After the Snow

It was a lot of snow, but it was light, and it arrived in manageable stages. Three inches one day, three inches the next morning, a heavier blanket the following evening and overnight.

Newscasters made a big deal out of the projected accumulation, with good reason, but a glance at any decent web weather page told a more nuanced story.

Also (as I may have mentioned already) the snow was unusually light. Which is not to say that travel wasn't difficult. We didn't go anywhere during the worst of it, and I noticed at nine o'clock Thursday morning that neither a snowplow nor any other vehicle had ventured down our little street. That's a first.

In the midst of the shoveling, we found time to go out for one or two walks through the neighborhood, and along the way we ran into a few of our neighbors. Returning home from an afternoon walk Wednesday up to the parkway and down through a copse of trees we refer to as "the pines," we came upon our neighbor Barb at the end of the block, pushing snow off her driveway with a galvanized metal contraption that looked like it belonged in a county historical society museum.

"You should get a motor for that," I said.

"This is my Finnish shovel," she replied. "We have a snow-blower, but our neighbor borrowed it, and he isn't up yet. I've got to get this snow cleared off. My husband has some heart issues. We're headed up to our cabin near Cloquet this afternoon."

That sounded like a bad idea to me.

"Up near Cotton?" I hazarded a guess.

"No, that's farther north. We turn west at Black Bear Casino. Tomorrow we're going on to Cook to do some dog-sledding. I've always wanted to do that, and some friends gave us a gift certificate for our anniversary."

"Our family cabin was on the west end of Lake Vermilion," I said. "We drove through Cook all the time."

"That's a long drive," Barb said.

"Before they built the freeway it was five-and-a-half hours. "

Barb is short and stout, with short gray hair and an animated expression. She and her husband have lived in the neighborhood for 45 years; that's ten years longer than we've lived here. Over the years I've seen her a few times in passing, usually planting annuals at the base of the birch tree in her front yard, but I'd never met her.

"We moved in in 1976," she said, "right before the real estate market took off, and we've never been able to get out!"

"Well, it is a nice neighborhood." Hilary said.  "Lots of dog-walkers, and young people moving in recently."

"The neighbors across the street," Barb pointed, "are having a baby. It will be fun to have little kiddies running around again."

The next morning during our daily pre-breakfast walk around the neighbor we came upon Jay Jay, whom we hadn't seen in months. She was shoveling a path across her front yard. "It's for the dog," she said. "He's got to have a place to come out and pee."

A barred owl had paid us several visits in the previous few week, and I asked her if she'd spotted one. Her house looks off into the woods and down to a wooded backwater of Bassett Creek.

"No. What kind of owl did you say? We see a lot of crows."

Another turn of the road and down the hill, we met up with another neighbor, out walking his dog. We've spoken in passing for decades, but I still don't know his name.

"Sorry your house didn't sell last fall," I said. "I suppose you'll put it back on the market next spring?"

"I don't know," he said grimly. "With interest rates going up, I think that window may have closed."

"We chatted with your neighbor Barb yesterday," Hilary said. "She told us they were heading north."

"Yeah, they went up to go dogsledding. People up there love the snow. Snowmobiles and all that. Cross-country skiing."

"We're happy just to go skiing down at the golf course," Hilary said.

"Before I had this dog, I had a Siberian husky. I had a harness, and he'd pull me around on skies! That was a long time ago." He laughed and took another drag on his cigarette.

As we neared the house, we met up with our next-door neighbor Rocky, out walking her little black dog, Dempsey. I didn't recognize her because she was all bundled up—so was the dog, in a pink crocheted coat—and she was walking alongside a guy we'd never seen before. We said hello, and while Dempsey came over to sniff us out, we exchanged a few pleasantries. Then I said, "Who's your friend?"

"This is Steve."

"We're the next-door neighbors," I said. "It's nice of you to come by to help Rocky with the shoveling." He smiled.

