tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-95803302024-03-27T16:54:22.786-07:00Andy NicastroAndy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.comBlogger165125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-69922442498731010552021-08-26T14:05:00.001-07:002021-10-27T18:19:45.078-07:00On Being Translated<p><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i></i></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjZr0WfVZ5eZ3TJit4_uV_PwF-FJqhHKTFDVL1eVw2xKGs2uUd24hz24bU7wSmHzcX9O435O5Eoj74ddISBKLzCg9eM9jMdrUo9Ya4Z2hgSHMpA_u8AzSwZ9p3FP-lNf9YdTlaEA/s554/primo-levi-1981-by-sergio-del-grande-sergio-del-grandemondadori-portfolio-via-getty-images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="554" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjZr0WfVZ5eZ3TJit4_uV_PwF-FJqhHKTFDVL1eVw2xKGs2uUd24hz24bU7wSmHzcX9O435O5Eoj74ddISBKLzCg9eM9jMdrUo9Ya4Z2hgSHMpA_u8AzSwZ9p3FP-lNf9YdTlaEA/w200-h188/primo-levi-1981-by-sergio-del-grande-sergio-del-grandemondadori-portfolio-via-getty-images.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>It
is worth saying something about the condition of the writer who finds
himself being translated. Being translated is not work for either the
weekday or the weekend...it abounds in violent and conflicting
emotions. The author who finds before him a page of his own work
translated into a language that he understands will, variously or all at
once, feel that he has been flattered, betrayed, ennobled, X-rayed,
castrated, planed smooth, raped, embellished, or murdered. Rarely does
he remain indifferent toward the translator, whether his is an
acquaintance or a stranger, who has jammed his nose and his fingers into
his viscera: he would gladly send him, variously, or all at once, his
own heart carefully packaged, a check, a laurel wreath, or his seconds
for a duel.</i></span></span></blockquote><p></p><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> <span> <span> - </span></span></span>Primo Levi, <i>Other People’s Trades</i> (1985)</span></span></div>Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-39526123074529443882021-08-19T18:09:00.002-07:002021-10-28T11:33:41.990-07:00Happiness<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></p><blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjYAMoL0YGIl5q3VBXUYbpI69CDv_B6h4lYF8a4iq18egOE_e9LzalSANkm5o2FWwwNghh8DfJ5_4LUnv_d5vzMh3X9z7KGkD-DqsDN_G7bcPHctXGrmsz64P9Q7WakL-RoEBh9A/s2048/Gustave-Flaubert2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1255" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjYAMoL0YGIl5q3VBXUYbpI69CDv_B6h4lYF8a4iq18egOE_e9LzalSANkm5o2FWwwNghh8DfJ5_4LUnv_d5vzMh3X9z7KGkD-DqsDN_G7bcPHctXGrmsz64P9Q7WakL-RoEBh9A/w123-h200/Gustave-Flaubert2.jpg" width="123" /></a></div></blockquote><p><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><br /></i></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Have you sometimes thought, dear sweet friend, how many tears the horrible word “happiness” is responsible for? If that word didn’t exist we would sleep more serenely and live in greater peace.</i></span></p><p></p><p>
</p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span> - </span>Gustave Flaubert, Letter to </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Alfred LePoittevin, </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span> </span>June 17, 1845</span></p><div><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-45666113577808535332021-08-12T17:54:00.005-07:002022-08-24T13:47:30.100-07:00The Values of the Enlightenment<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-kerning: none;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4JWRXZTTAPQmO50O22RL5YhB3zuPtGqNpln7brM00ZuhTafOuME2WX_sqvpp-__HzEf8yjZJ93PpnxJyDxVR41z83Ba63ud6K9MCI85ffPwoFtkDw1VhDpJP9ngfts0bxJXkntw/s468/LON18194-465.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="468" data-original-width="465" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4JWRXZTTAPQmO50O22RL5YhB3zuPtGqNpln7brM00ZuhTafOuME2WX_sqvpp-__HzEf8yjZJ93PpnxJyDxVR41z83Ba63ud6K9MCI85ffPwoFtkDw1VhDpJP9ngfts0bxJXkntw/w199-h200/LON18194-465.jpg" width="199" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>I believe that one of the few things that stands between us and an accelerated descent into darkness is the set of values inherited from the eighteenth-century Enlightenment. This is not a fashionable view at this moment, when the Enlightenment can be dismissed as anything from superficial and intellectually naive to a conspiracy of dead white men in periwigs to provide the intellectual foundation for Western imperialism. It may or may not be all that, but it is also the only foundation for all the aspirations to build societies fit for </i></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><span style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">all</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"> human beings to live in anywhere on the Earth, and for the assertion and defense of their human rights as persons. In any case, the progress of civility which took place from the eighteenth century until the early twentieth was achieved overwhelmingly or entirely under the influence of the Enlightenment, by governments of what are still called, for the benefit of history students, “enlightened absolutists”, by revolutionaries and reformers, liberals, socialists and communists, all of whom belonged to the same intellectual family. It was not achieved by its critics.</span></i></span></blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span><p>
</p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span> <span> <span> <span style="font-family: times;"><span> </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: times;">- </span></span><span style="font-family: times;">Eric Hobsbawm, “Barbarism: A User’s Guide” (1994)</span></span></span></p>Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-85014822553788281302020-02-24T05:50:00.001-08:002024-03-27T15:24:10.275-07:00Local Hero<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiBHrd9Zbm0Mqw9cabUHwlx28Yw3hEzUifasFeBu3Lc0k82yQW8df63oBLA3LEM9s0tDI6nphSI0Y7QN5TLnI5xZwmjLOgGMDlN41jYuSKdJYmZWgMawWeaLWwfSGk204bWxTHTw/s1600/tG4CJ9c3PbmNziiX4KClVc9Pj6MsDU_large.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1288" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiBHrd9Zbm0Mqw9cabUHwlx28Yw3hEzUifasFeBu3Lc0k82yQW8df63oBLA3LEM9s0tDI6nphSI0Y7QN5TLnI5xZwmjLOgGMDlN41jYuSKdJYmZWgMawWeaLWwfSGk204bWxTHTw/s320/tG4CJ9c3PbmNziiX4KClVc9Pj6MsDU_large.jpg" width="257" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;">Watched <i>Local Hero</i> this weekend. So good. I saw it when it first came out in 1983 but haven’t seen it again in many, many years. It holds up well after all this time. Still charming. Still quirky. Burt Lancaster still perfect as Felix Happer, the comet-obsessed CEO of an oil company who wants to buy a small Scottish village and turn it into a petroleum processing facility. Peter Riegert still good as MacIntyre (Mac, for short), the not-entirely-unlikeable yuppie sent to acquire the town, though he’d rather do everything by telex (google it). And the town and its inhabitants – enchanting and winsome, as always. Whimsy can sour over the years, but that's not the case with this film.</span><br />
