family dysfunction throughout The Goodbye Look, and the reader familiarly nods. Personally, I certainly do. I am an only child, and there are many family dynamics I will never understand. I will never know a sibling, have to share a room, or even a piece of gum. To my now 80-year-old mother I will always be both her oldest and only, and I will always be her baby. I am a grown woman, yet she worries for my safety, offers to pay for flights home, and would speak to me daily by phone if I allowed it. She drives me nuts, and I return the favor – less so now with age. Macdonald gives us a glimpse of families which we may recognize or not, but families just the same. So it goes with all parent-child relationships: we are theirs and they are ours – scars and all – for better or for worse.

Recognizing a Bit of Ourselves in the “Little Fat Detective Whose Name I Don’t Know”

What are 2 or 3 significant personality changes Dashiell Hammett makes to the character of the detective as portrayed by Edgar Allan Poe & Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?

Recognizing a Bit of Ourselves in the “Little Fat Detective Whose Name I Don’t Know”

What was that man’s name…that fellow who solved the case? Does it matter? It does not. Poe and Doyle name their detectives, yet Hammett’s Continental Op remains nameless. His name is not important – it is his actions that speak for him, and to us. Poe’s Dupin and Doyle’s Holmes are impartial, confident and precise. Robotic impartiality, utter confidence and mechanical precision are seemingly godlike qualities. Traits such as those might be admirable and necessary in a detective, but where’s the humanity? Enter Hammett’s Continental Op. This fellow seeks sensation and delivers humor with a sarcastic deadpan. He is sloppy at times and always in the line of fire – often literally. He is the human gumshoe, the fellow who walks amongst us, doing his job so that we might live more safely on these mean streets. The Op appeals to the reader on a more human level than Dupin and Holmes via his wit, his wits, and his fists. Hammett’s Op brings more human qualities to the role of the detective.

The Continental Op is downright funny. He’s sarcastic, self-depricating, and delivers an “in” joke to the reader with a very dry, deadpan wit. In “The Girl With the Silver Eyes,” in response to Pangburn’s description of Jeanne simply as the most beautiful woman in the world, he quips, “That would look nice on a reward circular.” A delicious zinger, yet shared only with the reader, not aloud. The Op is genuinely surprised as the crooks exit “The House in Turk Street,” and tells us, “According to the best dramatic rules, these folks should have made sarcastic speeches to me before they left, but they didn’t.” He gives us the information we need, along with a little light humor. Thanks for that, Op. We readers appreciate the humanness, shown in contrast to Doyle, for example, whose Holmes can be humorous, but not quite human.

While Dupin and Holmes may have their machinations detailed over several explanatory pages, Hammett’s Op talks us through the story. The Op tells it like it is, with no frills. He uses his wits – his experience, his gut – to follow the clues and solve the crime. He’s a thinker, certainly. The Op’s thinking is done on-the-job – recognizable for modern-day, hurried and busy readers. He thinks as he smokes, drives, eats, as he’s tied up, and even while he’s floating in San Francisco Bay. He has been doing his job a number of years and is proud of his tenure. He knows not to take Pangburn in “The Girl With the Silver Eyes” at face-value, and asks him for an endorsement or character witness. Like Dupin and Doyle, the Op’s instinct is to trust no one, for example Inés in “The Whosis Kid,” where he acknowledges, “I expected to disbelieve everything she said.” But our more human Op has quite a handful with Inés – literally cat-like on his lap. Dupin and Holmes had to deal with no such temptation. Quite a human challenge to overcome: being teased and cajoled while attempting to solve crime. Interrupted by the arrival of Billie, our Op, nearly at wit’s end, figures that he can play the jealousy card and get Billie to throw a punch. Physical violence allows the Op’s wits to outmatch even the strongest opponent.

In “The Whosis Kid,” the Op reminds us that, “The idea in this detective business is to catch crooks, not to put on heroics.” A fine sentiment, yet no sooner are the words out of his mouth than he’s struggling for control of a gun. Our Op craves action and seeks sensation in such a human way. Granted, Doyle placed Holmes and Watson in harm’s way, but our Op literally puts his body on the line, ass over teakettle, time and time again. Is it because he’s working for the Agency, or because that’s the kind of guy he is? There is an urge, in some of us, to push ourselves to the limit. The Op has that urge – call it testosterone – that drive that pushes him forward, getting into precarious situations.

 

The reader can admire or even be in awe of Dupin and Holmes, but does not necessarily want to be their friend. Our Op, on the other hand, would make a most enjoyable drinking buddy or guest at a weekend barbeque. He’s the fellow who will tell a fantastic story, and will keep an audience in rapt attention. Hammett knows that the reader does not need a robotic lecture. A reader wants to be spoken to, not spoken at. A more modern reader doesn’t need to be told tales, they want to have an experience. It might be thought that those who love to read are homebodies incapable of the need for action, but that’s far from true. Detectives like our Op bring us closer to the action every human craves. We need someone to trust – someone who will do the right thing and right wrongs. Hammett’s Op, as he says himself, is “constructed mostly of human ingredients.” By giving the Op those human characteristics – sarcasm, intuition, and violence – Hammett presents, for our approval, a Man – the Op – who could be any one of us, or at least a part of every one of us.