Once we were out of earshot I said, "Typical old-person remark."

Hilary said, "Yeah."

Thus does the fabric of a neighborhood develop—a decade, a generation at a time.

_____________________________

We spent most of our blizzard time indoors, of course. Hilary made a great deal of progress on her current bookclub book, a novel based on the life of the goddess Circe. I found myself skipping around quite a bit, which for me is not unusual. First there was The Letters of Rayond Chandler:

"In the long run ... the most durable thing in writing is style, and style is the most valuable investment a writer can make with his time ... He can't do it by trying, because the kind of style I'm thinking about is a projection of personality and you have to have a personality before you can project it. But granted that you have one, you can only project it on paper by thinking about something else."

A few lines later Chandler adds:

"No amount of editing and polishing will have any appreciable effect on the flavor of how a man writes."

A few hours later, while trying to make space for some books on a shelf, I removed a copy of Etienne Gilson's classic Spirit of Medieval Philosophy, intending to take it to the basement. Before assigning it to that shadowy place, I opened it at random and read:

"For Plato, the union of soul and body is the accidental result of a Fall; the soul is shut up in a body as in a prison or a tomb by a violence done to its nature, and that is why the whole effort of philosophy is directed to effect its deliverance from the body. A Christian on the other hand must admit in the first place, that the union of soul and body is natural, for it is willed by that God Who Himself declared that all his works are good: et vidit quod erant valde bona, and no natural state can be the result of a fall."

Then there was essayist Charles Lamb, relishing the no-nonsense approach to card-playing practice of Mrs. Battle.

"This was the celebrated wish of old Sarah Battle (now with God), who, next to her devotions, loved a good game of whist. She was none of your lukewarm gamesters, your half-and-half players, who have no objection to take a hand, if you want one to make up a rubber: who affirm that they have no pleasure in winning; that they like to win one game and lose another; that they can while away an hour very agreeably at a card-table, but are indifferent whether they play or no; and will desire an adversary who has slipped a wrong card to take it up and play another. These insufferable triflers are the curse of a table. One of these flies will spoil a whole pot. Of such it may be said that they do not play at cards, but only play at playing at them."

Hilary and I played a few rounds of cribbage ourselves in front of the fire. And I played quite a few more on the computer in the course of the day.

Then there was Bee Wilson, in Consider the Fork, informing me how a Japanese knife is made and evaluating the pros and cons of a no-stick frying pan. That was followed by the witty and down-to-earth astrophysicist Neil de Grasse Tyson, in Death by Black Hole, sharing such tidbits of knowledge as that the number of atoms in an area of deep space 100,000 kilometers on a side is the same as the number that would fit in an empty refrigerator. Staggering emptiness. I'm glad I don't live there: no one around and nothing to eat!

I finally settled in to a novel by the late great John Berger about a junkyard community on the outskirts of London as seen from the point of view of a stray dog named King.

The temperature was -11 this morning, but the skies were clear. We passed no one on our morning walk. Three deer ran across the road a hundred yards in front of us, slipping and sliding on the de-icer, I guess, though we haven't see the neighborhood owl in a week.

The bright sun looks spectacular on the newly fallen snow.

Great, Good, Fair, or Amusing: A Few Recent Films

 
Living

A "gentleman" bureaucrat, Rodney Williams, circa 1953, facing a serious medical prognosis, realizes that he's never "really" lived, and decides to do something about it. Trouble is, he doesn't quite know how. But this film isn't your average madcap exercise in better-late-than-never carpe diem nonsense. Bill Nighy was nominated for a Best Actor Oscar for his portrayal of the tight-lipped central figure, and the film wouldn't be much without him, but the entire production is sophisticated, from the use of squarish 35-millimeter color stock, which looks to have been discovered in a deceased WWII documentarian's trunk, to the office staff's nuanced display of petulance, deference, and diffidence in maintaining the buttoned-up atmosphere over which Mr. Williams has held sway for years. But Aimée Lou Wood, in the role of the good-hearted office secretary, also plays a crucial part in the unfolding drama. Brilliant.

