Category Archives: Reviews

Random Musings

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By

Susan Kelly

Susan KellyI had gotten about six hundred words into a “normal” column when, to my chagrin, I realized that I’d already written pretty much the same thing a few months ago. I attribute this to the fact that I have a major-league head cold, and when I have one of those, my cognitive and creative processes (apparently my memory as well) seem to slow. That, of course, is a civilized way of saying that I’m currently sneezing and blowing my brains into a handkerchief.

So, given my currently limited capabilities, I thought I’d try to amuse you, and myself, with some random musings on various topics.

  1. Does anyone seriously believe that Donald Trump is questioning Ted Cruz’s eligibility to be president because he’s worried on behalf of Cruz? Isn’t this what’s known as “concern trolling”?
  2. If you live in New England, you’ll be gloomily aware that we are, as I write, undergoing that ghastly meteorological phenomenon known to the weather soothsayers as “wintry mix.” Rain. Snow. Sleet. Rain. Snow. Sleet. Rain. Then the temperature drops and the whole mess freezes into cement. I would—as I complained in an email earlier today to our gracious host—rather have all snow. It’s much easier to clean up after. I’m not asking for a re-run of January 2015, when the greater Boston area got buried under 101 inches of snow over the course of three weeks. But “wintry mix”—which sounds like it should be something you serve with drinks at a cold weather cocktail party—is the pits.
  3. Biographies of celebrities, particularly those in the entertainment biz, are usually awful: badly written, for one thing. But I read one recently that I really enjoyed. That was Girls Like Us, a literary triptych about Carole King, Joni Mitchell, and Carly Simon, by Sheila Weller. If you have any interest at all in the history of rock, soft rock, and folk-rock music, and more specifically in three of the great women practitioners of the genres, you’ll enjoy this. Weller can write.
  4. I also enjoyed Jay Parini’s Empire of Self, a biography of Gore Vidal. It provides some analysis of Vidal’s writings, which Fred Kaplan’s 1999 Gore Vidal didn’t, though Kaplan provides a more detailed look at Vidal’s life. Vidal apparently hated the Kaplan book, which was written while he was still alive. Memo to all prospective biographers: Wait till your subject has kicked the bucket before you begin your opus.
  5. Back to politics. It seems—are you ready for this—that Donald Trump is claiming credit for the release of the Iranian hostages. Yes. You read that right. Apparently it was his blustering that terrorized the Iranians into submission. Good thing D-Day took place on June 6, 1944. Otherwise he’d be taking bows for having masterminded the seminal event of the twentieth century. And I think some of his fans would believe him.
  6. Well, according to the latest weather prognostication, it’s going to snow here tomorrow and Monday. Just snow. No rain. No sleet. Best of all, I don’t have to shovel it.

And with that, I think I’ll sign off for the time being. Gotta go blow my nose. Have a good MLK Day.

MAKING A MURDERER

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By

Zachary Klein

zach1ProfileWhat’s important about Making A Murderer ( MaM) isn’t the fate of the defendants in and of itself, but what it exposes about the cancerous underbelly of our criminal justice system. We read or watch the ongoing news reports about police shootings of unarmed citizens and the mass incarceration of people of color, but what MaM brings to the table is the gut shock of knowing that this case is no isolated incident. Rather, some variation of theme happens somewhere, maybe more than one somewhere, all across our country every day.

I’m no stranger to conspiracy theories. Researching an aborted espionage novel way back when, I pored through the 1975 United States Senate Select Committee to Study Governmental Operations with Respect to Intelligence Activities (Church Committee) and, the United States House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence (Pike Committee). These hearings made public the “family jewels”—that is, the CIA’s clandestine and covert actions throughout much of the world—which left little doubt that, at times, conspiracies do indeed exist.

But my relationship to conspiracies didn’t turn out to be purely academic. While working for a number of national law firms as a trial and jury consultant I was asked to spend most of a summer investigating the Murrah Building bombing in Oklahoma City in an attempt to discover whether the Federal government had any foreknowledge about the attack. (Another story for another time.)