Brecht's "Baal" - Directorial Vision

I have long professed that I am one of the few stage managers with no desire to direct. When I read a play, it doesn’t occur to me to think through how to stage it, and when I work a show, I’m happy to take the director’s vision and run. For “Baal,” I will make an exception, if only on paper. We will assume I can direct, and this is my pitch meeting.
My production would be set in a 1930’s traveling carnival, à la HBO’s Carnivàle. The space would be outdoors amongst large cloth tents, and the audience would walk from scene to scene. No matinees allowed – only night performances, well after sunset. The experience would begin at the ticket window, with peanut and popcorn salespeople milling about, along with some tastes of what’s to come: a fortune teller, magician, perhaps a Three-card Monte trickster or weight guesser while the patrons wait for the play to begin. It is important that no interaction with a “carny” worker pre-show end with a good outcome for the patron. Their fortune should be dark, their weight should be guessed high, or their card game should not go well. They should be set up for failure. I don’t know if it’s historically correct, but I want a dunk tank, if only to set up an idea for Sophie later. It would be a bonus if we could outfit the place with outhouse-like restrooms.
I think I could get by with as few as three large cloth tents. All outside or forest scenes would be played outdoors. The remaining scenes – bars (Scenes 3, 7, 9, 13, 18) are Tent 1, Baal’s attic apartment (Scenes 2-4) are Tent 2, and cabins (Scenes 11 and 21 – also Scene 1, giving plenty of time for transformation) would be Tent 3. If we can budget one Tent more, all the better, being able to keep Scene 1 as-is and take it easy on the crew.
Sound design other than music is unnecessary. I am not a musician, so though Brecht has provided sheet music for some of the songs, I would ask my music director to keep it carnival-esque: lots of hurdy gurdy (as the play references), and certainly musicians who can move about as the audience moves – banjo, accordion, maybe a flute. The actor portraying Baal, of course, will have a guitar handy as needed.
I envision the show with shadowy lighting. I have no problem whatsoever with the use of modern lighting instruments, and think Brecht would agree. Patrons know they’re seeing a show, for heaven’s sake. I see strings of colorful lights strung from tent to tent, and of course the ticket booth will be quite bright, but otherwise, just suggestions of light well enough for the audience to see the actors.
The cast, as written, is huge. I think I could boil the actors down to 7-10 actors. I thought for a bit that perhaps all of Baal’s girlfriends/conquests could be played by the same actress, but I’ve changed my mind. I think that Emily, Johanna, Louise, and Sophie should be different actresses but that the remaining female roles could be taken on by one actress with various costume changes.
The actors who are not in ongoing scenes would become sideshow performers throughout the play. I understand Brecht’s wish for the words to be important, so I wouldn’t toss potentially scene-stealing sideshow acts into every scene, but I have thoughts on where that could work. Baal’s apartment, for example, would be absent of sideshow. But I think the audience should get a small taste of what’s coming in Scene 1, with perhaps a contortionist in place during Scene 1, just there, in a corner, doing their act, not a lot of movement. All of the bar scenes, would be perfect for sideshow during actual scenes. Scene 3 could perhaps have a bearded lady, a sword-swallower or a Siamese twin-like act going on in a corner while the scene unfolds. Scene 16 would certainly have a snake-charmer off to the side of the outside area (forest) while the scene goes on – a nice phallic suggestion never hurt anybody.
Costumes in general for the men should be browns and blacks – nothing showy. The ladies should have some color, but maybe muted pinks and mustards. Costuming the character of Baal has me a bit stumped. He should be dressed as if he belongs there at the carnival. At first I thought just a carny: dirtied-up, sleeves rolled, maybe a bit greasy, but that doesn’t make him stand out in any way. But maybe he shouldn’t. He’s not a man of means, so he doesn’t own the place. He sings, but has no will to do much else, so dressing him as some other type of performer would imply he would care to perform above and beyond what he does best. I think the carny worker costume is the way to go – perhaps making him pop with color – a burgundy or orange against more muddied colors of the others would do the trick. I want no one to look clean – perhaps with the exception of some of the characters in Scene 1. I want dinge to be the rule of the day.
I would like no curtain call. Perhaps a carnival barker or the musicians leading people out of Tent 3, but they’ve been brought down with Baal and don’t need to applaud the actors as a company. As the patrons exit and return to their vehicles, I would very much like the dunk tank to have remained in place, and have either the actress playing Sophie, or a dummy to look like her, to be floating dead (drowned) in the tank. Ekart should be slumped dead against the tank as well – he will have adequate time to get into place from Tent 1 where he was killed in Scene 18.
I think it is important that the audience come away with an experience. The staging of “Baal” in this arena – pun intended – would spread via word-of-mouth and bring audience who might normally not attend regular theater, much like sideshows of long ago, just to see what the heck is going on, for themselves. Producers welcome.

Television as an Agent of Socialization

The AMC series Breaking Bad is a study of one man’s descent into evil. Sociologically speaking, our topic is deviance. Motivated to crime as a means to an end, the show’s lead character breaks every social norm he’s ever known. Yet, he’s our hero. Breaking Bad enjoys rabid fandom and fans enjoy watching his brilliant machinations week after week. We don’t want to be like him, but it’s such fun to watch him. We are drawn to the deviant behavior perhaps because we couldn’t imagine trying it ourselves. As the layers of his secrets and deceit peel away, even for those closest to him, we watch. Will he get away with it? Could we?