The screenplay, by Kazuo Ishiguro, also received an Oscar nod. I saw the Akira Kurosawa film on which it's based, Ikiru, many years ago. I hardly remember it, but I liked the recent version better, perhaps because the appeal of the film is based so much on nuances of facial expression and tone of voice. Kurosawa's most popular films feature Toshiro Mifune, a vigorous actor who makes Jack Nicholson look like a wallflower. Takashi Shimura, the star of Ikiru, is a far more sedate and enigmatic figure. 

 Turn Every Page

What could be more fascinating than a documentary about an editor and his client, a hard-working biographer whose door-stopper-sized books come out at infrequent intervals? Nothing, if the editor is Robert Gottlieb and the biographer is Robert Caro. Gottlieb's daughter made the film, which helped. Both men turn out to be somewhat different—more humble, gracious, idiosyncratic, and interesting—than one might expect. A variety of commentators appear briefly, from Ethan Hawke and Colm Toibin to the New Yorker's David Remnick and Mary (Comma Queen) Norris. One of many highlights is when Caro recounts how he tracked down the political operative, in a trailer home in south Texas, who provided the fake votes that elected LBJ to elective office for the first time. Another is the effort made by Toibin to convey how important the semi-colon can be to maintain is certain breathing rhythm in a sentence. Gottlieb personifies the sympathetic yet no-nonsense editor, and he describes his relationship with Caro well. The love of books is everywhere. So, also, is the conviction that what books reveal can make a difference.  

Good Night Oppy

This documentary about the 2003 NASA mission that sent two rovers to Mars is full of wonderful bits. Though we've seen many of them before, it's fun to see them all lined up in a row, along with a narrative thread about the project and personal stories of the engineers and scientists involved intermixed with maps, reenactments, and genuine footage from Mars. The two rovers, Opportunity and Spirit, were designed to operate for 90 days. Spirit kept going for almost fifteen years. One unexpected turns of events was that the ferocious dust-storms on Mar, far from undermining the physical integrity of the rovers, actually proved to be beneficial, wiping away the sand and dust that would otherwise have rendered the solar cells useless. 

 Aftersun

An atmosphere of melancholy hangs over this Scottish film, which depicts a vacation taken by a young girl and her father at a Turkish resort by means of commonplace holiday events interspersed with  random videos taken by the girl herself. Her parents are divorced, and her dad, though good-natured and affectionate, seems to be struggling with demons we never learn much about. He practices tai chi, gives his daughter quite a bit of latitude to play pinball with strangers much older than her, and never really comes alive except on the dance floor. The few scenes of the woman as an adult tell us little about anything, and viewers are likely to leave the theater disappointed. Paul Mescal received an Oscar nomination as the listless dad, though I don't quite see why.   

II. Matinee Fare

The Fablemans

Steven Spielberg has made quite a few popular films. Jurassic Park, Close Encounters, E.T. I can't remember them all. But few have approached greatness. True to form, The Fablemans is a matinee diversion with high production values but little depth. I enjoyed it. Anyone who sees it will enjoy it. But no one will be gripped by it. Throughout the film I kept thinking of other films that did the same things better, made similar scenes seem more real: Licorice Pizza, A Serious Man, Little Miss Sunshine, Ladybug. It's worth noting that Judd Hirsch received an Oscar nomination for a bit part as the family's estranged and embarrassing  uncle. He's the only really interesting character in an otherwise sad and sweet but  "milquetoast" film about a shy kid who turns to film-making as a means of escape from  things, including the slightly weird dynamics of his family life.

See How They Run

This semi-comical period mystery works largely as a result of Saoirse Ronan's wry performance as the unwanted rookie side-kick to Sam Rockwell's world-weary alcoholic detective. Free of the excesses of the big-budget Knives Out series, it putters along a notch or two above the standard PBS Agatha Christie fare.  It would be hard not to like it.

