Re-Inventing the Renaissance

The title of this thick orange book—Inventing the Renaissance—intrigued me, and also the subtitle: The Myth of a Golden Age. I checked it out of the library the other day, surprised to imagine that at this late date historians still cling to idealized “periods,” and that other historians feel the need to let us all know that such categories are perhaps helpful as mnemonic devices but useless as categories of judgment or deeper understanding.

I somehow overlooked the fact that the purpose of a book title is to sell the book. Looking back at other books along similar lines that I’ve purchased in recent years—The Dawn of Everything: a New History of Humanity (2021); Time of the Magicians: Wittgenstein, Benjamin, Cassirer, Heidegger, and the Decade that Reinvented Philosophy (2018); Magnificent Rebels: The First Romantics and the Invention of the Self (2022)—I can see that I’ve been a sucker for such ambitious popularizations … but I don’t regret it.

And the same can be said for Inventing the Renaissance. It’s written by a scholar, but it’s not really a scholarly work, except by chance. It’s a chatty and insouciant look at the world of academic history, impressively larded with anecdotes about Renaissance figures—she knows the era well—but more seriously interested in the historiographic questions to which that vague and slippery “age” give rise.

The author, Ada Palmer, teaches at the University of Chicago. She also writes science fiction, which no doubt gives her additional insight into how a world or a social milieu takes on body through the accumulation of specific details which have been selected with a given end in mind. (Gee. Historians do that too.) She seems more interested here in stirring the hornet’s nest of controversy regarding the ways historians have assayed the Renaissance than in providing the reader with anything resembling an accurate picture of the era.

In short, this is not a book I’d recommend to someone who’s curious about Italian culture during the early modern period. You’d be better off reading Burkhardt’s The Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy (1860), or Bernard Berenson’s Italian Painters of the Renaissance (originally published as independent essays between 1894 and 1907). If you’re interested in the science of era, why not try George Sarton’s Six Wings: Men of Science in the Renaissance (1957)?  

In fact, there is no easy way to come to grips with the Italian Renaissance, because it’s a welter of widely divergent personalities, jurisdictions, ideas, images, and events. Perhaps this explains, in part, why so many people are fascinated by the era. It’s rich in color and detail, but the political details need not concern us much. Whether Florence dominated Siena (50 miles away) or conquered Pisa (fifty miles away) has little bearing on the course of European history or the issues we face today.

Palmer narrows her field of view almost immediately to Florence itself, and proceeds to weigh various theories as to why such a focus might be justified. Might it be the banking industry that developed there? How about the vaguely “democratic” form of government?  Florentine art isn’t too shabby, either: Brunelleschi, Donatello, Masaccio, Botticelli, Leonardo, Luca della Robbia, Fra Angelico, Filippino Lippi. And how about the Neoplatonic philosophy of Ficino, Pico, and other lesser lights? It’s an impressive roll call for such a middling conurbation, though Florence’s population in 1450 is estimated to have been around 60,000, making it one of Europe’s larger cities.

And to top it all off, we have Machiavelli! Personally, I find his remarks about selling firewood more interested that his analyses of political life. Perhaps Palmer would approve!

Rooms could be filled with the books have been written about the art and culture of Renaissance Florence, of course. Palmer mentions quite a few that piqued her interest as a youth, many of them written in the early twentieth century by women who had married into lesser Italian nobility. (None of these works, she adds, are considered historiographically reputable these days.)

In any case, Palmer, tends to keep her attention more narrowly focused on such nagging (yet pertinent) questions as: What is a “humanist”? On this question opinions differ. Many definitions are vague, though most scholars find it convenient to agree that a Renaissance humanist differs markedly from nineteenth-century "secular humanist." Renaissance humanism wasn’t a religion; it was an educational niche. And the word humanista, back in the Renaissance, referred merely to whoever taught that bundle of subjects. Whatever a Renaissance humanist may have been, scholars are pretty well agreed that Petrarch was among the first of them, and probably the greatest.

Palmer informs us that there was an uproar within academic circles when Paul Oscar Kristeller included two humanists in his book Eight Philosophers of the Italian Renaissance (1965). Why? Because humanists might be good Latinists, but that doesn’t mean they contributed anything to philosophy. The moral and aesthetic “concepts” they fiddled with usually came straight from Cicero.

But such remarks drive me immediately to hunt out Kristeller's book on the shelf--no easy task. The introductory essay on Petrarch is a good one. To begin with, Kristeller emphasizes the personal nature of Petrarch's remarks, highlighting "the eminently personal, subjective, and as it were, individualistic character of all his writings. He talks about a variety of things and ideas, but essentially he always talks about himself,  about what he has read, and felt."