To summarize the show as succinctly as I can, our hero is Walter White: a middle-aged married high school chemistry teacher with a teenage son, a baby on the way, a second job at a car wash who learns that he has inoperable lung cancer. Presented this death sentence, he decides to use his chemistry knowledge to cook – and with help, deal – crystal meth in order to create financial stability for his family long after he’s gone. Talk about breaking norms!

As the series progresses, writers pile deviant behavior on top of deviant behavior. His extended disappearances (cooking meth in the desert) are explained first to his wife as blackout episodes brought on by cancer treatment, then marijuana addiction brought on by cancer treatment. Once his wife learns the truth, the cover to his extended family is a gambling problem – which also explains the loads of cash the family suddenly has its hands on. Like any of the covering addictions are any less deviant! Such a brilliant device to draw us in – not-so-small deviances are made to seem that way, and cover a much darker truth.

In the Season 4 episode, “Cornered,” Walt is exactly that. I think this is an excellent moment in the show’s arc that captures the deviance both at its height and at its breaking point (pun intended). Walt’s developed superiority and greed is challenged at nearly every turn.

Walt’s son tries to analyze his father’s behavior. He goes through elaborate face-saving for his dad, telling him that gambling (one of the deviant lies-on-top-of-lies) isn’t his fault and that he knows he’s had a hard time. Walt doesn’t let himself off the hook because he knows his deviant behavior has nothing to do with circumstance. “What’s going on with me is not about a disease, it’s about choices. Choices that I have made. Choices I stand by.”

The Whites purchase the car wash where Walt used to work. Bogdan, the previous owner, gives him a lecture about being in charge. The Romanian smugly explains: “Being in charge is not easy. It takes hard work. The real important thing is to be tough. Boss has to be tough. Can you be tough, Walter? I’m sure you can handle. And if not, you can always call your wife.” Seriously? Walt’s killed plenty of men by now and makes millions of dollars a year. This insult spurs Walt to take Bogdan’s framed first dollar, smash it, and buy himself a soda. The once-feared Bogdan has been overtaken and remains nothing more than a joke.

Walt’s business partner, Jesse, is distracted by the Meth Proprietor, and Walt believes it’s a ruse. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. This whole thing – it’s all about me.” Paranoid much, Walt?

A tipsy Walt lays out a case to his DEA brother-in-law Hank that he doesn’t think Hank has captured his meth “kingpin” after all. The following morning, Walt’s wife accuses him of self-sabotage – a cry for help. “I think some part of you wants Hank to catch you.” Walt denies her accusation: “Who is it you think you see? Do you know how much I make a year? Even if I told you, you wouldn’t believe it. You clearly don’t know who you’re talking to, so let me clue you in: I am not IN danger, I AM the danger. A guy opens his door and gets shot, and you think that of me? No. I am the one who knocks.” Wow – pretty cocky stuff, and Walt knows it, too, because he justifies: “Everything I do – everything – I do it to protect this family.” His wife, however, knows his deviant greed has spiraled a level too far, and retorts, “Someone has to protect this family from the man who protects this family.”

Yet we want to like this fellow, Walter White. Somehow he is relatable, and it draws us back each week. Season after season, he “breaks bad” more deeply, but the viewer keeps watching. Show creator Vince Gilligan, in an interview, put it this way: “We’re taking the protagonist and over time turning him into the antagonist. We take him darker with every episode.” I find myself cheering each beating, poisoning, explosion, intentional car accident, murder. TV’s powers of socialization are tremendous. Rooting for the bad guy = great entertainment for the viewer and great ratings for the network.

It was said in class just today: there wouldn’t be conflict if there weren’t both good guys and bad guys. Socialization is the process by which we acquire necessary skills to perform as functioning members of society. It’s safe to sit on our sofas and root for the bad guy, and I think one of the ways we learn to behave well is by watching the fictionalized versions of those who deviate from our norms. We stand at the coffee machine the following morning and chat with our fellow fans about just how bad Walt was, and how much more bad he can potentially be next week. Tick-tock, Walt: this is your last season.