Knives Out: Glass Onion

We've gotten used to Daniel Craig's bad Southern accent, which, to be fair, is better than Lawrence Olivier's accent as Big Daddy in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. And the mystery is intriguing. It's a star-studded, extravagant, corny, and ridiculous romp.

 

 

A Few Films for Valentine's Day

Red

A young fashion model (Irene Jacob) and a retired judge (Jean-Louis Trinagnant) cross paths more than once in this study of love, fate, and coincidence. The most successful of Kieslowski’s Red/White/Blue trilogy, it’s a satisfying mix of troubled solitude, murky romance, abject bitterness, and unabashed sentimentality (the puppies), all of which has been brought to the screen with considerable élan. (1994)

Queen of Hearts

A young Italian couple uproot themselves from their village to escape family pressures and set up a coffee shop in London. The story is told from their young son’s point of view, and there are one or two supernatural elements in it, but by in large it’s a comedy of Italian family life, full of arrivals and departures, squabbles and reconciliations, personal crises and dramatic reversals of fortune. "Beware the eight of swords." (1989)

A Room with a View

This film, largely set in turn-of-the-century Florence and sporting a stunning cast, is so pleasant and so unabashedly “romantic” that a second viewing may be required to establish how good it really is. (1986)  

Robin and Marion

Richard Lester was in a groove when he made this revisionist version of the Robin Hood tale. Sean Connery plays the hero, Audrey Hepburn is Maid Marion, and they’re both getting old. Robin is just back from the Crusades, and the screenplay abounds in witty remarks to match his sore back and waning energy. Throw in Nicole Williamson, Robert Shaw, and Richard Harris and you’ve got high drama, too. (1976)

Un Coeur en Hiver

In this unusual film, Claude Sautet, a past master of the subtleties of the human heart (Vincent, François, Paul and the Others) explores the inter-relations of a pair of violin-makers and the concert performer (Emmanuelle Béart) who’s in need of their services. The soundtrack of Ravel chamber music compounds the atmosphere of attenuated romanticism and the presence of students, mentors, and agents gives the film a multi-generational resonance. (1993, France)

Casablanca

Everyone knows about Casablanca, but it’s surprising how many people have never actually seen it from start to finish. The core of nostalgic romance is dwarfed by a wide array of character actors and sketchy sub-plots concerning Germans and refugees from Vichy France who pass through North Africa en route to safer places. It’s difficult to tell who’s a crook and who’s not, and there are very few genuine heroes around, yet every scene strikes an uncanny balance between sincerity and cliché—perhaps because no one on the set, including director Michael Curtiz, knew quite what was going on. (1942)

Beseiged

Bernardo Bertolucci, better known for large scale films such as The Conformist and The Last Emperor, here crafts an intimate and sometimes sentimental tale with a time bomb ticking inside it. An eccentric composer (Michael Thewlis) plays a game of cat-and-mouse with his live-in housekeeper (Thandy Newton), whose husband, unbeknownst to him, is rotting in an African jail. Much of the film consists of day-to-day events at his Roman palazzo, including a hilarious piano recital,  though the canvas broadens considerably when he agrees to help his housekeeper secure her husband’s freedom. (1998)

El Amor Brujo

Director Carlos Saura here adapts the ballet of the same name by Manuel de Falla to an idiom closer to genuine flamenco, drawing on the artistry of a large cast of dancers including Antonio Gades and Cristina Hoyos. It’s a tale of family commitments, star-crossed lovers, knife fights, infidelity, prison terms, racy talk around the community well on wash day, and ghosts.