Yet Petrarch is also reaching for a formal and objective understanding of things, and this quest comes to a head, in Kristeller's view, in Petrarch's appraisal to the relative importance of will and intellect:

It is safer to cultivate a good and pious will than a capable and clear intellect. The object of the will is goodness, the object of the intellect, truth. It is better to will the good than to know the true ...

The issue of Renaissance humanism--its character and value--is but one of many that Palmer addresses in her lively book. It's an example of her willingness to cheerfully expose us to the behind-the-scenes disputes that divide university departments into cabals and camps, perhaps more so that actually engaging with the issues. She’s an academic herself, but her shoot-from-the-hip style is anything but academic. She’s having fun, airing both her many enthusiasms and her dirty laundry in public, and she doesn’t seem to mind bringing us along for the ride. 

The one rambunctious judgment for which it would be difficult to forgive Palmer is her description of the Italian historian and philosopher Benedetto Croce as a fascist. On the contrary, Croce was a beacon of liberalism throughout the Mussolini era, and everyone knows it. As the Italian historin Momigliano puts it:

"The liberty Croce spoke about was not just a philosophic notion. It was the liberty our fathers had won for themselves in the revolution and on the battlefields of the Risorgimento. Croce represented a constant reproach to Fascism, a constant reminder of what we had lost—freedom and honesty of thought, especially in matters of religion, of social questions and of foreign policy, tolerance, representative government, fair trials, respect for other nations and consequently self-respect."

Yet for the most part, subsequent generations of Italian scholars have resented the man ever since. They have not been inclined to reread him. 

Palmer does herself no credit by joining that bandwagon. 

The Fall Music Season

When the days get dark, we head inside for entertainment, though when I look back at the events we’ve attended recently, most of them took place in the afternoon!

We attended an afternoon concert of the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra recently. We were struck, a few years ago, by the magic that Eunice Kim summoned  to a performance of Mendelsohn’s Violin Concerto, and she worked her magic again on Saint-Saëns’s Violin Concerto No. 3. She retains the knack for bringing out the heavily romantic aspects of the music fully, yet selflessly. 

The orchestra’s woodwind “dectet” (is that a word?) had primed us by opening the “set” with a crisp, frothy appetizer by Jean Françaix, “Seven Dances after the Ballet Les malheurs de Sophie,” in the vein of Poulenc or Stravinsky in his pesky neo-classical phase.  

We left at intermission, fearing that even the most charming of Beethoven’s symphonies—his first—would have sounded lead-footed in comparison to Saint-Saëns’s richer offering. But we picked up a bit of a heavier Central European vibe while having lunch at Moscow on the Hill.

A few days later, we spent the better part of an afternoon in the Ordway’s bigger theater listening to the Minnesota Opera perform Mozart’s delightful Cosi Fan Tutti. I first heard this opera performed by the same company back in 1976 when it was in its infancy. It was a snowy night; my mom had driven into town to see the opera with us, and she spent the night on the couch in our tiny apartment.

I liked the opera then, and I liked it even more a half-century later, the second time around.

Cosi Fan Tutti once had a spotty or questionable reputation, on the order of: “not quite up to Mozart’s best, somewhat trashy, but after all, it is Mozart.” Some found the plot to be “immoral,” though it strikes me that Don Giovanni is hardly a model citizen. In any case, I loved the entire performance, and I was pleased to read later than some experts share that view.  “The most perfect ensemble opera ever written,” Matthew Boyden writes glowingly in The Rough Guide to Opera. And scholar Arthur Hutchen’s confesses, in his biography of Mozart, “For reasons I cannot explain and do not think worth discovering, despite the glories of other Mozart operas, I personally derive the greatest pleasure from Cosi fan Tutti…”

The big issue, when attending a classic opera these days, is whether the “updated” production will add something to the experience, or simply muck up the thing. In this case, the opera took place in a modern office setting, seemingly furnished by IKEA. In the first scene the two male protagonists—or perhaps I should call them “bros”—are drinking beer and playing video games. You get the idea.

The producers added a final twist to the show, giving viewers the opportunity to vote for a given outcome: do the two pairs of lovers remain together, or switch partners, or break up? The tally would determine how the cast wrapped up the “drama.”

It sounds dumb, but I was interested to read in an essay by Florence Badol-Bertrand that Mozart seemed “barely interested” in how the opera turned out. “At the end of the opera,’ she writes, “contrary to the conventions of the period, we are not exactly sure about how the couples are ‘redistributed.’”