<br />
Bill Forsythe wrote and directed. To judge by the many extras on this Criterion Collection release, Forsythe's sensibilities are far more abstract than one would suppose. He emphasizes several times that he wanted MacIntyre to be as bland and nebulous a person as possible; he didn’t want a strong and domineering leading man. Mac’s assistant Danny, played by a young and goofy Peter Capaldi has a much more forceful personality. As Forsythe points out, if <i>Local Hero</i> had been given the typical Hollywood treatment the two characters would have been merged into one. No doubt. And Mac would have been a manly type with a love interest (in the actual film Capaldi gets the love interest, not Riegert). And instead of a charming and eccentric oil millionaire there would have been some unbearable asshole as the bad guy (think of the EPA Administrator from <i>Ghostbusters</i>). And of course our leading man would have put that heartless son-of-a-bitch in his place at the end of the film. And he probably would've become rich and famous in the process. Then freeze-frame on our victorious hero, cue the rock-n-roll (Journey, Pointer Sisters, Bob Seger, etc.), fade to black, and roll the credits. I think it was federal law that every comedy in '80s had to end this way.<br />
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf31awKneMZ_pDGZs_HdmxOCn9pUOIfM960ngq4Lc2LLEgpRvvBAlTTCJ2fmEjfMxRlg-VX0PBiXXo4uY9WIU33m_8LgOi7C5feKj4yP9gem66uhJnnEuZeSKuUPgxkA5FPf56uA/s1600/LH+036+-+Lancaster.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="853" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf31awKneMZ_pDGZs_HdmxOCn9pUOIfM960ngq4Lc2LLEgpRvvBAlTTCJ2fmEjfMxRlg-VX0PBiXXo4uY9WIU33m_8LgOi7C5feKj4yP9gem66uhJnnEuZeSKuUPgxkA5FPf56uA/s640/LH+036+-+Lancaster.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif" style="font-size: small;">Burt Lancaster</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">But <i>Local Hero</i> didn’t play by any of those rules, and that's one of the many things that made it special. It wasn’t like all the other dreck playing in 1983. Here was a unique and idiosyncratic vision. And underlying it was Forsythe’s total indifference for telling his story the “normal” way. “Oh, I can’t be bothered with that rubbish,” he seemed to be saying to the viewers’ expectations. And it was irresistible. Another filmmaker from that era who shared Forsythe’s contempt for the status quo was Alex Cox, whose equally quirky and unforgettable <i>Repo Man</i> would open a year later. I’ve always regarded Forsythe and Cox as cinematic brothers. The former hailing from Scotland, the latter from Britain. Both outsiders with a rebellious, even punk, sensibility (though Cox was, obviously, more in-your-face about it). They were independent filmmakers too soon for the indie film breakthrough of the late ‘80s, but much too late for the “New Waves” (French, American, Czeck, etc.) of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. </span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYa21MpF2Y2IJHpCh16N9OEs5uGcP2OEj4NO55-Y0ILycENPZutoWPKQqx5shFcF2QZZnKqTaGovQo3Jw_hkdviAaPsohC6Uu-_pvH1RtcJ-XVywdnttavkGhyphenhyphenW-ju0AJVxzlNUw/s1600/LH+052+-+Capaldi+Riegert.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="853" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYa21MpF2Y2IJHpCh16N9OEs5uGcP2OEj4NO55-Y0ILycENPZutoWPKQqx5shFcF2QZZnKqTaGovQo3Jw_hkdviAaPsohC6Uu-_pvH1RtcJ-XVywdnttavkGhyphenhyphenW-ju0AJVxzlNUw/s640/LH+052+-+Capaldi+Riegert.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif" style="font-size: small;">Peter Capaldi and Peter Riegert</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">From our vantage point it may be hard to recapture some of the freshness which <i>Local Hero</i> had on first release. For instance, Victor the Russian (Christopher Rozycki). He shows up to attend the town's party and to check up on his financial investments. He's a big, boisterous, lovable teddy-bear of a Commie, nothing like the scheming, murderous, Soviet bastards of Reagan-era schlock like <i>Red Dawn</i> (1984) and <i>Rocky IV</i> (1985). There was something slyly subversive about Forsythe's unwillingness to play along with the rest of the culture's clichés. <i>Local Hero</i> is also a wry twist on British post-war comedies about Americans. Had it been made two or three decades earlier (and been subjected to the pro-forma British studio treatment) the film would have been about how a bunch of plucky local Scots foil the plans of greedy Americans to take over their village. Forsythe inverts that mythos - now the townspeople are more than eager to sell the village for as many millions as they can get. In one of the films many charming touches one of the townsmen asks MacIntyre for his autograph as the latter is about to leave in a helicopter. One immediately wonders why. But, really, why not? He's made them all rich, he's their hero.</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQdXswD2qz2zROV1Rbe6Opdy_H1i7eMXJh6jamKyWilHlvD9A7iLy3uJhXfRS5qa_Y8PSm86uqGUO9tSVBqVSExnDB48QMqyljZOX5AtVzXeBdz_r99TYa7V_5P3Nq2Prertj1w/s1600/LH+076+-+landscape.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="853" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQdXswD2qz2zROV1Rbe6Opdy_H1i7eMXJh6jamKyWilHlvD9A7iLy3uJhXfRS5qa_Y8PSm86uqGUO9tSVBqVSExnDB48QMqyljZOX5AtVzXeBdz_r99TYa7V_5P3Nq2Prertj1w/s640/LH+076+-+landscape.