Certified Copy

A French antique dealer (Juliette Binoche) attends a talk by a British author on the subject of authenticity in the art world. He points out that most originals are renderings of something else—a landscape, a face—while a reproduction can be considered an “original” in its own right. When the author arrives the next morning at the woman’s shop to sign a book, authenticity becomes the theme for further conversation. It’s pretty clear he doesn’t like her shop much, and they decide to go for a drive while he signs the books. During the drive the conversation gets more personal as Shimell learns more about Binoche’s sister and her stammering husband. Binoche looks on them as an ideal couple, simple people who have found contentment with one another and their lot in life.

“There’s nothing simple about being simple,” is Shimell’s caustic reply.

That’s the film: Old World ambiance and cultured talk, sullied by the frustrations of being a single mother in a world where men can deliver lines such as, “Ultimately people must live their lives for themselves.” It contains one or two mystifying wrinkles that I’ll leave it to viewers to discover for themselves. (2011)

I Am Love

This lavish Italian production that has been compared to the best works of Lucino Visconti. The comparison is only superficially apt. Visconti’s works are carefully designed and visually rich—even such black-and-white productions as Obsessione and La Terra Trema—but they also tend to be stagy. In I Am Love, we’re given a “fly-on-the-wall” point of perspective on the comings and goings of a wealthy multi-generational Italian family. The lifestyle is opulent and conservative. The family members are well-mannered, considerate, sincere. In an early scene the old man announces he’s retiring from the family’s clothing corporation and names his successor. The choice comes as a surprise to everyone.

The scenes flow one into the next, we’re not sure which threads are the important ones. That’s what makes the film so interesting. It’s as if the director, Luca Guadagnino, wants us to see not only the most dramatic turns of events but also the paintings on the wall, the tile on the floor, the glaze on the shrimp, and the insects buzzing amid the clover. (2009)

Three Good Films

I can't recall when three such exhilarating, well-crafted, and radically different  films appeared in the Oscar line-up as we have this year with Tar, Banshees of Inniserin, and Everything, Everywhere All at Once. I was reluctant to see two of three, but I'm glad I saw them. These brief remarks, which give little or nothing away, aren't reviews. 

They're merely encouragements.

Banshees succeeds by sticking to the logic of its unusual plot, though even more so, perhaps, on the strength of the major characters—our somewhat simple but often kind-hearted "hero," his erstwhile best friend, his sister, and the character I'm going to describe as the village idiot, a boy whose brilliant strangeness is essential to the success of the work. We feel we're in the presence of a Frank O'Conner short story that has not yet been written. It's a sad and humorous tale, set on a desolate island off the Irish coast. And you don't need to know anything more about it before you go.

Tar would be a successful film if it were merely a documentary look behind the scenes of an orchestra conductor's life, which it almost is—the ambition, the tensions among conflicting egos, the demands of the medium and of the wealthy donors who keep the art form afloat, interviews with the New Yorker, tony lunches with legendary musicians, now retired, discussions about the significance of Mahler's Fifth Symphony.  

But when we add to those elements the added interest of the conductor's private life, parsed out here and there to various minions and hangers-on and to the conductor's wife, who happens to be the orchestra concertmaster, things gets more complicated. 

Cate Blanchett deserves the attention she's been getting for her complex and riveting performance, but the look of the film, the framing of scenes, the sparkling light—in short, everything about it is brilliant and aesthetically satisfying. It has the resonance and depth of a good long novel. And there isn't a dull moment in it.

I know what you're going to say. "I hear that Tar isn't a very nice person." Well, perhaps not. Then again, neither was Citizen Kane ... Or Don Giovanni ... Or Travis Bickle.

Everything, Everywhere All at Once, on the other hand, is a glorious mess—zany, irreverent, violent, tender-hearted, and utterly joyous and implausible. It's a sci-fi Kung Fu film about tax evasion, the ins and outs of the multi-verse, and how difficult it can be to keep a failing business afloat while trying the raise a teenage daughter. Not all the scenes work, and there are one or two dull patches, but the good-natured tone of the film hardly wavers, even when the entire universe is about to be destroyed by a giant bagel. 

You could watch in on Showtime with a 30-day free trial. Why not?