And my connection to conspiracies didn’t stop at alleged federal malfeasance. I also spent years with different law firms uncovering an entire industry’s lies to its workers, the government, and the public for more than two decades about the lethal effects of its manufacturing processes and some of its products. Thousands upon thousands of documents were unearthed, clear evidence that major players from different corporations within that industry conspired to keep virtually all negative information buried.

Still, despite my library time and personal experience, I’m really leery and usually react with skepticism when I hear people talking or writing about one conspiracy after another. It all begins to feel like Mad Magazine. So, when I first read about Netflix’s original documentary, Making a Murderer, I had, as usual, a raised eyebrow.

Filmmakers Moira Demos and Laura Ricciardi spent ten years working on this series which traces Steven Avery once he was freed from prison after spending eighteen years incarcerated due to a wrongful rape conviction. (Project Innocence and DNA were responsible for his exoneration.)

Thirteen months after his release, October 12, 2004, Avery brought a thirty-six million dollar federal lawsuit for a wrongful conviction against Wisconsin’s Manitowoc County, its former Sheriff, Thomas Kocourek, and former District Attorney Denis Vogel. About a year and change after filing suit (November 9, 2005) Avery was arrested and charged with the murder and incineration of a young, twenty-something photographer, Teresa Halbach. Eventually his sixteen year old nephew, Brendan Dassey, was also charged along with Steven.

The series explores the incredibly sloppy, manipulative, and likely illegal police work that went into Avery’s first conviction and, subsequently, MaM takes a hard look at the police, Manitowoc’s sheriff, and DA as they build the Halbach murder case against both the uncle and nephew.

In stark terms, the documentary raises the question of whether the defendants were flat-out framed in response to the lawsuit which might have ruined the county’s finances and exposed the extraordinary incompetence and/or outrageously illegal police behavior.

About halfway into the documentary, the police’s unwillingness to look at any other potential perpetrators, the hinkiness of evidence discovery and collection, the refusal by the Sheriff’s office to stay away from the investigation despite their own self-recusel, and what appeared to be a coordinated love dance between the DA, Sheriff’s office, police, and eventually the judiciary made neutrality unimaginable—whether or not the accused were, in fact, innocent or guilty. The interrogation scenes of Brendan alone were a textbook rendition on how not to conduct an interview if one was after even a scintilla of truth. Worse, this “Reid Method” of interviewing suspects is used throughout the U.S. despite the serious and significant issues with its reliability.

(More unnerving than the police’s behavior toward Brendan, his own court appointed attorney and the attorney’s “investigator” worked hand in glove with the authorities—using the same interrogation techniques—to ensure convictions, not only for Steven, but Brendan as well. The fact that this attorney is still allowed to practice is mind-boggling.)

The scope of the series also includes the effects of the murder charges on the extended Avery family and, at least, Teresa Halbach’s brother as they react to the investigation, trials, and verdicts. Although none are folks with whom I could particularly identify, (including the two defendants), watching the toll those ten years take is excruciatingly painful.

As with any controversial work, the discussion that has ensued following the film’s release rages on. Those who believe the two men were railroaded have petitioned and demanded federal investigations of Manitowoc County. And, of course, those who are, or were, in positions of authority within the county, decry the film’s point of view claiming much of what was ignored in the documentary confirmed the State’s case, the jury’s conclusion, and the two judge’s sentences.

No matter the arguments, Making a Murderer raises huge questions about how our criminal justice system actually functions. I really don’t know whether Avery and Dassey are guilty or not. Frankly, the courtroom drama and verdicts aren’t the film’s wake up call. The Manitowoc County’s police, Sherriff’s office, D.A., and judges are worse than simply an embarrassment to a country that claims justice is blind. Blind does not mean corrupt and venal with revenge as its first order of importance which was the likely reality behind Avery and Dassey’s prosecution. The overt and clearly detailed abuse of power that rained upon the two defendants left me sickened. And this despite my “conspiracy” experience and my work with a Court appointed criminal defense attorney.

All that legal work quashed much of my respect for our criminal and civil justice system. Making Of a Murderer has damn near eliminated the rest.

“Most of what ails our criminal justice system lie in unwarranted certitude on the part of police officers and prosecutors and defense lawyers and judges and jurors that they are getting it right. That they are simply right. Just a tragic lack of humility in everyone who participates in our criminal justice system”  ~ Dean Strang (One of Steven Avery’s defense attorneys.)