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">And that's one of the aspects of <i>Local Hero</i> which, to my mind, hasn't aged well. Its obsession with getting rich is very much representative of its era. Forty year later that conceit doesn't have the same bright sheen as it once did. In the intervening decades we've all learned that the folks promising to hand out big bags of money usually end up fleecing and bilking the people they alight upon. In the early 1980s, at the dawn of what I believe it's safe to call The Golden Age of The Big Con (an age which, you won't be surprised to learn, is still going strong), <i>Local Hero</i> has all the wide-eyed gullibility of a true and perpetual mark. But this is a minor quibble with the film. And it turns out that reality had a finer sense of irony than the movie itself. Two different villages were used to create the town of Furness in <i>Local Hero</i>; one for the beach and one for the town itself. Both villages are still there, but the one used for the town, Pennan, has created a tourist industry for itself based on the film. They've barely changed at all; they even kept the red telephone booth on the pier. It wasn't petroleum which made them money, it was fans of the film. </span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkimA4qXmj1dl2BB-Kog1BWC6-PmNjhyM0z-Nl5U2c59P7gxLTbnAYlu907B1HVX5dR_fo2L-eWTBhoDp6tzOtE3MM0cZykkuABuvZ_G_XU0Xd9bKX119kaTqJEj2bsRtIuBHmIA/s1600/LH+166+-+Riegert+Lawson.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="853" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkimA4qXmj1dl2BB-Kog1BWC6-PmNjhyM0z-Nl5U2c59P7gxLTbnAYlu907B1HVX5dR_fo2L-eWTBhoDp6tzOtE3MM0cZykkuABuvZ_G_XU0Xd9bKX119kaTqJEj2bsRtIuBHmIA/s640/LH+166+-+Riegert+Lawson.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif" style="font-size: small;">Peter Riegert and Denis Lawson</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>Local Hero</i> is one of those movies in which the locale is such a strong presence that one feels that it should receive an actual credit along with the actors and crew. Other films I would also put into this category include <i>Lost in Translation</i> (co-starring Tokyo), <i>To Live and Die in LA</i> (co-starring LA (duh)), and <i>The Sweet Smell of Success</i> with Burt Lancaster and Tony Curtis (co-starring The City and Night). In <i>Local Hero</i> the Scottish countryside, the sea, and the sky are essentially characters in the story. They work their magic. Much of this is due to the magnificent cinematography of Chris Menges, who seems to suffuse each shot with radiance. I swear he actually captures the atmosphere in the air on this film. <i>Local Hero</i> was one of the first movies I saw in which I found myself just getting lost in the sheer beauty of the shots, and at several times in the commentary track both Forsythe and his interviewer, Mark Kermode, suddenly fall silent, taken about aback by the beauty of Menges work. The soundtrack by Dire Straits leader Mark Knopfler has also been justly celebrated. In fact the music is probably more iconic of <i>Local Hero</i> than any of the film’s images (with the possible exception of the red telephone booth). And now there is even more <i>Local Hero</i> music. Last spring the musical version of the film opened in Scotland; music and lyrics by Knopfler, and the book by Bill Forsythe and David Greig. It opens this summer in London’s Old Vic theater. <span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQGm4PCsIfg3G43ml3oSE8hOvEUUoTx85Zpl8lKTYeBMWG3kF_SxuOo52dcHOUuX3tyoB1HJD17aTMKCv4s_fvxBvMdQYOyXOtKwRqiOL8ezbgE_yPJ4EHq8IPf8fclFSHdGZVag/s1600/LH+262+-+Riegert+Lancaster+Capaldi.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="853" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQGm4PCsIfg3G43ml3oSE8hOvEUUoTx85Zpl8lKTYeBMWG3kF_SxuOo52dcHOUuX3tyoB1HJD17aTMKCv4s_fvxBvMdQYOyXOtKwRqiOL8ezbgE_yPJ4EHq8IPf8fclFSHdGZVag/s640/LH+262+-+Riegert+Lancaster+Capaldi.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif" style="font-size: small;">Peter Reigert, Burt Lancaster, and Peter Capaldi</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Forsythe has characterized this film as "<i>Brigadoon</i> meets <i>Apocalypse Now</i>." <i>Brigadoon</i> I get, but <i>Apocalypse Now</i> seems like a stretch. However, both Mac in <i>Local Hero</i> and Willard (Martin Sheen) in <i>Apocalypse Now</i> have similar trajectories in their stories. Both leave civilization and journey "up the river" into a strange environment (the village/the jungle) which ultimately transforms them - one into madness and murder, the other into possibly becoming a decent human being. Very different outcomes. It certainly seems to me that the shot, late in the film, of Happer's helicopter coming out of the sky and landing on the beach is a pretty blatant visual <i>homage</i> to Coppola's film.* </span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz1dDmuXTCg9-ETwl8wUFD20pR1U5YKKVK_ZM9yzj8AutwFuBE08nj553I7d37lPNAmULjn5mqOAGPqHyJPCcOU4vMy1BlNrqs-Kl6gSm324COwBCK1IwjdONWkg0GES41zN46Yg/s1600/LH+110+-+Black+Riegert.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="853" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz1dDmuXTCg9-ETwl8wUFD20pR1U5YKKVK_ZM9yzj8AutwFuBE08nj553I7d37lPNAmULjn5mqOAGPqHyJPCcOU4vMy1BlNrqs-Kl6gSm324COwBCK1IwjdONWkg0GES41zN46Yg/s640/LH+110+-+Black+Riegert.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif" style="font-size: small;">Jennifer Black and Peter Riegert</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">The small things in <i>Local Hero</i> are often the most memorable and moving. "What lovely long lashes you have," the pretty Stella (Jennifer Black) says to Mac at one point. And he is completely taken aback, flummoxed. He sits there speechless, lost. Later in the film he and Stella's husband, Gordon (Denis Lawson), get plastered. Gordon is negotiating on behalf of the village and during their drunken discussion Mac mentions that he loves Stella (whom in truth he barely knows) and will want her for himself as part of any final deal. The moment is both funny and sad, a sign of Mac's deep loneliness. Speaking of which, there are few things more haunting in 1980s movies than Mac's return to Houston at the end of <i>Local Hero</i>. In two long hand-held shots we follow him as he enters his apartment, puts down his bags, empties seashells out of his pocket, and pins up some pictures on the wall. Then he walks onto the balcony. Night is falling in Houston. We hear noises from the street. We see the downtown city lights in the distance, out of focus. Knopfler's plaintive guitar softly wails. Then the distant city comes into focus and the image of Mac blurs. Yet we know there's nothing in that big bright city for him anymore. It may as well be a million miles away. But the final shot of the film, which I'll let you discover for yourself, redeems it all.</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN6_nmhwVUvoNm78Uj8Vjd4Zx1ODm9DjLTQXKYZsF-5krUkoGki1v7FyYGe7HYtwbagEHFfcQo6YtrKxjv9hYLAgy-dLkESlJ2z6wMbVqRAe6Ej9qLm50ndekzArjnCAKbUf6chw/s1600/LH+290+-+Riegert.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="853" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN6_nmhwVUvoNm78Uj8Vjd4Zx1ODm9DjLTQXKYZsF-5krUkoGki1v7FyYGe7HYtwbagEHFfcQo6YtrKxjv9hYLAgy-dLkESlJ2z6wMbVqRAe6Ej9qLm50ndekzArjnCAKbUf6chw/s640/LH+290+-+Riegert.