Category Archives: Reviews

(P)raising The Dead

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George Frazier (1911-1974) was an original.  And an occasional pioneer.  He was the first writer to have a jazz column in a major city newspaper when he authored Sweet and Low in the Boston Herald during the winter of 1942.  Eventually he moved on to a more wide ranging weekly column for The Boston Globe.  Although often derided and harshly criticized because of his totally politically incorrect positions on major issues (for example, Woman’s Liberation—though he did make it onto Nixon’s “enemy list.”), Frazier lives on in my memory primarily because of his ability to write scathingly, sarcastically beautiful prose.  And, more importantly, introduced me to the world of “duende.”

In his words:  “It’s not easy to explain…except to observe that when someone or something has it, we feel icy fingers running up and down our spine….it’s not measured in terms of surpassing skills…nor does it have anything to do with honor or integrity or valor…just as John Dillinger was all duende while the mafia, at least since Lucky Luciano is not…duende isn’t merely class, or just style either…yet I cannot offhand think of anyone who has duende who does not also have style…and to say that duende is merely charisma or panache or flair is rather to demean it, for while it is certainly all those things, it is the nth power of them.

In Frazier’s world Sinatra had it, but Joey Bishop most certainly did not.  Fred Astaire yes, Gene Kelly no.  According to Frazier, “It was what Ted Williams had even when striking out, but Stan Musial lacked when hitting a home run.”

Now there’s no doubt that duende is entirely subjective.  (Cardinal fans, for example, might turn Frazier’s quote on its head.)  But subjective or not, his columns struck a chord that remains as I think about duende in terms of people in my world–people I know or have met, some I’ve read about or seen on screen or in concert.

By now you undoubtedly know where I’m going with this.  Yep.  Paul Newman had duende but Robert Redford doesn’t.

Ghandi had it, Che didn’t.

I can’t quite decide whether Matt Damon has duende, but Ben Affleck doesn’t get close.

George Clooney has duende.

Morgan Freeman worked together with Clint Eastwood in three movies, but only Freeman has it, no matter how much Eastwood’s acting or directing are touted by the media. (Actually, in my opinion he only directed one really good movie:Unforgiven.  And, as much as I love jazz, Bird was an abomination.  Even his “Boston” movie, Mystic River, despite terrific actors, was blown away by Gone Baby Gone which incidentally was directed by Ben Affleck and also starred Morgan Freeman)

Lauren Hutton had and still has duende, but Heidi Klum with all her cheek-kissing “auf widersehens” won’t get there. (A shame since I have a picture of my son Matt with his arm around her at some function.  Or maybe the shame is that his armwasn’t around Hutton.)

Michael Moore reinvigorated documentary film making and I enjoy most of what he creates, but never in a million years will he have duende.  Neither will John Stewart or Bill Maher as quick on their feet as they are—after all, Stewart is gracious, classy and fun but doesn’t have it and however quick, clever, and political Maher might be, he is a bombastic twit.  But Stephan Colbert has duende.

As does Michelle Obama, while her husband, despite many attributes, simply does not.  (And I’m not saying that just because he dances like a white guy.)

Sometimes you can both have it and not.  Clarke Peters in his role as Lester in The Wire has duende.  But not as Albert Lambreaux in Treme.  Makes me wonder whether he has it as Clarke Peters.

John Lennon had duende but Paul McCartney, nah.

Susan, my partner has it, I don’t.

Obviously I could continue to traipse through the list of public figures, politicians, writers, actors, musicians (Wynton Marsalis has duende, Kenny G., ha! ) and singers (Billy Holliday had it as well as Sarah Vaughn, but not Ella) but this notion, this concept, this duende is in the eyes of the beholder.

What do your eyes tell you?

When people tell you how young you look, they are telling you how old you are.
Cary Grant

Genre As A Dirty Word

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When I first began reading fiction as a kid I never knew the word.  I was just happy to read The Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, Tom Swift and others of the same ilk.  (I read the second generation Swift books because the first were flat out racist and made me uncomfortable.)  In fact, I enjoyed these series so much I read and reread them and still have many ceremoniously sitting on the top of my mystery bookshelf.

Mystery bookshelf?  Why do I have one of those?  Or a science fiction bookshelf?  The same question is also relevant to my classics, modern, and non-fiction shelves.  Why aren’t they simply in alphabetical order by author?