A SELF DIVIDED

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BY

ZACHARY KLEIN

I’ve written about the Showtime program Homeland a number of times with my last comment (I think) a couple of years ago. A new season has begun and, as most of the show’s other seasons, it’s high quality and anxiety producing. Although I’ve only seen the first three episodes, the series is once again a plot driven spy versus spy versus double agents drama. And once again it has raised questions for me. In our present era when every Muslim is often seen as a potential enemy and threat, it’s complicated to look forward every week to a terrific TV series that is built around a world view I detest.

Well, I just doubled down on that conundrum. Prisoners of War (original Hebrew title being Hatufim, (which translates to “Abductees”) is the threadbare low budget Israeli show upon which Homeland is based. In fact, after Hatufim won Israel’s Academy Award For A Television Series was sold to 20th Century Fox, some of the program’s creators and cast have been directly involved with the US show. We brought the dvds home from the library and have barreled through most of Season One. Gotta say, so far it’s a much better series, focusing intently upon the two ex-prisoners of war and the effects their release after seventeen years has upon themselves, their families, and everyone in close contact. Especially the Israeli intelligence community.

No surprise I’d find Prisoners the better show. People who have read any of my Matt Jacob novels or even my Just sayin’ series Interviews With The Dead (King Richard lll, Truman Capote, Martin Luther King, Norman Mailer and more to come) know my writing is character driven. Although I’m sure there will be more spy versus spy as Prisoners progresses, fact is, the characters are already more fleshed out and complicated than those in Homeland. The truthfulness of the relationships between each of the characters and the situations in which they find themselves feels true to the bone. And more. This is a particularly smart show where the unexpected occurs at exactly the right moment with writing and acting I just love.

But here’s the rub. Prisoners of War has raised even more misgivings inside than Homeland. Anyone who knows me knows my feelings about the overwhelming abuse and injustice the Israeli government exacts upon the Palestinian people. And while Prisoners has yet to identify the kidnappers, it doesn’t take a weatherman to imagine who they were.

So here I am, once again, praising a show whose politics sicken me.

Pablo Picasso was a misogynist his entire life—using women then kicking them to the side once he was done with them. Yet it’s impossible to ignore that he was arguably the greatest artist of the twentieth century who created Guernica, the most important anti-war painting many of us have ever seen. Even Diego Rivera, whose murals closely reflect my own political point of view, was often questionable when it came to his personal life. And, of course, there’s always the Ezra Pound dilemma.

Music, theater, and literature are also overloaded with artists who created great work but I wouldn’t invite to dinner. (Actually, there are some on my list who disgust me as people, but I’d love to engage in conversation.)

Firesign Theater’s album title, How Can You Be In Two Places At Once When You’re Not Anywhere At All, only half describes my plight. I am somewhere. Stuck between my values about humanity and art I enjoy or even love, at the same time made by people who make my skin crawl. Hell, it’s hard enough to bridge the contradiction about individual artists, but when two television shows I consider art (ok TV haters, take your shots) present attitudes and behavior I abhor, that interior contradiction becomes even more difficult to transcend.

But in for a dime bag, in for a pound. Throughout my own artistic life I’ve maintained that it’s essential to separate people’s creations from the individuals themselves. I’ve always believed to not do so would lose too many important, thought-provoking, often beautiful experiences.

For all the agita these two series raise, that’s my belief and I’m sticking to it. If a creation merits consideration as art, then I’m going to view it as such—despite its content or creator. To be otherwise would undercut my convictions about freedom of speech. And just as I won’t judge a person simply by their politics or beliefs, neither will I judge creative expression only by the person who created it or the content it presents.

So how to recommend a television series that triggers serious internal conflicts? For those who don’t share my ideas about the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, it’s easy. Rent or borrow Prisoners of War and enjoy great television.

For those that do share my Middle East politics, I’d say grit your teeth and, for this series, allow art to trump.