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif" style="font-size: small;">Peter Riegert in Houston</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">* </span><span style="font-kerning: none;">If I really wanted to run wild with this whole <i>Local-Hero</i>-as-<i>Apocalypse-Now</i> theory (and perhaps I shouldn't) it's worth noting that the Scottish film is largely a retelling of the narrative of the American one. In this fakakta analogy of mine, Mac isn't really Willard, he's actually Kurtz (Marlon Brando). He's the one who goes upstream and "goes native." And Happer is actually Willard. He follows after the rogue agent when things get out of control. Happer then "terminates" Mac "with extreme prejudice" not by killing him (as Willard will kill Kurtz) but rather by sending him back to Houston (which is also bad). </span></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-37515582023542789492020-02-14T06:08:00.000-08:002020-02-24T15:59:37.843-08:00Razzia sur la Chnouf<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH3SzggevGoB5EueAa-p4zUdxr9n6PAGG03c02sPmVVglK9PV9P737QqMLIqLX48XWH9Y_Syt3GXmuB6gXfuzRiVs3iJWyXSI6DxHINhDdlW2VkF_bREBsy6h48g1_zxHaLqD69A/s1600/220px-Razzia-sur-la-chnouf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="308" data-original-width="220" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH3SzggevGoB5EueAa-p4zUdxr9n6PAGG03c02sPmVVglK9PV9P737QqMLIqLX48XWH9Y_Syt3GXmuB6gXfuzRiVs3iJWyXSI6DxHINhDdlW2VkF_bREBsy6h48g1_zxHaLqD69A/s320/220px-Razzia-sur-la-chnouf.jpg" width="228" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;">If you were to compile a list of the coolest movie stars who ever lived, there is little doubt in my mind that Jean Gabin would be in the top ten, if not the top five. And if you wanted a film to justify that claim you could scarcely do better than Henri Decoin’s fantastic <b><i>Razzia sur la Chnouf</i></b> (Drug Raid) from 1955, recently <a href="https://www.klstudioclassics.com/product/view/id/6218">released</a> on DVD/Blu-Ray by KL Studio Classics. It will also be part of the Film Noir Foundation's Noir City 2020 line-up which will be touring the country during the year. See the <a href="https://www.noircity.com/">schedule</a> for details.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">In <i>Razzia</i> (as it was called in the US) Gabin plays Henri Ferré, a gangster returning to France after a successful stay in the US. Crime boss Paul Liski (Marcel Dalio) has a special project for him. The heroin business in Paris isn’t doing as well as it should, and Liski believes that Ferré is just the right son-of-a-bitch to break heads and increase his profits. To that end he assigns him two hit men (Lino Ventura and Albert Rémy) to help motivate those in the racket who aren’t keen on the new requirements. Ferré also gets a nightclub to manage (it’s a good cover for him, too). There he starts up a love affair with the young cashier, Lisette (Magali Noël). </span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPbL0bthccZ-_Wy2I0HT7Mw7y7EErEpBkC7rzULtXljFf88AUvtg6xXp2iS-qzP0sgsLL8BV4YA9CXnLbdjkCjJq5PaNlVNKmr0iYwXHEWrvtziCv_LOLtQ3IvXAVbIJfWQLtC9g/s1600/Razzia+-+Gabin2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="706" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPbL0bthccZ-_Wy2I0HT7Mw7y7EErEpBkC7rzULtXljFf88AUvtg6xXp2iS-qzP0sgsLL8BV4YA9CXnLbdjkCjJq5PaNlVNKmr0iYwXHEWrvtziCv_LOLtQ3IvXAVbIJfWQLtC9g/s640/Razzia+-+Gabin2.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Jean Gabin</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">A title card at the beginning of <i>Razzia</i> tells us that this film was made to educate the public about the evil of drugs and to dissuade the viewer from ever getting involved with them. Now, anytime a film begins with that type of earnest disclaimer you can bet that the crimes/sins/evils we’re about to see will be depicted in the most flattering, appealing, and irresistibly enjoyable ways - and you would be right. <i>Razzia</i> is a delight. The world of crime in it is cool, romantic, exciting. It probably won’t make you join the French heroin business, but you’ll sure want to dress and act like you're part of it.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">And at the center of it all is Jean Gabin. This is a stolid and stoic performance. The less Gabin moves and speaks the more compelling he is to watch. It’s like there’s a gravitational field of cool around him. He's Bogart-esque. At one point he catches a waiter (Robert Le Fort) trying to steal food from his nightclub. He slaps the man across the face (he does a lot of slapping in this movie) and sends him back into the kitchen to return the food. The waiter comes back out and apologizes, explaining that he's broke from a 14,000 franc gambling debt. Gabin, who's barely moved since he smacked the fellow, calmly pulls out a wad of cash and gives him 10,000 francs. So smooth.</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnFAVAgfdE2nswPMzdoz3a8BCWXzfuaybQ30l7HOoM2UeAdwoMDlbJIm601UVdr_6S7zqqKC5YOBCtQ3zN7LdAXdKKj3Cj3X-9s_9WhzG-yoww_6EOixP5dBZn9AsQcRiiLuFQSg/s1600/Razzia+-+Gabin+Le+Fort.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="706" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnFAVAgfdE2nswPMzdoz3a8BCWXzfuaybQ30l7HOoM2UeAdwoMDlbJIm601UVdr_6S7zqqKC5YOBCtQ3zN7LdAXdKKj3Cj3X-9s_9WhzG-yoww_6EOixP5dBZn9AsQcRiiLuFQSg/s640/Razzia+-+Gabin+Le+Fort.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Jean Gabin and Robert Le Fort</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Gabin had been the top French movie star during the 30s and 40s but with the coming of World War II he emigrated to the US, where he hoped to start up a Hollywood career. Instead, he encountered total failure. He made only two films in the US and both bombed. He just didn’t catch on with American audiences. When he returned to France after the war he wound up having trouble catching on with French audiences as well. His career was floundering. But in 1954 he starred as an aging, tired, weary gangster in Jacques Becker’s <i>Touchez Pas au Grisbi</i>. It was a huge success and Gabin was a star once again. Life, failure, and the passage of years had kicked the shit out of him, and that gorgeous face was now lined and furrowed and grizzled and wounded. In other words, it was the perfect face to play a gangster, which he would do for much of his remaining career. He would play cops, too, because, per the unwritten rule of gangster film casting, if you have the face to play a criminal, you have the face to play a cop.