For decades I read without even thinking of categories-let alone the word.  I was omnivorous.  I’d gobble The Foundation Series, chomp down on popular bestsellers like Hawaii or Exodus—I’d finish Hawaii and move on to Christopher Isherwood, Hemmingway, and Ursula K. Le Guin.  Later I’d go from Bukowski to Harry Crews to Bernard Malamud to The Spy Who Came In From The Cold (which I still imagine a great book and movie, though I haven’t revisited either in decades) to one of my all-time favorites Neuromancer.  In this sci-fi bullet train, William Gibson (known as the “Godfather of Cyberpunk”) chose not to explicate the world he creates but demands that you to buckle up and go for his ride trusting that you’ll get it.

Within all these mixes were sprinkled classics (a few), jags of nonfiction where I read everything I could find about one subject or another.  And, of course, tons of detective fiction by famous authors like Hammett, Chandler, Ross Macdonald, and the not so famous like Bart Spicer, Max Byrd, Brad Solomon, and Stephen Greenleaf.  (In one of these posts, I’ll dig more deeply into detective fiction authors and their influences on my books.  Though it might take a while since, at the moment, I haven’t much of a clue.)

Until I began my own writing career I never really gave the word much thought.  Though, by that time I was in my 40’s, and finally realized that genre was somehow less than literature, despite a definition that is not particularly pejorative.  “A category of artistic composition, as in music or literature, characterized by similarities in form, style, or subject matter.”

Benign enough.  But definitions don’t always marry reality.  Is a symphony inferior to a quartet?  Most wouldn’t think so.  Is rock music inferior to classical?  Hmmm, now the critics start yammering.  And if you translate this to literary equivalents, you’d have the same arguments.  Or at least quietly smug, smirky looks.  Genre books are always considered a lower rung on the writing ladder.

So I began to wonder why I was choosing detective fiction which, though elastic, really fits the word’s definition.  Was I afraid to stare at a blank computer screen without any structure to serve as a safety net?  Did I consider myself less a writer than those who strive to write “literary” novels?

For a while there, the questions kicked up a real block.  But then I reread Red Harvest and realized that if I could tell a story halfway as well as Hammitt, I would be lucky.  I picked up The Long Goodbye and decided that if I could pen sentences as descriptive as Chandler, I didn’t give a shit what my books were called.

And then I took it further.  If I were going to be labeled a genre writer, I was going to do everything possible to stretch the boundaries.  Sure, I’d use a generalized detective fiction structure where plot was important, but the heart of what I was writing about had to do with relationships, characters and their interactions.  Themes.  Those were important to me and would be at the heart of every book I’d write.

It also didn’t escape my attention that relationships, characters and their interactions are the meat and potatoes of every novel.  Which brought me to the point where I am now.  A novel that contains these ingredients, that explores them intimately, that is written well, that reveals something to its reader, and makes the reader feel–that’s a good book.  And if the author does enough of it beautifully, it’s a great book.  No matter its classification.

But it’s a funny world we live in.  People feel a need to categorize damn near everything.  During my last literary go-round, I repeatedly heard I wrote “airplane books” or “beach reads,” that is, books to toss once you finished ’em.  It usually wasn’t meant to be mean; ironically it often came on the heels of people telling me how much they enjoyed one of them.  But truthfully, despite my stalwart belief mentioned above, it used to bother me, made me angry or sad.

I can’t say whether I succeeded with my goals in my previous Matt Jacob books, or whether I’ll succeed when I write him out of retirement.  And while Matt and I are much older now, with eyes that look upon the world with a different perspective, both of us still think our hearts are in the same place about the interpersonal issues I care about.  And we both agree those issues will always be the guts of my books.

But while writing the Matt Jacob books, I learned something I had never before realized.  No matter the genre, whether it’s a bad book, or one that wasn’t even published, I have huge respect for anyone who takes the time and effort to write a complete beginning, middle, and end.

It really is that hard.

“A bad book is as much a labour to write as a good one, it comes as
sincerely from the author’s soul.” Aldous Huxley

Part 2: Television Giveth, Television Taketh Away

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Given the nature of my personality I’m starting with the “takes.”

Like it or not, we live in a capitalistic society where viewership rules commercial television. (That is, stations whose programs are interrupted by commercials as opposed to those that are not.)  Hell, you can’t sell four-hour erections if no one is watching.  I also understand, maybe better than most, that sometimes the best thing to do is to let a program die.  Writers or actors can “burn out.”  Or, their shows can–as character arcs or plots are plumbed past the point of authenticity.  It’s not for nothing that our standard phrase for artistic burnout, “jumping the shark,” was named and defined by a specific episode of a long running show.  (Curious? http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=jump%20the%20shark.)