“What is life without incompatible realities?” ~ Ursula K. Le Guin

OLD DOG, FRESH EARS

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by

Zachary Klein

So it’s mid-afternoon and I’m tired. As much as I hate it, the recliner is still the most comfortable seat for my post-op arm. Down I go and on goes the television. The opening credits of a documentary called Springsteen & I hit the screen. I wasn’t thrilled with the movie, but there was enough of his music to keep my attention. And to keep it long after the movie ended and had me on my knees rummaging through cds trying find anything Springsteen.

You lived on another planet to be unaware of Bruce Springsteen during the past forty plus years, but my only real connection with him was an album called The Rising. I played that sucker over and over until everyone in the house screamed whenever I got near the player. Inexplicably my love of that album didn’t push me into his other music. I’m a jazz guy who left rock and roll right around the time Led Zeppelin blew up the charts.

Maybe it was Springsteen’s “fast” songs whose words I couldn’t decipher and was reluctant to google the lyrics. Or perhaps I’d caught the musical elitism that jazz can generate. And though I knew he “brought it” to every single performance, so did the Rolling Stones. Basically I considered Springsteen just another back-beat rock and roller with an energetic band.

Well, after two weeks burying my days in his music, watching documentaries about the making of his albums (Born To Run, Darkness At The Edge Of Town, The Seeger Sessions) and concert films, I’m here to tell you I’ve been a cement head. What I heard is a musical poet who uses rock to frame most of his work. And, many times, a songwriting novelist.

There’s really nothing new about narrative songwriting. I’d guess it’s been around since people penned words to music. But to believe—as I did—Springsteen simply wrote songs that tell a superficial straightforward story was to miss the depth of his art.

Racing In The Street, a track from Darkness At The Edge Of Town, is a six-minute novel. Beginning, middle, conclusion, character arcs, movement—with lines of major league poetry within. This song-novel is special in its multiple levels of meaning. A rippling effect that goes beyond the song itself. The ability to touch people who never even imagined owning a car with a hemi still walk away moved by the song’s effect.

Moreover, the song has the ability to shade meanings in the way it’s played. On the original album the overwhelming emotion is poignancy. But, his 1999 Oakland E-Street Band concert, as he finishes singing, the band virtually replays the entire song, only a driving piano leads the rest of the group to create a sense of hope and optimism underneath that poignancy. By the end, your foot is tapping rather than your eyes watering.

I don’t have to stop with Racing In The Street. Damn near every Springsteen album creates a mood in which one or more of its songs transcend the song’s surface story. A discussion in one of the movies revolved around Springsteen’s desire to create different moods with each album, which, after careful listening, he actually does. (I was told by a Bruce mavin that he also wants his albums to leave the listener wanting more; an invitation, so to speak, to attend his concerts.)

It’s interesting. Springsteen and I are just about the same age. It’s easy to see how a Dylan, Elton John, or Paul Simon can keep on keeping on the way they perform, but how do you keep a firecracker lit and exploding concert after concert? There’s no sleepwalking through this rocker’s greatest hits. I’m beginning to believe the Springsteens and Jaggers will just keep rocking until they keel over. Definitely worse ways to go.

So much has been written about Springsteen’s connection to the working class and his politics over the years, there’s no need to rehash. So I’ll stick with his art. One of the learning experiences that really impressed during my Bruce Fest is the breadth of his work, the different styles in which he chooses to work, his constant growth without losing his history or roots. That willingness and sensibility to stay ‘now’ and look back simultaneously demanded that I eyeball the limits of my own thinking and openness. Springsteen has the ability to stretch his mind and vision along with a commitment to pay homage to those who came before (The Seeger Sessions: We Shall Overcome) and turn those old-time songs into modern, breathing, living music. Special is, indeed, special.

Then there’s the undercurrent to much of his work. He brings a genuine belief in the American Dream, all the while seeing damn near everything that stands in its way. Our wars, our racism, our alienation, our despair that anything can turn this country around makes Springsteen’s unyielding, often unspoken belief, a breath of fresh air. A present day echo of “keep hope alive.”

But most of all I’ve come to respect the humanity that rides shotgun with his art. And that humanity has been there since Greetings From Asbury Park (1973) right though High Hopes (2014).

All of this just goes to show you that:

”Some guys just give up living and start dying little by little, piece by piece. Some guys come home from work and wash up, and go racing in the street.”~ Bruce Springsteen

A very special note of gratitude to Andrei Joseph who took hours of his time to school me in the ways of Bruce and provided virtually all my listening and watching material. Learning something new is like racing in that street. Thank you, Chico.