We were sitting in the last row of the balcony, under the overhang of the second balcony, and from that distance I couldn’t tell for sure what happened at the end, either. Nor was it easy to discern, during the love scenes, the extent to which the two couples were playing a “part” in the grand ruse and the degree to which they were getting carried away by genuine emotion in an amorous situation. The ambiguity, or complexity, of the narrative made it possible to sit back, relax, enjoy the hijinks, and more especially, enjoy the music.

A few days later we met some friends down at the Dakota for tenor giant Joshua Redman’s eight o’clock show. The club’s habit of cramming the tables into long tight rows doesn’t sit well with me, but we’d reserve one that’s nestled up against the wall in front of the bar. It had the added virtue of obscuring our view of the huge TV sets on the wall behind the bandstand.

It was a pleasant scene, and the performance was decently long. But the band focused its attention on high-energy tunes from Redman’s most recent album, Words Fall Short. With all due respect, the music fell a little short, too. The tunes themselves weren’t that distinctive, and their somewhat arbitrary modal progressions seemed to thwart Redman’s attempts to stretch out lyrically. Pianist Paul Cornish went wild on several numbers, bashing away in a post-Don Pullen mode, and Redman gave it his fiery best, but the most engaging solos were provided by bassist Paul Norris. Hmmm. (The last time we heard Redman live he was exploring standards with Brad Mehldau. It was a musical feast.)

The following week we paid a visit one afternoon to an obscure (to us, not to God) church in St. Paul to hear a recently resurrected Mass by baroque composer Domenico Belli. What? You’ve never heard of him? Neither had we. But Consortium Carissimi always puts on a good show, and in this case they were featuring two quartets of vocalists, one of which included local star Clara Osowski. It was a lovely forty-minute Mass, although the experience was marred somewhat for Hilary by the fact that she was following the text in the program.

The fear of death doth trouble me, sinning daily, and not repenting: for that in hell there is no redemption, have mercy upon me O God, and save me.

And so on. Relentlessly. Heavy stuff. Then again, the piece was a funeral elegy. Officium DEFUNCTORUM. We’d been warned.

When it was over, the musicians headed to the basement while Garrick Comeaux, the group’s founder and artistic director, came forward to apologize for the brevity of the performance. He’d discovered the manuscript in an archive in Brescia, not far from Milan.

“I never know how long a piece is going to be until I have it worked up,” he told us. “Do you want us to do part of it again?”

A man in the front row suggested the final aria. Comeaux sent someone down to summon the musicians from the basement, and we were treated to a reprise of the concert’s last twenty minutes, during which all eight of the vocalists have a part to play.  

The 2025 Twin Cities Book Fair

The 2025 Twin Cities Book Fair was a different kettle of fish. Rain Taxi chose a new venue, the elegant St. Paul Union Depot, and it was definitely a warmer and classier spot than the previous location in the eco-building on the state fairgrounds. I was told that the depot also has better facilities for author events. I don’t know much about that because I hadn’t heard of any of the authors and didn’t attend any of those events.

There was general agreement among the people I talked to that the parking at the new site is terrible. It’s also difficult to get something to eat quickly. A third strike against the new venue is that the room isn’t really big enough to host the event. It was so crowded that as I moved down the aisles, I spent more time plotting out and negotiating a route through the throng than I did looking at the books.

Then again, maybe that’s just as well. I don’t really need any new books.

And as far as I know, the Rain Taxi folks might have been pleased as punch at how the day went.

The first person I chatted with on my stroll through the crowd was Marguerite Ragnow, whom I’d never met before. She’s the curator of the James Ford Bell Library, where I took one of my last classes before dropping out of grad school in 1978. I knew she’d know the former curator Carol Urness, with whom I reconnected recently and worked on a book with a few years ago. Marguerite proudly showed me a dazzling book that the Bell Library published late in 2019--right before Covid--called Tulips, Chocolate, and Silk. It features illustrations from books in the collection in spectacular color. I was impressed. 

We discussed the work of a pioneer in digitalizing maps whose name neither of us could quite remember: David something. (It came to me just now—David Rumsey.) And that was the extent of my contact with actual books during my morning peregrinations.

I spent the rest of the time dodging attendees and reconnecting with old friends. Near the far end of the central aisle I ran into Meleah Maynard, a seasoned freelance writer who introduced me a quarter century ago to Eric Loreberer, editor of Rain Taxi and impresario behind the fest, Recently retired, she told me a bit about the delights and challenges of dealing with all that free time.