The above factors also play into corporate decisions made by “non-commercial” television as well–a prime example, The Sopranos on HBO, which didn’t depend upon specific sponsors.  Truth is, I was fine with the way they ended the show—it was time and rather than milk their cash cow, they gave viewers plenty of warning and resolved many of the ongoing subplots.   Although I wasn’t particularly jacked by the last shows, I felt the station handled the conclusion in a timely and fair manner.

Not so with a couple other HBO programs, which I believe also had significant artistic merit.

About two weeks ago HBO announced that In Treatment was going to be cancelled.  No explanation, no viewership numbers, no warning, no tying up of loose ends, no nothing.  In a statement, the network said: “It’s true that we have no plans to continue with ‘In Treatment’ as previously formatted. However, we are in continued conversations with the executive producers to find another way to continue telling these rich stories.”  I hope they do, but given their bullshit about Deadwood, I frankly don’t believe them.

For those unfamiliar with the show, In Treatment was based on an Israeli series about a psychiatrist and his work with clients,Bi Tipul, which copped every possible drama series award at the Israeli Academy Awards.  The American version didn’t do too shabby either, scoring an Emmy, Golden Globe and Writer’s Guild during its three year run.  The show starred Gabriel Byrne as a psychologist who worked with four different clients (one a night the first season then his own therapist, Diane Wiest, on the fifth.)  Later HBO changed tinkered with the nightly set-up, but the format (four clients then his shrink, Amy Ryan, who took over when he moved to Brooklyn) remained the same.  As a former therapist, I was impressed with the interactions Byrnes had with his clients and especially those with his own therapist in season three when his life was dissembling.  His ability to both succeed—especially with adolescents–and fail despite his best efforts, reflected a reality with which every counselor must deal.  The show also presented the difficulty of keeping ‘clinical distance’ from people with whom a therapist has an intimate relationship—one sided as it may be.  The presentation of Byrnes’s interactions with his own shrink was often brilliantly written with undercurrents of his clients’ issues permeating his own.

Then In Treatment was gone–as if you were in the middle of a fine book, movie, or play that was simply snatched away.  This is not only lousy television business, but a psychologically damaging situation that any decent therapist would find extraordinarily painful.  It is as if the cancellation spit upon the very nature of the show itself.

The other series HBO taketh away much too soon was Deadwood, a sprawling western that, season by season, tracked the establishment of the Dakota Territories—from wilderness to outposts, to towns, then states–along with the beginning of western capitalism.  Not for the faint-hearted, Deadwood had no qualms mixing Shakespearian language and drama with over-the-top profanity and violence that actually occurred in the settling of the West.  Through the three twelve episode seasons, Deadwood, with the use of historical characters like Calamity Jane, Wild Bill Hickok, Wyatt Earp, and George Hearst told the story of an evolving country and economic system.  This was no “shoot ’em up,” but the depiction of actual American history delivered in a unique and incredibly interesting manner.  Not for nothing was it awarded eight Emmys and a Golden Globe.  But no matter, the show was simply shut down mid story.

This time though, HBO promised a consolation prize—finishing  the series with two full length movies.  Seduced and abandoned, I’ve been waiting since 2008.  My popcorn is stale.  Time to stop holding my breath.

Bottom line: Viewers deserve better from both network and cable television.  There needs to be room in this medium to carry critically acclaimed shows whether they attract enough subscribers and dog food buyers or not.  And why stop at television?  Artistic merit needs to be a commitment that every publisher, producer, and studio adhere to.  It simply cannot just be “show me the money.”  Yes, commerce is all—we live in America—we get it.  But perhaps our entertainment media should tithe—devoting a percentage of their budget to artistic books or programming that deserve to be out there just because they’re worthwhile or make their audience richer, better people.  And if they can’t do it “for art’s sake,” producers and publishers can think of them in commercial terms—loss leaders.

And now for the “Giveth.”

Two shows immediately spring to mind.  Since I just slammed HBO it’s only fair I give it its due for carrying Tremé, a program named after a New Orleans neighborhood.  The action begins three months after Katrina’s devastation of the Black community.  We follow musicians, chefs, Mardi Gras Indians and regular New Orleans citizens as they try to rebuild their lives.