Review - Theater Emory's Persuasion

John Ammerman’s adaptation of Jane Austen’s Persuasion, produced by Theater Emory, tells of love lost, love on hold, and love prevailing. I was able to watch production progress from first rehearsal through closing performance, thanks to my position as light board operator. I’ll tackle this paper both as audience observer and as production team member.
Anne Elliot, considered a near-spinster past 25, puts on a brave face as her father has spent their fortune toward the brink of bankruptcy. With her godmother, Lady Russell, a plan is concocted to restore their wealth while renting their estate to Admiral Croft and his wife, Sophie Wentworth-Croft. This brings Anne’s past immediately to her present, as she was once engaged to Sophie’s brother Frederick – an engagement broken thanks to the encouragement of her advisors, as he was at the time a poor sailor with no money or title. Has he forgiven her? Will he even remember her? Anne puts on a brave face while pining for her one true love which may never come to fruition.
I heard several classmates say that this play was not their cup of tea, but I’m a sucker for a romance. The play is long, but Ammerman did a fine job taking the highlights of the book and telling the story in both a beautiful and understandable way. The dance at the top of the show – directly atop Sara Culpepper’s beautiful scenic charge work in Kell-lynch Hall – immediately took the audience to the world of the early 1800s. Marianne Martin came through yet again with an amazing costume design, perfect in every way. Some of the young actresses were stunned that they had to wear corsets underneath their dresses, though the empire waist barely accentuates actual body shape. A nice touch, I thought, of the turbans worn by Lady Russell and Lady Dalrymple, which I assume are a nod to British occupation of India. Speaking of hats, the naval officers were superbly resplendent in their uniforms, complete with Napoleonic bicornes. Leslie Taylor’s lovely set allowed for a myriad of entrances and exits, and Ammerman carefully transitioned scene-to-scene with the actors becoming stage hands to move curtains and furniture. A bit of great advice I remember from one of my favorite directors, Actor’s Express co-founding artistic director Chris Coleman. He always cautioned his directing students to embrace scene changes. If they have to happen, have fun with them. Rob Turner and Teresa Findley did a lovely job with the soundtrack, complete with a gorgeous Beverly Sills aria to encapsulate the final kiss at play’s end.
Cynthia Barrett, the vocal coach, had a lot on her plate with a cast of 23 actors. Two of them young boys and two of them native speakers, granted, a good bit to handle. That still doesn’t excuse her ignorance of Kristie Denlinger as Mary Elliot. We hear her father and both sisters speak long before she does, and when she does, it’s a comical voice reminiscent of Nancy from Oliver or Mrs. Lovett from Sweeney Todd. She might as well be Joshua Jacobs’s Peep Show barker. Kristie is a student, and I assume getting course credit for the performance. Barrett could have worked with her more and forced her to lose the commonness while keeping the comedy. Mary is a comic character, but her speech patterns just don’t match her family members, and I find it grating to my ears and inexcusable.
As far as shining stars in the cast, there are certainly many; notably, Emily Kleypas in the lead role, as Anne. I’ve not seen her in a Theater Emory show before, but have enjoyed her work in student theater, Starving Artists Productions. So great to see my friend Brian Kimmel again, playing Frederick. Brian is not only a professional actor, but an alumnus – another nice touch for the Emory student actors who might wonder if one can take a theater studies degree into the real world. Stalwart favorites Kathleen McManus and Allen Edwards must relish their deliciously worded roles, allowing Austen’s beautiful language to ring beautifully to our ears. Nice, too, that the student actors are given young roles and the professional actors the older roles. By the time you arrive in collegiate theater, you should be able to put your can of grey spray away and let the old be old, you know?
As the play moves throughout several locations in England, integral to the play are the projections and light, which set the mood for each location. The audience follows quite easily via portraits and window gobos or pastoral outdoor scenes and leafy gobos. Not only am I a sucker for romance, I’m a sucker for gobos and hope to use one or two in mini-form for my ¼” scale set. Gobos are a simple and straightforward way to help the audience know where they are. For Persuasion, window gobos remind us whether we’re at Kell-lynch Hall, Camden Place, or Lady Dalrymple’s salon.
The lights were definitely a collaboration and compromise between director and designer. It was personally interesting to witness the give-and-take during tech weekend. Timings of transitions as well as “mood” colors were hashed out and agreed upon quite amicably. Can the focus be more on center stage with less wash to the sides? Should the last moment be in a romantic pink or a wintry blue? Discuss! Elizabeth Waldman’s job wasn’t easy, thanks in good part to those aforementioned projections. How does one light the set and the actors without washing out the projections? Good question. A good amount of side light, thanks to lighting booms in the wings, was one solution.
A great thing about theater lighting is the ability to gauge levels of light. Projections are set, depending on the strength of the machine and the bulb within. Light levels can range from extremely dim to extremely bright, depending upon the need for light in the scene. In transitions, the actors need to be able to see; in scenes, the audience needs to be able to see the actors – and varying levels between. Manipulation of light on stage is also a manipulation of the audience eye. “Hey, look over here,” so to speak. Lighting helps the audience pay attention and helps guide them through the story. Waldman did a lovely job guiding the eye through scenes, into transitions, and back again to the world of Jane Austen.