SEASON 3 EPISODE 10

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I never jumped on the Breaking Bad bandwagon when it first turned up on television. After the first season was released on DVD, however, Sue borrowed it from a friend but said it made her too tense to watch. Since I still hadn’t gotten into it, I was fine about her returning the set.

Then the series began coming to its conclusion and it seemed as if the only interviews on radio and TV were of the cast, director, and creator. Even Charlie Rose did his annoying gushing about the program, but what caught my attention was the focus creator/writer/producer Vince Gilligan received. Sure, there was an avalanche of accolades heaped on Bryan Cranston, who played Walter White the main character, Anna Gunn, Water’s wife Skyler, and Aaron Paul as his youthful sidekick Jessie Pinkman, but the amount of consideration given to Gilligan surprised me. Few people in his position garner the raves he received as the show’s end drew near. He was the creative force and wrote many of the scripts (and oversaw the others) like David Chase of The Sopranos.

About the same time my son Jake gave me Apple TV as a present and I decided to spring for  Netflix Streaming and give Breaking Bad another shot. Well, I’m very glad I did. It is a damn good series with exceptional acting and writing, though I don’t believe it in any way, shape, or form surpasses The Sopranos or even the best years of The Wire. Still, it’s certainly a “contendah.” In an age where you have 180 channels and still find nothing to watch, that’s an impressive do.

But I’m not writing this column to compare television series, or even to analyze Breaking Bad as a whole. I’m writing about Season 3, Episode 10 called Fly. I don’t know if Fly more closely resembles a short story or a one act play, but I do know it was 47 minutes that could easily stand alone outside the series.

The plot revolved around catching or killing a fly that threatened to contaminate Walter’s meth lab. As a play (which is how I think of the episode) the actual plot had very little importance. It was just a vehicle to shine a light on the mostly contentious relationship between Walter, the older mentor, and Jessie his much younger, often sleazy, partner and mentee.

In an act of desperation, but mostly kindness, Jessie slipped some drugs into Walter’s coffee hoping to make him sleep after Walt’s continuous 24 hour obsessive hunt for that fly. But what the drugs actually did was allow Walter to talk about who he’d been, what he had become, and why. He talked about the importance “family” in his life and how it dictated many of his choices, despite a bushel full of regrets. And within the course of his confessions and conversation, his underlying affection for his mentee became increasingly clear.

Although Jessie didn’t verbalize his emotional reactions to Walter’s intimacy, his behavior (risking his neck to kill the fly, despite believing the entire effort completely idiotic) indicated his real concern for Walt, despite their relentless arguments and on and off again partnership. As the frantic fly hunt continues, layers of top skin are stripped from both participants. Although Walt and Jessie’s relationship has a much more complicated history, in many ways this episode reminded me of Mamet’s Duck Variations. In that play, two strangers sit on a bench and these old men start making assumptions about the ducks swimming nearby. Even though they know nothing about ducks or each other, their comments reveal more and more about who each of them are and an intimate connection develops before they go their separate ways.

And, of course, by the conclusion of Season 3, Episode 10, the fly has been killed, Walter has slept off the pills and, as they get into their cars, their tenderness has receded into the typical antagonisms.

Just a great 47 minutes and well worth trying to find whether you’re interested in the show as a whole or not. It’s not often an ongoing series produces a one act play as in depth as this episode.

Flipping through other channels:

Homeland, which I’ve written about before, has regained its footing this season. The acting has been strong (Claire Danes isn’t always crying or about to) but what has really been fun are the plot twists. Back in the day, I read a lot of spy novels, mostly favoring the intricate betrayals John Le Carrie wove through his early books. (I still believe both the novel and the movie of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold are classics.) This season’s plotting of Homeland is very reminiscent of those early works. Folks who have cable television and On Demand might want to consider watching this season from the start.

And, of course, it was baseball’s play-offs, which meant hours upon hours glued to the set. Given the outcome, all those late nights and tired days were more than worth it. The Red Sox won! The Red Sox won!

The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed. C.G. Jung