Again, the interpersonal relationships seem spot on and the horror of the storm’s damage and our government’s indifference is immensely moving.  Although there are multiple plot lines carried by Melissa Leo, (Academy Award winner for Best Actress from the movie The Fighter), Wendell Pierce (from The Wire), Khandi Alexander (CSI Miami), and more, for me, and many people I know, the show is really about the redemptive quality of music in the face of tragedy.  An intangible phenomena but one that wails loud and clear from Tremé’s constant foreground and background musical notes.  Even the opening credits’ song and dance brings a smile despite the depiction of the ravages of people’s lives.  From where I sit (which is often in front of my TV), the show wraps its arms around the healing quality of music, food, and people’s refusal to give up.  As an aside, the show uses actual New Orleans residents and professional musicians to create this healing process.

The Killing, shown on American Movie Classics, (AMC), concerns a Seattle-based murder investigation of a young girl with each episode lasting one complete day.  The lead detective is Mirelle Enos (a Tony nominee [Honey] for the Broadway playWhose Afraid of Virginia Woolf and the twin sisters, Kathy and Jodeen Marquart, in Big Love.).  The New Yorker has trouble with her low key acting, but my take has her playing off the surrounding characters except during her personal life scenes when Mirelle’s inner intensity and conflict are clearly apparent.  Her partner is a strange young man who seems more criminal than cop—someone who Enos has a great deal of trouble trusting.  Nonetheless, they manage to work together well enough to move the investigation forward, if not always in the correct direction.

The other aspect of the show worth noting is what Ms. May from The New Yorker calls “atmospherics.”  That is, the constant, unending drizzle Ms. May decries as rain making machines.  I beg to differ. We celebrate “atmospherics” (lighting) in film noir. In The Killing, like in Blade Runner, the rain becomes another character that underscores the loss and pain of losing a child and control of one’s life.  Tears.

For me, the primary draw is the dead girl’s parents.  The Killing follows their slowly devolving emotional spiral rather than presenting one note grief, anger or an accelerated 5-stage Kubler Ross demo.  The show takes its time and pulls no punches when it comes to their pain, rage, impotence, and demands to the police.  There are suspects, but as the days pass, the plot twists and turns in some pretty complicated and surprising ways.

The Killing is an adaptation of a Danish series called Forbrydelsen, (The Crime) but the AMC producers, directors. writers, and actors have managed to create an original, unique procedural detective show.  Bravo, AMC.

My concern, however, is whether the station will actually allow the show to continue since it’s not your garden variety Law & Order or CSI.

A fear for all that I find special on television.

“When you re-read a classic you do not see more in the book than you did before; you see more in you than there was before.” Clifton Fadiman

Why I Love Television, Part I

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Now that laws and attitudes are changing, it’s one of the last “don’t ask, don’t tell” situations.  In fact, in my circles, it’s the love that dare not speak its name.  But I’m here to say it—loudly, proudly, to the world—I LOVE TELEVISION.  And this has been true my entire life.

Why?  First and foremost it keeps me company.  Even when I’m not paying any attention to what’s on, the background murmur reassures me I’m not dead.  And when I’m not paying attention, the TV doesn’t even complain—it’s selfless that way.

Television was my first “virtual” friend and, despite all these years together, we’ve never had an argument.  Sure, I sometimes get pissed.  Why isn’t there anything good on?  Why isn’t anything bad that I like on?  But, TV, as I like to call it for short, has figured that out.  Now you can easily record shows or go On Demand for those barren hours.  Hell, if you’re desperate there’s always a Law and Order variation somewhere.

The notion that it dumbs down our society?  Please.  Can our society get any dumber when 60-some percent of our country doesn’t believe in evolution?

No one trots out that this is stupid, empty entertainment shit when they bow down  to TV’s “Golden Years.”  Do folks really believe that Red Skelton raised IQs?  Or Jackie Gleason with the June Taylor Dancers?  Milton Berle?   Ok, Ernie Kovacs appealed to hipsters and The Honeymooners helped salvage marriages.

If those years were “Golden,” then today’s are Platinum. (Though a warmth lingers still for spotlights and “Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.”)

But really:

Has there ever been better satire than The Daily Show?

Has there ever been better performance art than The Colbert Report?

Did Playhouse 90 present better dramas than The Sopranos or In Treatment?

Is there anyone better than Rachel Maddow to make progressives feel smug?

Or Papa Bear O’Reilly to make Tea-baggers salivate?

Sorry, if people want to talk about the dumb down, television isn’t the place to start.  Not when programs like The Wire are being written and shown on a regular basis.  And I can’t imagine any comparison between Gunsmoke and Deadwood, which might very well be the best western ever presented in any form.  (And yeah, I’ve seen Red River, and all the Spaghetti’s.)  Tell me, humanitarians and Quincy Jones fans, whether “We Are The World” brought smile and tear.  Damn, even ads have their moments.  “I’d Like To Buy The World A Coke,” and China’s Olympic Opening Ceremony (also a commercial—albeit an expensive one) kept people watching.