Review - Theater Emory's The Lieutenant of Inishmore

Martin McDonagh’s The Lieutenant of Inishmore, recently produced by Theater Emory, encapsulates a moment of time in early 1990’s IRA war-torn Ireland. Padraic is away, serving in the INLA, and has asked one simple task of his father, Donny: look after his cat (Wee Thomas) while he’s gone. The play opens with said cat, brain-dripping and quite dead, in the arms of Padraic’s childhood friend, Davey. Donny and Davey must decide whether to confess to the violent and self-obsessed Padraic that his only friend in the world – this cat – is dead, or cover up the truth.
Dark humor injects itself throughout the play, beginning with the duo’s mad decision and near-obsession to cover up the crime rather than confess and deal with the nasty consequences. Among their ideas: telling Padraic he’s merely sick, and substituting and shoe-polishing another cat. When Padraic arrives home, their plan is to tell him Wee Thomas has a disease that makes him smell like shoe polish and “get all orangey.”
I thought the entire ensemble was well cast, and the director effortlessly melded the stage crew as well. Thanks to vocal coach Cynthia Barrett for making the actors’ brogues, for the most part, crisp and clear. McManus was lucky to find actors up to the caliber and height of Tim McDonough. Mairead, the only female character, had a difficult task of playing with the boys and proving in the end to be an even more zealous maniac than Padraic, her love. I found Teissler the most difficult to understand, and for some reason chose to focus her gaze out beyond the audience above far stage left. Perhaps the choice was to invoke a dreamy sixteen year old with an eye to a future far from Inishmore, but I found it distracting. The easiest to understand, I thought, was Jonathan Durie, who (I think) was the only non-American on stage. A tip of the hat to Mark Cabus’s Christy, lollipop-wielding and eye-patched, entering with the most benign greeting, “How do!” only to take a sinister turn on Padraic with his henchmen. Krakovsky and Harland made a lovable duo backing up Cabus, and it’s too bad that the audience’s hearts had already been won over by the other comic team, McDonough and Read.
Not having read the script, I can only hope that a brilliant directorial turn was taken by Donald McManus in having Tim McDonough in character as Donny giving the curtain speech each night with Wee Thomas, very much alive, in arms. A beautifully subtle way to get the audience – and PETA – to both see a live cat from the get-go, and reassure that no animals will be harmed during the production. I found it off-putting and unnecessary, however, for an ASM to cook food for the cat onstage before show. At first I thought that the point was to get the smell wafting through the air, but the smell didn’t last. Then I thought it was to show off that the play had a working hotplate, but that’s not such a great feat. All in all, no one needs to see an ASM’s backside for a solid ten minutes. I chalked it up as simply confounding.
In Kat Conley’s beautifully designed set, the main piece is Donny’s home. The large roof beams were either an optical illusion or cunningly designed, as they looked quite heavy and I was shocked to not see them stretch to the floor behind stage. A great use of space in front of the stage, a rocky shore along the front of the set took us outside to the shores of Inishmore, and a steel structure at stage right became Padraic’s torture warehouse in Northern Ireland. Kudos to the poor actor having to hang upside down for a good ten minutes…not to mention his fellow actor who had no means of cutting him down if necessary, as the winch was operated from below. I thought the physical separation of playing space not only helped denote geographic distance, but helped drive home that Inishmore is an island, and there’s something isolated and self-sufficient about island dwellers: every man for him- or her-self.
Liz Waldman’s sound structure was thoughtful throughout. Highlights for me were the water-dripping with echo effect for the warehouse, and the live drumming for “The Patriot Game.” I could have done without “Are You Ready for a War?” sung by the full cast at the end. If the purpose there was to uplift audience spirits after a dark show…it was catchy, certainly, but too long, and uplifted nothing.
The costumes were unremarkable – with no offense meant to designer Ros Staib, who had a slim palette to work within, with blood-cleaning issues and lots of drab/dull scenarios to consider. A nod, certainly, to Mairead’s dress, made entirely of men’s shirts and ties.
I must take issue with Wee Thomas’s reappearance at the end of the show. By the time the cat comes home, the point of the play has already hit home: terrorism is a fool's paradise – pointless and creating needless hurt and confusion. Concretely put via the cat’s return: all this fuss for nothing. So, why the bright light and angelic chorus? All the audience needs to see is the cat appearing on the window ledge (pushed or tossed from below by a willing ASM). Pardon the use of this word, but: overkill.
I was fortunate to work on McDonagh’s The Pillowman at Actor’s Express some years ago, and had seen Theater Gael’s staging of The Cripple of Inishmaan. Though I hadn’t read this play nor seen it live before, I guessed it would be gripping, bloody, gory, unsettling…or all of the above. I was stunned to learn that McDonagh is quite young – just 40. He has a bevy of plays under his belt as well as – I think – In Bruges was his screenplay, yes? Seeing Theater Emory feature a young(er) playwright is a nice bookend to the 6x6 productions that will end the season. Theater Emory has done a lot to surprise in the past few seasons: showing Ad Hoc they can do musicals, too, and now some blood & guts. I look forward to Persuasion, the rest of this season, and beyond.

Celine, Her Mom, an Old Dude and Some Kids

First of all, we've been bamboozled. I was under the impression that Celine's show on the Oprah Winfrey Network was going to be a docudrama, what with "A New Show" being part of the title. No, no. The "new show" is her new show in Vegas. Man!!

12-15-2007 A New Day - The Last Concert. 723 sold out shows, 3 million+ spectators. What's next, Celine? The Taking Chances World Tour 2008-2009...with her ancient mom, her ancient husband, and her long-haired son. ...and when I say long-haired, I mean he's giving Zuma Rossdale and Paris Jackson a run for their money.

Jump-cut to screaming fans and Celine yelling, "Is that all right, ______??" (insert random name of city she's playing, because that's what she yells to her fans after every encore. Taking Chances boasted 133 sold out shows over five continents, blissfully ending February 2009.

Rene-Charles, also known as "RC," is the aforementioned long-haired son. ...and I hope you're sitting down, but he speaks French. Also blissfully ending with the concert: his long hair. He now looks like a normal blue-eyed boy. Back to her Florida home, where RC begins school and Celine begins invitro fertilization.

Cut to: Larry King, February 2010. "Are you trying?" (to have a baby), says King. "We're trying. We tried 4 times." Christ, I hope she means actual sex, not times of invitro. Damn, she means invitro. Cut to: the Oprah interview. She and Oprah crying, talking about her miscarriage and how they're on their 5th try. Invitro. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Have I mentioned that in and out of commercial breaks, the songs playing in the background are these exquisite midi file-type versions? Her hits and others. Truly awful.