While we were chatting, poet Norita Dittberner-Jax spotted us and came over to say hi. She’d recently been in Paris with her three children. “I know,” I said, “I saw the photos you posted. Hilary and I haven’t been there since 1989. I was inspired!”

I’m often in communication with Annie Klessig, who does the metadata and many other things at Bookmobile. I was impressed with her shirt, which said METADATA in fanciful white letters across the front. “I like that tee shirt,” I told her.

“It’s Metallica,” she said, grinning. I looked again.

“No. It says ‘metadata.’”

“I mean the FONT. This is the Metallica font. You know, the heavy metal band?”

“Ah, now I get it.”

I was going to tell her about the black tee shirt I have that says “bookslinger” in white letters across the front. I’m sure it’s a collector’s item, but I haven’t been able to get into it in thirty-five years, and I’m not one for black. 

Down at the Nodin Press booth, where I’d volunteered to cover for Norton during his lunch break, who should pop up but Rod Richards, recently retired from his post as a Unitarian minister. Rod and I were in the same writers’ group back in the 80s. He later took over the small-press distributor Bookslinger before moving to California with his wife, Hanje, and becoming a man of the cloth.

“Are you still writing?” I asked.

“I’m trying to figure out how I might fit into this scene again,” he said, perhaps a little wistfully.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve honed your style writing sermons,” I said.

“One a week for thirteen years.”

At one point, standing behind the Nodin Press table, I noticed two young women looking carefully at Freya Manfred’s memoir, Raising Twins. When they looked up I could see why. “We’re identical twins,” one of them giggled.

“But you’re two inches taller than your sister,” I protested.

“Yes, but my sister is two minutes older than me.”

Norton has gathered a fine collection of spirits together under the Nodin Press imprint, and I’ve had the pleasure of helping them produce their books while hovering on the fringes of the ensemble from time to time. I’m sure there were similar congeries of kindred spirits gathered here and there throughout the hall. Conventions are like that. And book people are like that, readers and writers alike, looking for recognition, perhaps, but more importantly, for a bit of camaraderie.

Samuel Johnson once wrote:

The transition from an author's book to his conversation, is too often like an entrance into a large city, after a distant prospect. Remotely, we see nothing but spires of temples and turrets of palaces, and imagine it the residence of splendor, grandeur and magnificence; but when we have passed the gates, we find it perplexed with narrow passages, disgraced with despicable cottages, embarrassed with obstructions, and clouded with smoke.

I haven’t found that to be true, perhaps because I’ve already gotten to know the authors I’m chatting with a little. I mentioned to poet Phil Bryant, a jazz fan like me, that I was heading down to the Dakota in a few days to hear Joshua Redman, and we discovered in the course of conversation that we share certain reservations about Redman’s sometime accompanist Brad Mehldau—a little too spacy, arbitrary, abstract?

A few minutes later, after she’d recovered from the shock of learning I was an Oxfordian (though an indifferent one, not a fanatic), Joyce Sutphen was reciting a lengthy passage from Twelfth Night. I could barely hear her over the din, but as I listened, I was reminded of how much of the richness of the Bard’s words is lost in performance. You really have to study it line by line to appreciate it fully.

Everyone knows this, I guess. But it’s also true that the dynamic impact of his dramas never comes through fully when you’re alone in a room struggling to act out the play inside your head, pondering the action line by line.

Mastering the ins and outs of the man’s work can be a lifelong task, and I simply don’t have the inclination. Give me Kenneth Branaugh’s Hamlet, Olivier’s Richard III, Stanley Tucci’s Midsummer’s Night Dream, and Verdi’s Otello, and I’ll be content.

Norton was back from lunch, and I was deep in conversation with Joyce’s partner, Walt, when I suddenly remembered that I’d parked illegally. Sure, I’d paid. But the protocol required that I enter my license number into the screen at the kiosk. At the time, I couldn’t quite remember it, but I didn’t feel like walking all the way back to my car to doublecheck. 

I arrived back at the car twenty minutes later. My guess had been wrong—not RYJ 568 but RYJ 679. But the parking lot gods had spared me. No ticket. 

These days the book gods seem to be in my corner, too.

Tariffs on Italian Pasta? Che Palle?