</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJZhZsq4VRLwZDFiwQn1FyNoAWvjptrD-5i4H15v_je04QCcch_zTzxjNSUYBUWJs8-pY1Ms0s6YJ5jbR2QEoOxzTzheyJe-wHkhnH8feRn5zEiUYd5mN89gEHgW3W0XNNVtGW0A/s1600/Razzia+-+a+gambling+den.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="707" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJZhZsq4VRLwZDFiwQn1FyNoAWvjptrD-5i4H15v_je04QCcch_zTzxjNSUYBUWJs8-pY1Ms0s6YJ5jbR2QEoOxzTzheyJe-wHkhnH8feRn5zEiUYd5mN89gEHgW3W0XNNVtGW0A/s640/Razzia+-+a+gambling+den.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">A gambling den</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Words and a few stills cannot capture the pure visual gorgeousness of <i>Razzia</i>. This film is opulent and lush - sensuous, even. It's hard to overestimate just how visually beautiful French films of the 1950s were. Francois Truffaut may have railed against the stifling "tradition of quality" in the French film industry of that time, but sixty years later I find it hard to agree with him. Decoin, cinematographer Pierre Montazel (who also shot <i>Touchez Pas au Grisbi</i>), and the production team led by Paul Temps have created a feast for the eyes in <i>Razzia</i>. When Gabin takes the lovely Noël to his apartment to sleep with her all we see at first is a completely darkened room, except for a window with some outside light. Then the door opens. The two of them enter, silhouetted by the hallway light. It's only a brief moment but it's poetic and evocative. Yes, this is exactly what taking a new girl home to bed feels like - or should (for both parties). At another point Gabin visits the lab where the heroin is processed. It's a small room but when he enters we see the immense shadow of a slowly rotating fan completely fill the space. This film has dozens of visually breath-taking moments like those. Honestly, <i>Razzia </i>is so sumptuous on the eyes that if it were publicly acceptable to drool at the movies, I'd need to wear a bib when I watch this one.</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCQPhLvi8f9671GXrtgOPrHMGaottBRQkTRUoDGDBFR5L3buuBmSTPZvnE6ScdrEzvh7ajtP-nvEj5nRqZpoI52Bk5JSFgOGwB7gYPKM_pxh8R2J7N1vyYwZ_gFfXusPNnhKZhIw/s1600/Razzia+-+Remy+Ventura.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="703" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCQPhLvi8f9671GXrtgOPrHMGaottBRQkTRUoDGDBFR5L3buuBmSTPZvnE6ScdrEzvh7ajtP-nvEj5nRqZpoI52Bk5JSFgOGwB7gYPKM_pxh8R2J7N1vyYwZ_gFfXusPNnhKZhIw/s640/Razzia+-+Remy+Ventura.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Albert Rémy and Lino Ventura motivating a colleague</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">And now that we're on the topic of cinéphiles and drooling, one week after </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Razzia </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">opened in France, Jules Dassin's equally brilliant </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Rififi</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> (arguably the best heist film ever made) had its premier. Yes, </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">April 1955 was a good month for Parisian film-goers.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Both movies, by the way, are based on novels by Auguste Le Breton.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Without Le Breton French crime films would be short of many a gem.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">He would later go on to pen </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">The Sicilian Clan</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">, and a year after </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Razzia </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">he helped Jean-Pierre Melville adapt </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Bob le Flambeur</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> for the big screen. Le Breton had been a petty criminal in his youth and no doubt much of the docunoir detail about the distribution of heroin in </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Razzia </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">is based on solid second-hand, or maybe even first-hand, knowledge.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Le Breton even has a brief cameo in </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Razzia </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">as one of the patrons at Gabin's nightclub.</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW0My3E_eQKO5H_GXst4i94J8FtARtyFs4FTEPEiX1YzVJVD-d1D8kg9ip3cuJzdtyG-J_7iYTfFhAhiu5R0MuMyxXOVERwkSDfPyILpbcQHyBr-A96w_2nOiXeclfBM685GGfWw/s1600/Razzia+-+Gabin+Noel.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="705" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW0My3E_eQKO5H_GXst4i94J8FtARtyFs4FTEPEiX1YzVJVD-d1D8kg9ip3cuJzdtyG-J_7iYTfFhAhiu5R0MuMyxXOVERwkSDfPyILpbcQHyBr-A96w_2nOiXeclfBM685GGfWw/s640/Razzia+-+Gabin+Noel.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Jean Gabin and Magali Noël</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">The rest of the cast in </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Razzia </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">hold their own with Gabin.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">It's a delight for fans of French film to see him paired again with Marcel Dalio.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">The two had co-starred back in the '30s in Jean Renoir's </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Grande Illusion</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> and Julien Duvivier's </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Pépé le Moko</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">; both classics.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Dalio also went to Hollywood during WWII, but he had more success than Gabin.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">And, yes, you have seen him onscreen; he played Emil the croupier in </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Casablanca</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Magali Noël is completely fetching as Lisette.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Her striking face would subsequently enchant Fellini, who featured her in many of his later films (which, frankly, were little more than testaments to their creator’s endless fascination with faces).</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Lino Ventura and Albert Rémy bring a cold malevolence to their roles as hitmen.