So, the babies arrive October 23rd. Baby A and Baby B, to start - unnamed at birth. They are boys, eventually Nelson and Eddy. Perhaps a nod to Nelson Eddy, the late singer/actor? We'll never know - they didn't say, and Wikipedia won't confirm. The Vegas show is supposed to open 3-15-2011. Do THAT math. Less than five months, after gaining 60 some-odd pounds during pregnancy.

Celine, what's most difficult: delivering a baby or delivering a show? "Delivering a show." Wow.

We get to see her at home in Florida - big, white house on the ocean with a lot of big, white furniture. Even the twins' room has mostly white (with hints of green - she's no monster, for god's sake!) The living room includes one of those 60's round plastic chairs that you'd see in Ann-Margaret's room in Tommy. Awesome. At home: no show business. That's her rule. Two months before show, rehearsals begin. Celine says that during her pregnancy, she stopped vocal exercises because it would give her contractions, so she's well outta practice.

We also get to see her prep for breast pumping. No nip show, just prep. Pumping for her babies is what she loves about being a mom. Breast milk is food AND love.

BTW, I hope you're sitting down when I tell you that she's driven EVERYWHERE. I wonder if she knows how? Full-on limo, not just a big town car. Eff You, world.

Songs we get tastes of, trying out for the show: Open Arms, The Man in the Mirror, Ben (yes, there's a Michael Jackson tribute - as I said before, she's no monster). She tries Billy Joel's Good Night, My Angel, and she has a total mega breakdown. She can't make it through, and says she loves Billy Joel, but that song won't make the cut - the lyrics are too sad. She FEELS, yo.

Back at home, she's visited by the head designer from Versace. He arrives with personal gifts from Donatella herself (a handbag and sunglasses), from Milan, with a note. We get to hear about her worries over leftover baby fat - interestingly, easily seen in her normal clothes, but she is Spanx'd to the max or something because she's cutting a lovely figure in her gowns. She's a fan of the one-sleeve, one bare arm look. SO modern. Not.

We also get to see her 10-year old son's green-screen rehearsal for the James Bond montage - she'll have him with her onstage every night on film. Um, not really - his film will run while she has a costume change. Whatevs. Lovely bit of her telling us about how proud she is of him and how handsome he is, while he mock-mimes her the whole time. He pitches a fit - in french - I don't hear him speak anything else during the whole show, actually - that he's been given a break for the upcoming Chicago trip: no homework. Celine is in disbelief that THIS is her challenge: a kid who likes studying. Rene comforts her. He's a husband and father at home, not her manager. Ew.

Are you still sitting down? Celine's getting on a private jet. ...because it's time to fly to Chicago to The Oprah Show to announce her new show in Vegas. Worried about the babies travelling, but they're champs. Probably heavily drugged, too - who's to say.

Oprah tells her audience that this Celine appearance marks the most appearances EVER by a guest on the Oprah Show. Speaking of Oprah - you'll note that it's twice now the woman has been heavily featured on this program about someone else. Yes, we get it. This Celine program is on The OWN. She owns you. Also on this particular Oprah show - a woman with sextuplets. Random woman from somewhere USA with Celine, talking about how hard it is to raise multiples. Are you freaking kidding me? The millions of dollars and nannies help. Oh, wait - the random sextuplet mom doesn't HAVE millions or nannies. Celine just needs to yell for her ancient mom or some woman named Linda, and she's set. The Oprah appearance is live in Chicago literally the day before the Vegas show opens. Back on the plane to midi strains of Where Does My Heart Beat Now?

Driven from the private jet to Caesar's Palace, the marquee reads: Welcome Home, Celine. Thousands of fans/Caesar's employees line the driveway, steps and lobby to greet her & the fam. They have to move in to a penthouse there because her Las Vegas home is being renovated (because 4-month-old babies need room to roam) and isn't ready yet.

Costume fittings on-site next day: she doesn't want a lot of boob-focus. Food + Love makes her breasts bigger you see. There's also a super-short gold number. Let's just say, she shouldn't stand downstage in it. I lost count at about 8-10 costume changes throughout the show.

More family time - the babies are baptized on March 5th. Rene's three grown children (Anne Marie, Jean Pierre & Patrick, easily Celine's age) AND Rene-Charles are the godparents. It is at the church where we learn that the aforementioned Linda, who's always taking care of the babies, is her SISTER! Wikipedia tells me a few interesting things I'll interject here: Celine is one of 14 children (where are the others??) and Celine is Rene's third wife, and he had been divorced twenty years before he married Celine. He is 26 years her senior. "I know her since she was 12." Ew. It's a happy day, and as the babies are baptized, Stevie Wonder's midi'd "Overjoyed" plays as we fade to commercial.

Premiere day! Rene confesses that he's never been so nervous, and he hasn't been able to sleep. The rest of the production team says the same. Who's relaxed, but happy and can't wait: Celine! She sings "All Coming Back to Me" for sound check - and Celine loves her some sound checks.

Seriously, sit down: Celine does her own make-up. No joke. She's got a dresser, but didn't see another person touch her face.