It was with great consternation that the editors of Macaroni read the headline:

        Tariffs on Pasta from Italy Set to Soar

While that primitive and classic starch, macaroni, has seldom been referred to directly in the pages of this blog in recent years, the “concept” of macaroni, elegant yet cheap, foreign yet common enough, capable of assuming a thousand unexpected shapes, foundation for a countless array of exotic sauces, is present in every issue, every blog.

Under the new Trump plan, Italian pasta-makers will face an astounding 107 percent tariff.

For American consumers, this won’t matter much. Only twelve percent of the pasta sold in the US comes from Italy. North Dakota might well be considered the heartland of durham and hard red spring wheat, the crop from which the best pasta is typically made. It’s true, the Creamettes building in the Minneapolis warehouse district is now filled with condos and apartments. But look at the shelves at Lund’s or Byerly’s and you’ll be reassured that the price of most pasta isn’t going the change much. Barilla sounds Italian, for example, but it’s made in the U.S.  

Considering the modest chunk of U.S. market share it commands, it’s hard to accuse Italy of “dumping” its pasta here. And it's also hard to imagine why Trump would play such a dirty trick on his favorite fascist colleague, Italian prime minister Giorgia Meloni, whom he recently introduced at an event as “a beautiful young woman …”. But anyone who’s trying to “understand” Trump's motives as rooted in anything other than the perverse joy of flinging large objects around the room is on a fool’s errand.

Shipments of pasta impounded in Naples

The Washington Post has reported that “the new duties would hit roughly half of Italy's $780 million pasta exports to the United States, including 90% of its more expensive premium pastas.”  So it appears that the U.S. Commerce Department is finally “putting the screws” on the American upper class for a change.

World Pasta Day, October 25, has come and gone. Unaware that a pasta war was brewing, Hilary and I fortuitously took advantage of a two-for-one sale at Byerly’s recently and stocked up. And we already had a few packages in the pantry.

Here’s a quick and easy recipe.

Pasta in Anchovy Sauce

½ lb spaghetti

salt

1 can anchovy fillets, minced

2 cloves garlic, chopped

¼ cup olive oil

3 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons dry bread crumbs

Drop the spaghetti into 4 or 5 quarts boiling water.

Place the anchovies, garlic, oil, and butter in a skillet over low heat, stirring and mashing, until the ingredients form a fairly smooth sauce. Add the bread crumbs and cook 2 or 3 minutes longer, allowing the bread crumbs to brown.

Drain the spaghetti when done. Add it to the pan with the anchovy sauce and toss over low heat until the spaghetti is well coated. Serve immediately.

Meditation on Peaks

I suppose those maps you see in the newspapers and online showing areas of “peak leaf color” serve a purpose. But anyone who spends a lot of time outdoors is likely to notice that the show begins in early September and goes on for several months. By early November the basswood tree in our front yard is bare while the silver maple out back is still green, though it’s looking a little pale. The branches of the sugar maple nearby spread their brilliant—I would almost say buttery—yellow leaves above the garden. Meanwhile, the Norway maple that I can see from where I sit here at the computer is kaput.

The concept of “peak” color begins to sound misleading and even misguided.

I’ve raked the front yard three or four times by now. It’s an excuse to get out into the cool and marvelous afternoons, and say hi to a few passing dogwalkers perhaps. Besides, our weekly yard waste pickups run 'til Thanksgiving. That bin can’t handle everything, but it helps.

I am amused repeatedly by the fact that if I rake half of the yard one day, the next day the leaves will once again be distributed evenly over the entire expanse. How can that be? As I rake, I ponder whether the effort of raking lightly three or four times is equivalent to the effort that would be required to rake the entire yard only once after all the trees are bare. I’m not terribly interested in the answer to this question, however. The best time to rake is when you feel like raking.

I have also been in the habit of grinding up the leaves with a lawn mower. They say it’s good for the grass.

* * *

Whatever else it may be, autumn is peak walking season. Fresh cool air, low sun, few birds. And yes, the color. Grabbing the fading light while we can, then home to a fire in the fireplace, perhaps. It’s the same cozy, and perhaps slightly melancholy, feeling, year after year.

The biologist Rene Dubos explains:

On the one hand, the external manifestations of human existence change continuously and at an increasing rate under the influence of social and technological innovations. On the other hand, man’s anatomical structures, physiological pro­cesses, and psychological urges remain in phase with the cosmic conditions that prevailed when Homo sapiens acquired his biological identity.

Though we may live in cities, in other words, we re­spond to changes in our environment the same way the Neanderthals did. Nor, in Dubos’s view, are our seasonal moods driven entirely by changes in light.