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">There are more than a few times when one wonders if they’ve actually shown up to whack Gabin.</span> <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I’ll watch anything with Lino Ventura in it anyway.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">From the time I first saw him in Melville’s </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Army of Shadows</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> I’ve found him one of the great underappreciated actors in French films (at least outside of France).</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I love his quiet, easy toughness, his total unflappability.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">He’s got the face of a man who’s see it all and is yet totally centered and at peace with the evil world around him.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Razzia</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> was only Ventura's second film (his first was, you guessed it, <i>Touchez Pas au Grisbi</i>), and Gabin viewed him as something of a cinematic successor to himself.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> If only... </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">The French film-going public, it turns out, had different ideas, and t</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">he next big male movie stars in France would be Jean-Paul Belmondo and Alain Delon. Which wasn't so bad after all.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6e92NALNUvSdoRZiWwYihqkEmwb1rGaFFgVWQQSP95OfCr6SEqW4t1bwzy74vRFpHWBiaKfXiz5-4qg8TsJh2ftDnxrv5-bHcdE60rwdjX2BxyXkfpCJpaw9yAGHzZqEF7O3kfA/s1600/Razzia+-+Ventura+Remy+Gabin.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="539" data-original-width="706" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6e92NALNUvSdoRZiWwYihqkEmwb1rGaFFgVWQQSP95OfCr6SEqW4t1bwzy74vRFpHWBiaKfXiz5-4qg8TsJh2ftDnxrv5-bHcdE60rwdjX2BxyXkfpCJpaw9yAGHzZqEF7O3kfA/s640/Razzia+-+Ventura+Remy+Gabin.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Lino Ventura, Albert Rémy, and Jean Gabin</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<br /></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-91003616788387150982019-11-28T07:51:00.000-08:002019-11-28T08:30:58.888-08:00Respectable People<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLcBv9CL5-MtXYvnkEqfnwq6NIsvz48H3T3Z0yDIvv_ONByfcwEMJRzFboz4BWlyTtSLxfQ-3czPGZxcIMgl-iGXf8TmLfJZsBG833HLwhsmhQW_DsLM0riEsWdv4_aCAar8EOOw/s1600/-mile-Zola-poets-and-writers-35795517-2566-3678.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1117" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLcBv9CL5-MtXYvnkEqfnwq6NIsvz48H3T3Z0yDIvv_ONByfcwEMJRzFboz4BWlyTtSLxfQ-3czPGZxcIMgl-iGXf8TmLfJZsBG833HLwhsmhQW_DsLM0riEsWdv4_aCAar8EOOw/s200/-mile-Zola-poets-and-writers-35795517-2566-3678.jpg" width="139" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><i></i></span></blockquote>
<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Respectable people…What bastards!</i></span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 18px;"> - </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 18px;">Emile Zola, <i>The Belly of Paris</i> (1873)</span></blockquote>
<div>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-65968534015524807042019-11-21T07:22:00.000-08:002019-11-21T07:26:11.544-08:00The Danger of Indignation<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtJ2UHGA7KhBgZtLqiGqBfpQMt4E1mIwd-t65z18MAlFR5ItHEJeWq4FuhXX_L6JKBU1St8Gf6CxH9fvHpkl6TRD5uK-kICX1L9lYtEiGiJq00Sea7GQ_IA64dyVyAz_Vh82xZA/s1600/Kinfolk_Vol24_JamesBaldwin_01-792x1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="792" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtJ2UHGA7KhBgZtLqiGqBfpQMt4E1mIwd-t65z18MAlFR5ItHEJeWq4FuhXX_L6JKBU1St8Gf6CxH9fvHpkl6TRD5uK-kICX1L9lYtEiGiJq00Sea7GQ_IA64dyVyAz_Vh82xZA/s200/Kinfolk_Vol24_JamesBaldwin_01-792x1024.jpg" width="154" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Indignation and goodwill are not enough to make the world better. Clarity is needed, as well as charity, however difficult this may be to imagine, much less sustain, toward the other side. Perhaps the worst thing that can be said about social indignation is that it so frequently leads to the death of personal humility. Once that has happened, one has ceased to live in that world of men which one is striving so mightily to make over. One has entered into a dialogue with that terrifying deity, sometimes called History, previously, and perhaps again, to be referred to as God, to which no sacrifice in human suffering is too great.</i></span></blockquote>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> - James Baldwin, “The Crusade of Indignation” (1956)</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-71419742218102238762019-11-14T06:33:00.000-08:002019-11-14T13:35:21.760-08:00Cousinly Love<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicJEOhODCym6u-V1uyl5rIivnBTNbTMMnMtPtdv0Tgsu2FBjtrmOvEUMXLH9CwdOdeZWfBJ18a6DmpiJ_Cs3ESpdiFR75JeDRZfnFxNP0y33tzC7-oqpolEzOmUmAixjum3PpMqQ/s1600/george-bernard-shaw-medium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="360" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicJEOhODCym6u-V1uyl5rIivnBTNbTMMnMtPtdv0Tgsu2FBjtrmOvEUMXLH9CwdOdeZWfBJ18a6DmpiJ_Cs3ESpdiFR75JeDRZfnFxNP0y33tzC7-oqpolEzOmUmAixjum3PpMqQ/s200/george-bernard-shaw-medium.jpg" width="160" /></a></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>The Americans and the English are bound together at present by the ties of war, and by that sort of cousinly love which expresses itself in private by foaming at the mouth.</i></span></blockquote>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<div style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 18px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> - </span>Bernard Shaw, “Why Devolution Will Not</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 18px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"> Do”, </span><i>The Irish Statesman</i>, November 15,</div>
<div style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 18px;">
1919</div>