"How Do You Keep the Music Playing" involves the real Celine wandering the audience, while a videotaped Celine performs a duet with live Celine. Rene says Celine herself thought it too pretentious, but he insisted. Double your pleasure, baby.

Day after premiere: Rene is Celine's biggest fan AND biggest critic. They have a critique session. Pretty much involving how she needs to move downstage in the top number to not get whacked by the falling drapery. It's actually a lovely effect that reveals the orchestra & singers. Rene proclaims, "This is the best show I've seen since I know you." She replies, "Come back tomorrow - I'm here every night." (NOTE - just for fun, went to see if that's true. Um, no, she does 4 shows a week AND it's going to cost you love three-figure range minimum, and don't think you can get tickets until at least New Year's.)

If you don't get tickets, here are some of the numbers you'll miss (among some I've mentioned already): Open Arms (opening number), Power of Love, This Is For You, The Reason, Declaration of Love, Love Can Move Mountains, All By Myself, River Deep/Mountain High, My Heart Will Go On (like she's gonna leave that one out). She reflects on "At 17," by saying that she was not a good looking teenager: bad teeth, extremely skinny, not good in school, didn't feel pretty. So, she feels for the teenagers out there. "Ne Me Quitte Pas," by Jacques Brel, is a song about love lost and strong despair. "One of the most emotional songs ever written," and she cries every night...and gets a standing ovation for it every night. Oh, the humanity.

Oh, and the James Bond montage. Goldfinger starts it, and it's just bad. Not her song at all. Oh, and she scats. She scats. Gonna crack into your bank account now??

Appropos of nothing, She loves her husband very much and says it's tough to live with her and it isn't easy because she's disciplined and she's intense. No shizz, Sherlock! Rene says that an interviewer asked Celine if she wants another baby and she answered that door is not closed. Celine ends with, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Am I ready to be pregnant in Vegas and perform? Stay tuned!"

Poem as Parable: Wilfred Owen’s Harsh Lesson

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
and builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

The story of how Abraham, in obedience to a direct command from God, nearly sacrifices his first-born son, Isaac, is one of the most perfectly written short narratives in the Old Testament. Parables teach a lesson, and Wilfred Owen takes his place among Aesop, Confucius and Plato in the canon of education via his “The Parable of the Old Man and the Young.” He keeps close to the Old Testament story, but takes a twist. This poem-length allusion receives an entirely unexpected ending, proclaiming disgust with war.

The war paralleling this poem is World War I, once given the moniker, “The Great War.” War, great? Not at all – “great” merely connotes “large.” Consider the gravity of the poem’s final line, when “half the seed of Europe, one by one” is destroyed. Seed, of course, a euphemism for ejaculate, represents millions and millions of lives. Human ejaculate contains anywhere from 180-400 million sperm. Estimates tally the total number of military casualties from World War I at 37.5 million overall, the United Kingdom at 1.6 million alone – Owen among them. The most bitter irony of all, the editor notes, is that Owen was killed in the final days of battle.

Owen himself was first-born, and the third line of this poem, “And as they sojourned both of them together,” implies that fathers walk with their sons into battle. Father Abraham sends his son to the sacrificial table and the son trusts enough to believe he will return home safely – a belief that becomes a horrible judgment error. The sacrificial allusion itself brings the entire Abraham story to mind, as Isaac’s birth came as both a joy and a surprise, with Abraham elderly, and Sarah beyond childbearing years. The name Isaac, roughly translated, is “he laughs,” and hearkens Abraham’s wife’s disbelieving guffaw when told she will give birth at her advanced age. Isaac, the solitary sacrificial lamb poetically representing millions of sons, rings a hollow laugh in Owen’s version.

The parable begins with images of “fire and iron,” whereas Abraham’s implements are simply fire, wood and a knife. Owen’s modernizing tactics become increasingly clear, with the anachronism of “iron” and images of tanks and cannon blasts. The Old Testament Isaac was merely bound to the pyre, but Owen’s Isaac is bound by modern battle-like adjectives, “straps and belts,” and then, unmistakably, “parapets and trenches” to create the funeral pyre. Staying true to the original plot, Owen continues with the angel’s stay of execution. His heavenly “angel” is lowercase, yet capitalization emphasizes the symbolic “Ram of Pride.” A capitalized Angel would perhaps pull more weight, but Owen’s Abraham does not take the free pass. In an ironic twist, Abraham here does what his Old Testament counterpart does not. One son sacrificed for the good of all stays in both the Old Testament and the New, but not here.

Owen is concerned both with the tragedy of war and with its bitter irony. How much less it would cost a leader to slaughter a single Ram of Pride instead of millions of young men “one by one.” The poem reveals the sheer ridiculousness of arrogant militarism. The Genesis story has no such moral. It ends with the Angel promising Abraham that his seed, multiplying like stars and sand grains, will “possess the gates of his enemies.” Its subject is the nation’s dream of victory; not pitying war but winking at its deceptive glory. Good war poetry, whether by Homer, Melville or Owen, conveys authenticity and guarantees its integrity by raw images and rough-hewn reportage. Owen gives us raw and rough-hewn, but in this poem he stands back from his subject matter: he is here to preach, and his matter is serious and specific. [The Ram of] Pride goeth before a fall, the hubristic idiom recalls, and the fall of millions in war begins with one blade stroke. Such loss, at such cost.