So why do I feel so protective about my best friend?  Primarily because of where it’s placed in the cultural pecking order—down in the dirt as chicken feed.  And many, probably most, of those who tout the “higher” pecks spend more time watching it than any other medium.

I like watching the best that television has to offer, and also the worst. (Come out of the closet, people.)  Sure I get kick out of the emasculation of Bruce Jenner on Keeping Up with the Kardashians, The Iron Chefs (though I haven’t cooked a meal in 25 years), the weirdos who make the cut on Project Runway, and even the Dog Whisperer , though his magic does nothing for our cats.

And, of course sports.  Perhaps the only thing left in our country where the outcome isn’t preordained.  (I’m not really talking about cage fighting though there was a time when wrestling with those buffed, sweaty bodies…uh, better leave it there.)

But ultimately I’m just glad television is here, 24/7, 52 weeks a year with no chance of dying before me.  How can you have a safer relationship?  Despite no sex, with serious exceptions, very little meaning.  Don’t need that cigarette after NCIS–either of ’em.

Now understand, I really wouldn’t trade Sue or my kids for a television.  Trudat.

But I’m lucky—I don’t have to.  I can have it all, TV never says a jealous word.

(Eventually there will be a PART, 2)

Virtue is insufficient temptation.
-George Bernard Shaw

Dylan, Ochs: A Conversation

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(Artistic License Taken)

Thursday night I’d anticipated going to the documentary Phil Ochs: There But for Fortune. This edited instant message conversation took place between me and my blogger friend Rawrah (http://rawrahs.blogspot.com/ or see “Links” on this site):

Rawrah: From what I’ve read he hated Dylan. Ochs would torture himself to write and Dylan would simply pull magic out of his ass.

Me: For sure Ochs poked fun at Dylan. In one of his songs (forgot the name) he did it in a self-deprecating way. But I would call Dylan’s lyrics poetry, not magic.

Rawrah: Ochs believed in what he was singing. Dylan rejects the idea of “meaning” in his songs.

ME: Hell, I’ve used that line about my Matt Jacob books. Don’t make it true.

Rawrah: You might bullshit but that doesn’t make Dylan a liar.

ME: Trudat—but I still think he’s doing a throwaway.

Rawrah: Good to be a mind reader, huh?

ME: Asshole. It’s interesting. Dylan is talked about at the music studio. Probably ’cause I bring him up.

Rawrah: About whether he actually knew what he was saying in his songs?

ME: No. Because I say he’s the most important songwriter in our lifetime. The argument is usually about his “musicality.” I’m hit with “He can’t sing and his music is at best rudimentary, if that.” I say the poetry of his lyrics supersedes—but that don’t really fly at a music school.

Rawrah: I think people attribute a lot more depth than is actually displayed.

ME: Thanks, pal.

Rawrah: I read he’d skim a newspaper and dump out three or four songs of lyrics. Or eavesdrop on a conversation then spew out its essence. A savant.

Me: Depends on the definition. Savant means “sage” or, as in “idiot savant–an intellectually disabled person who exhibits extraordinary ability in a highly specialized area, like mathematics or music. Gotta be a stretch to call Dylan intellectually disabled.

Rawrah: Why? Some say most people have “savant” potential but few have the series of experiences to trigger it.

ME: You know, we’re writing my Monday post. You mind?

Rawrah: Feel free.

ME: Thanks. See, what I think when you talk about Ochs’ needing to struggle to write and Dylan “pulling it out of his ass,” is their difference in ability to access the subconscious. Take Robin Williams…

Rawrah: Uh oh.

ME: When he’s on a talk show and somebody says something that clicks you can almost see the door to his subconscious open and out comes a riot. But a crafted riot. So I’m saying that Dylan’s door was more open than Ochs but that Ochs got there anyway and both used craft to hone their message into art.

Rawrah: And isn’t that the real difference between Ochs and Dylan. Ochs had to work to create—to say nothing about living his ideals—and Dylan didn’t.

ME: I probably call that the difference between genius and not. As for living ideals, don’t forget Dylan helped ignite a movement and Ochs ending up killing himself

Rawrah: Now who’s the asshole? I’d say there are truly gifted people and when their particular gift intersects at precisely the right circumstance, what emerges is magic.

“Please… could somebody just go ahead and WikiLeak whatever it is Bob Dylan has been singing for 50 years?” Bauart