<div style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"> </span><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-52174480991419418902019-11-07T07:18:00.000-08:002019-11-08T08:33:55.735-08:00The Problem with Opinions<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgggpWIKeZgn__xxMPJK37KEOAHaggEfvsiXGoJbhcwI3ROyOgganKX2NAsYzE8ULmDVylmS1UN0bAqo9AT38KBFxI9Sim9LOmpDgowFrELL4UafDGTohjvBAkka1hUSSl4g4kGcA/s1600/Susan-Sontag.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="693" data-original-width="550" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgggpWIKeZgn__xxMPJK37KEOAHaggEfvsiXGoJbhcwI3ROyOgganKX2NAsYzE8ULmDVylmS1UN0bAqo9AT38KBFxI9Sim9LOmpDgowFrELL4UafDGTohjvBAkka1hUSSl4g4kGcA/s200/Susan-Sontag.jpeg" width="158" /></a><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>The problem with opinions is that one is stuck with them.</i></span></blockquote>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"> - Susan Sontag, “The Conscience of Words” (2001)</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-54496529986693718792019-10-31T05:50:00.000-07:002020-07-13T19:48:39.810-07:00A Walk in the Rain<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb9nuSQR3-m3QgOM_StjxaflG-Msnv3AAyrFf3OVJXwbf7kACz2THU-G5zq56Oj2uxpxtohQFzvslDEQZJV_SrR9XT4vSLlwOCPfkdUzTjBiaOxmRRMzFlM_k8POvrjZnqpEjU_Q/s1600/2017_28_thoreau-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1269" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb9nuSQR3-m3QgOM_StjxaflG-Msnv3AAyrFf3OVJXwbf7kACz2THU-G5zq56Oj2uxpxtohQFzvslDEQZJV_SrR9XT4vSLlwOCPfkdUzTjBiaOxmRRMzFlM_k8POvrjZnqpEjU_Q/s320/2017_28_thoreau-2.jpg" width="252" /></a><i><span style="font-kerning: none;">I find it good to be out this still, dark, mizzling afternoon; my walk or voyage is more suggestive and profitable than in bright weather. The view is contracted by the misty rain, the water is perfectly smooth, and the stillness is favorable to reflection. I am more open to impressions, more sensitive (not calloused or indurated by sun and wind), as if in a chamber still. My thoughts are concentrated; I am all compact. The solitude is real, too, for the weather keeps other men at home. This mist is like a roof and walls over and around, and I walk with a domestic feeling. The sound of a wagon going over an unseen bridge is louder than ever, and so of other sounds. I am </span><span style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">compelled</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"> to look at near objects. All things have a soothing effect; the very clouds and mists brood over me. My power of observation and contemplation is much increased. My attention does not wander. The world and my life are simplified. What now of Europe and Asia?</span></i></blockquote>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>- Henry David Thoreau, <i>Journals</i>, November 7, 1855</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-72739107500572334632019-10-24T05:46:00.000-07:002019-10-24T15:49:41.407-07:00Marxism & the US<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIHzd4Gs2sxXY5KGztZayjyk2ZUjybvGi0BETcrNj6Cc_4B01zVnczPK_5YDA2fSiEBe_oO1BqV-s_8KOv6E5MGv3KyzGT7S1hBHdzt1H5F0zio5P6oaPRX38oS3dvwIqn43ToQg/s1600/19-Joan-Quintana-John-1.w700.h700.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIHzd4Gs2sxXY5KGztZayjyk2ZUjybvGi0BETcrNj6Cc_4B01zVnczPK_5YDA2fSiEBe_oO1BqV-s_8KOv6E5MGv3KyzGT7S1hBHdzt1H5F0zio5P6oaPRX38oS3dvwIqn43ToQg/s200/19-Joan-Quintana-John-1.w700.h700.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><i></i></span></blockquote>
<i><br /></i>
<i>Marxism in this country had ever been an eccentric and quixotic passion. One oppressed class after another had seemed finally to miss the point. The have-nots, it turned out, aspired mainly to having.</i><br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">- Joan Didion, “The Women’s Movement” (1972)</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-65066615900964993842019-10-17T05:58:00.000-07:002019-10-18T10:17:13.900-07:00The Most Important Fact in All History<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHCx_TxST5xFz3vhZNvFD2FoJXOUwwiqvoFz7gDt_8mdvkWJitiUy98EFEqqkarXK92cpNeEjsTrEgxrWv1JrmRcDiGQVscaV4cUVsgBg7Ex9OZzc9NLDe3MHmQBrmDoVozMWLxw/s1600/Aldous-Huxley-1931.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="661" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHCx_TxST5xFz3vhZNvFD2FoJXOUwwiqvoFz7gDt_8mdvkWJitiUy98EFEqqkarXK92cpNeEjsTrEgxrWv1JrmRcDiGQVscaV4cUVsgBg7Ex9OZzc9NLDe3MHmQBrmDoVozMWLxw/s200/Aldous-Huxley-1931.png" width="146" /></a><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXCq1ETid1Ae9qtWVVgQjGQUHl1LE2Q9EEqQqN9fesTNhKIgQOqsNizyhwVLnpssHzA4B9Iuvqsiit0rp_Bmq-N97MGqG14-hANT43LnRUHshwpOz2hW4k_1bFDk_xmi6JwJH9bA/s1600/Aldous-Huxley-1931.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>The abject patience of the oppressed is perhaps the most inexplicable, as it is also the most important, fact in all history.</i></span></blockquote>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>- Aldous Huxley, “Boundaries of Utopia” (1931)</span></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-61015494764013893342019-10-10T05:51:00.000-07:002019-10-10T09:07:19.893-07:00Life at Sea<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhLMHboGbPfrpL5hCH3ojqVRJ_WCGPqP3EB9NB4vWJtJd92fb_pP2X-SjyoHVUGLOZ6esd-JdXqXKsR_52F4SHmU6lQM48jeSt1v8D5tU9mzsTMTDoYGT96rFWarNmsdp6rhsbeg/s1600/Santayana_Crop.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="308" data-original-width="220" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhLMHboGbPfrpL5hCH3ojqVRJ_WCGPqP3EB9NB4vWJtJd92fb_pP2X-SjyoHVUGLOZ6esd-JdXqXKsR_52F4SHmU6lQM48jeSt1v8D5tU9mzsTMTDoYGT96rFWarNmsdp6rhsbeg/s200/Santayana_Crop.png" width="142" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>If I could have secured this advantage without the horrid prolonged trials that produced it, I might have gladly become a sailor. I love moving water, I love ships, I love the sharp definition, the concentrated humanity, the sublime solitude of life at sea. The dangers of it only make present to us the peril inherent in all existence, which the stupid, ignorant, untravelled land-worm never discovers; and the art of it, so mathematical, so exact, so rewarding to intelligence appeals to courage and clears the mind of superstition, while filling it with humility and true religion. Our world is a cockleshell in the midst of overwhelming forces and everlasting realities; but those forces are calculable and those realities helpful, if we can manage to understand and obey them.</i></span></blockquote>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>- </b>George Santayana, <i>The Background of My Life</i> (1944)<b><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></b></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-81745335177557637252019-10-03T06:15:00.000-07:002019-10-03T06:32:11.638-07:00Barbarian Invaders<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i></i></span></blockquote>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivTPV53t8DcT2SGo46tcPINPYjHZTPrJx7ttjeaAlTIJ-sXizCM-jY9G7bbC8YRqfC_mDpmXxbCs80d_aQAWS3fx-E6dc85p-EN-0PcbuDKh8QPqWT6-xAerScrBtW9cj-Oh3sUQ/s1600/Wilhelm_Roepke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="385" data-original-width="309" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivTPV53t8DcT2SGo46tcPINPYjHZTPrJx7ttjeaAlTIJ-sXizCM-jY9G7bbC8YRqfC_mDpmXxbCs80d_aQAWS3fx-E6dc85p-EN-0PcbuDKh8QPqWT6-xAerScrBtW9cj-Oh3sUQ/s200/Wilhelm_Roepke.jpg" width="160" /></a><br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>A nation may beget its own barbarian invaders.