The Inevitable Buzz Saw: Robert Frosts’s “Out, Out – ”

"Out, Out – " by Robert Frost

The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside him in her apron
To tell them “Supper.” At the word, the saw,
As if it meant to prove saws know what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap -
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all –
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart –
He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off -
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!”
So. The hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then – the watcher at his pulse took a fright.
No one believed. They listened to his heart.
Little – less – nothing! – and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

“Out, Out – ” retells a gruesome tale of a pastoral scene turned tragic. Why would a poet choose such a scene? Frost’s first-hand witness invokes inevitable sympathy and pathos for a boy, yet the narrator remains emotionless. Perhaps the poem’s title hints at an answer, in the allusion to the final scene of Shakespeare’s “Macbeth.” The symbol of that flickering, brief candle represents the brevity of life. In “Out, Out – ” few personal comments are made on the poet’s part, suggesting an idea of the inevitability of death and the futility of life. A slice-of-life cycle: presented for consumption, digested, and passed, leaving the reader to proceed to another day, another poetic meal. Day is done – bring on another. It may be like yesterday, it may not. Frost himself said, “In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life. It goes on.” This has all happened before and will happen again. The reader remains with poetic crumbs on the plate, rather than with emotions wrung dry.

Vivid imagery at the onset: sound, sight and smell, permeate the senses. Against the din of the saw buzz, images of falling sawdust, stove-length sticks, the five mountain ranges and a Vermont sunset are meant to please, topped by the olfactory “Sweet-scented stuff” (3) wafted by a breeze complete a minds-eye view. The onomatopoeia of the opening salvo, “The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard” (1), is redoubled a bit later: “And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled” (7). The power tool has animalistic life. “Snarled” evokes angry dogs, wolves, and other wild beasts. “Rattled” conjures a venomous fanged snake giving imminent warning of a strike. The saw itself has a ring to it: the buzz of an angry yellowjacket or wasp hive. Each adjective resonates with sound and fury. The juxtaposition of the buzz-saw against a tranquil setting highlights the conflict between technology and nature, wherein the boy is forced to relegate his childhood, thereby going against Nature.

In this agrarian setting, a boy does the work of a man: operating a power saw. Boys, being boys, appreciate release from labor even more than their grown counterparts. How fortuitous that the boy’s sister, doing the work of a woman, arrives apron-clad, “To tell them ‘Supper’” (14), at which point he is “saved from work” (12). The buzz saw underlines the boy’s mechanical routine - this part of the day occurring by rote, each day, every day. Workaday ordinary, reinforced by the empty understatement, “And nothing happened: day was all but done” (9). The girl arrives, the men can “Call it a day” (10), the narrator regretfully adds, “I wish they might have said” (10).

“As if it meant to prove saws know what supper meant, leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap - He must have given the hand” (15-17). Ironically, to give one’s hand suggests a greeting in friendly handshake. This boy, in the end, gives much more than that. The buzz saw, a typically inanimate object, becomes a cognizant being, aggressively snarling and rattling. When the sister makes the dinner announcement, the saw demonstrates a mind of its own by “leaping” out of the boy’s hand in its excitement. The boy, still a “child at heart” (24), is not to blame for the accident; the saw is. Irony continues as the boy utters “a rueful laugh” (19). His laughter is a shocked outcry rather than a mere snicker.

The boy loses his hand in this nasty accident, but more tragically unexplainable is that while under the doctor’s anesthesia, the boy dies – apparently of shock. None in attendance can believe it. Senseless: a death signifying nothing. The boy pleads to a fellow child, his sister: “Don’t let him, cut my hand off, [sister!]” (25-26). In a lovely metonymous gesture, he holds up the hand “as if to keep the life from spilling” (21-22). Blood spills with a tilt of an arm, but life hangs in the balance. The boy’s gesticulation is a mere attempt, since nothing can be done, for he is still enough of an adult to realize that he has lost too much blood to survive. Above all, the boy hopes to maintain physical dignity in death, rather than die with a missing hand. A revelatory moment, “He saw all spoiled” (25), a vision of himself in future – a grown but incomplete man – explains the choice to let life spill. A choice – perhaps not shock at all.

Frost seems flippant in a concluding line, “No more to build on there” (33). At first the phrase seems a wry and callous reference to construction jobs where power saws are important to the overall build. But perhaps the narrator refers to life, in that there is nothing more to report. Life, eventually snuffed like an extinguished candle, the boy’s heartbeat or pulse that fades, “Little – less – nothing!” (32). Nothing can be built on nothing. Certainly sorrow, mourning and a tearful funeral will come, but none of that pertains to the poet’s message. The living have lives to lead, foundations to build upon.

By the end of the poem, the narrator runs out of words for the tragedy of the boy’s death. While the first twenty-six lines contain elegant metaphors and descriptions of the scene, the final eight lines are detached and unemotional. The narrator’s “So” and “No more to build on there” (27, 33) reveal that even the narrator is unable to find any explanation for a young boy’s death. A day happened, and in that day, this moment happened. In the last line of the poem, the narrator is completely detached, almost as if indifference is the only way to cope with the boy’s death. The people of this New England town “[turn] to their affairs,” (34) and can do nothing more than move on with their lives, as must we. The boy’s life, this poem, and life itself – a brief candle.

“Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
– William Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act V, Scene V