The behavioral patterns associated with the sea­sons cannot entirely be accounted for by changes in temperature or in the luminosity of sky. They have their seat in the genetic constitution and originate from a time in the evolutionary past when man lived in such direct contact with na­ture that he could survive only if his bodily functions and his mental responses were pre­cisely geared to the sea­sonal rhythms of nature and the availability of re­sources.

I don’t see how genetics can entirely account for the immediate emotional impact of mer­curial fluctuations in air pressure, cloud cover, tem­perature, or light, however. When I step out onto the deck on a cool autumn morning, sights, sounds, and smells that weren’t there even a few days ago incite me to rhapsodize. Low light, frost on the deck, dew in the long pale grass, and the chrysanthemums, which the Chinese associate with the beauty and melancholy of the season:

           I remember, when I was young,

How easily my mood changed from sad to gay.

If I saw wine, no matter the season,

Before I drank it, my heart was already glad.

               But now that age comes,

A moment of joy is harder and harder to get.

And always I fear that when I am quite old

The strongest liquor will leave me comfortless.

Therefore I ask you, late chrysanthemum-flower,

At this sad season why do you bloom alone?

Though well I know that it was not for my sake,

Taught by you, for a while I will open my face.

                               —Po Chü-i, (812)

The penultimate line of this little gem, in which the poet acknowledges the radical separation between his fate and the ebb and flow of his circumstances, seals its modest beauty.

      

Blue Moon – the Film

The last days of lyricist Lorenz Hart weren’t pretty ones. He’d penned the lyrics for numerous Broadway hits including “Blue Moon,” Ship Without a Sail," "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered," "Dancing on the Ceiling," "Falling in Love with Love," "Glad to Be Unhappy," "He Was Too Good to Me," "I Could Write a Book," "I Didn't Know What Time It Was," "Isn't It Romantic?" "It Never Entered My Mind," "Manhattan," "My Funny Valentine," "My Romance," "The Lady Is a Tramp," "Thou Swell" and "With a Song in My Heart." He was overflowing with ingenious phrases, tending toward the humorous, the satirical, and the self-depreciatory, making him the perfect collaborator for the often shmaltzy tunesmith Richard Rodgers, six years his junior. 

But Larry was unreliable, difficult to work with. He drank, he slept in, he missed appointments. When Rodgers proposed a new musical called “Oklahoma!,” Hart rejected it, considering it utter cornball. So Rodgers moved ahead with a new collaborator, Oscar Hammerstein, who hadn't written a hit since Showboat, a decade earlier.

In Blue Moon, director Richard Linklater focuses on one particular evening: the opening night of Oklahoma! Hart attends the show with his mother, then hurries down to the bar nearby where the reception is set to take place. In the course of the evening he chats with the worldly-wise bartender, the young soldier at the piano, and E. B. White (who happens to be sitting at a table nearby.) He tells the bartender about his “girlfriend,” a attractive coed twenty years his junior, and the language gets crude. She’ll be arriving soon. Hart has promised to introduce her to Rodgers.

Guests start to trickle in from the theater, including Hammerstein and Rodgers himself. By this time Hart has had a few drinks, and he’s getting slightly manic. He congratulates Hammerstein, then Rodgers, things remain cordial, and Rodgers even goes so far as to suggest a new collaboration with Hart, an update of the duo’s first show, now fifteen years in the past.

OK, Hart replies, but why not do a new show? A satire about Marco Polo. Four hours long. “We’ll skewer everything and everybody …. “

It’s painful to watch the evening unfold. Ethan Hawke inhabits the role of Hart with all the exuberance and pathos he can muster, but it’s never fun to watch an alcoholic head down that slippery slope to inebriation. Andrew Scott, in the role of Rodgers, nails the complex blend of gratitude, affection, courtesy, and distaste that the songwriter feels for his one-time mentor, collaborator, and friend. And Margaret Qualley is perfect as the worldly-wise yet strangely innocent ingénue who’s truly fond of her much older and much more famous friend, though she doesn’t care for him “in that way.”

It isn’t difficult to guess who’s going to get the girl.

But that's not the point of the film. Linklater wanted to bring to life a fascinating and dreadful moment in the history of American popular culture, and in that he's succeeded. 

It almost makes you want to stream Oklahoma! again. 

___________________

For deeper insights into the art and milieu of the Great American Songbook, I would highly recommend Wilfrid Sheed's The House That George Built. For an almost academic look at the lyricists of the era, including forty-odd pages on Hart himself, it might be worthwhile checking out The Poets of Tin Pan Alley, by Philip Furia.