</i></span></blockquote>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">- Wilhelm Röpke, <i>International Economic Disintegration</i> (1942)</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-60127470361476551102019-08-20T06:17:00.000-07:002019-08-20T06:54:11.181-07:00Libraries<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP3SP-hBfRb2ELdvZfu0A9SAiWD3EQjsgNeCtogG92AaOAP-f_VbmELZBv_RUmNbSWu_VtRNXmL6-IJyUnyBvbyL7amdxvvWRChD0heVLEcWRT0JQapUbWBRcEbJrN9mDyNaMGyQ/s1600/18876.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="307" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP3SP-hBfRb2ELdvZfu0A9SAiWD3EQjsgNeCtogG92AaOAP-f_VbmELZBv_RUmNbSWu_VtRNXmL6-IJyUnyBvbyL7amdxvvWRChD0heVLEcWRT0JQapUbWBRcEbJrN9mDyNaMGyQ/s320/18876.jpeg" width="218" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>I’ve often felt that my library explained who I was, gave me a shifting self that transformed itself constantly throughout the years. And yet, in spite of this, my relationship to libraries has always been an odd one. I love the space of a library. I love the public buildings that stand like emblems of the identity a society chooses for itself, imposing or unobtrusive, intimidating or familiar. I love the endless rows of books whose titles I try to make out in the vertical script that has to be read (I’ve never discovered why) from top to bottom in English and Italian, and from bottom to top in German and Spanish. I love the muffled sounds, the pensive silence, the hushed glow of the lamps (especially if they are made of green glass), the desks polished by the elbows of generations of readers, the smell of dust and paper and leather, or the newer ones of plasticized desktops and caramel-scented cleaning products. I love the all-seeing eye of the information desk and the sibylline solicitude of the librarians. I love the catalogues, especially the old card drawers (wherever they survive) with their typed or scribbled offerings. When I’m in a library, any library, I have the sense of being translated into a purely verbal dimension by a conjuring trick I’ve never quite understood. I know that my full, true story is there, somewhere on the shelves, and all I need is time and the chance to find it. I never do.</i></span></blockquote>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"> - Alberto Manuel, <i>Packing My Library: An Elegy and Ten Digressions</i> (2018) </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-51945113415454935662019-08-12T06:00:00.000-07:002019-08-15T08:53:24.619-07:00Seattle Opera: Rigoletto<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmOXjMJOgY142xviLFDHrSAFw3-uawujHeDYeVRYKmLTdynShGo8X2FZB73QsbF4ea34FT6SPXjei_HwMVkmAqMv8WVGiM-e1m4jZWWQz9psBJ_YiGUc7OetA5mKmEYQ6VlBeiUQ/s1600/iconsquaresm_0000018B_3543e7925dd54a5aae2e07eb9148999b-image729983.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="249" data-original-width="300" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmOXjMJOgY142xviLFDHrSAFw3-uawujHeDYeVRYKmLTdynShGo8X2FZB73QsbF4ea34FT6SPXjei_HwMVkmAqMv8WVGiM-e1m4jZWWQz9psBJ_YiGUc7OetA5mKmEYQ6VlBeiUQ/s320/iconsquaresm_0000018B_3543e7925dd54a5aae2e07eb9148999b-image729983.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;">I saw a fantastic production of Verdi's <b><i><a href="https://www.seattleopera.org/rigoletto">Rigoletto</a></i></b> at the Seattle Opera on Saturday. Dark, brutal, completely engrossing. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br />
Director Lindy Hume has updated the action from 15th-century Italy to modern Italy, or, to be more precise, to what appears to be Silvio Berlusconi's Italy. The Duke's palace is lush and stylish; TV screens adorn the walls, the doors are gold-plated, the seats are red velvet, the walls themselves are shiny dark marble. The Duke's courtiers wear business suits. Verdi’s 1851 tale of political corruption and sexual violence doesn’t feel dated in the least bit.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br />
And at the heart of it all is the brooding, tormented figure of Rigoletto - a hunchback, an object of derision, and a jester in the court of the Duke of Mantua. As for the Duke, he's a slimebag, a tyrant, gladly using his position to seduce/rape as many girls as he can. And if a father complains about a violated daughter, as one does at the beginning of the opera, the Duke simply has him put to death on trumped up charges. His courtiers, all male, encourage and applaud the Duke's behavior. </span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBy36NjbgYcuhJPeWoG2w1hTSYtpw3c3AkRA4JlClA9q1cLb2piRD9M3vQncyCBgjdTV14XdZvqrh-qst1ysknOIeG2KdXx3vqH01c6BKmCrsB3Cs1SibTBxojof7dOnK-W-mTLw/s1600/20190807_rigoletto-day01_seattleopera_sunnymartini_5920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBy36NjbgYcuhJPeWoG2w1hTSYtpw3c3AkRA4JlClA9q1cLb2piRD9M3vQncyCBgjdTV14XdZvqrh-qst1ysknOIeG2KdXx3vqH01c6BKmCrsB3Cs1SibTBxojof7dOnK-W-mTLw/s640/20190807_rigoletto-day01_seattleopera_sunnymartini_5920.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Lester Lynch (Photo: Philip Newton)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-kerning: none;">
But the nastiest SOB in the Duke's retinue is Rigoletto. His cruel wit and viscousness, solidly buffered by self-loathing, have earned him the hate of all the couriers. As the play opens, the courtiers have discovered that Rigoletto has a mistress - and a young and beautiful one, too. True to form, they decide to kidnap her. But she's not his mistress. She’s his daughter, the innocent and sheltered Gilda. Gilda is the joy of her father's life. Yet she, too, has her own secret. She's being courted by a handsome youth she met in church. She loves him. We know, though, that the lad is actually the predatory Duke in disguise.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">And so the stage is set for operatic mayhem, though the carnage will fall almost entirely on the sweet and innocent Gilda. The evil-doers - all men - will get away with everything while our defenseless heroine will be kidnapped and then raped. After that, of course, the only way for her to set things right - according to the demented attitude of 19th-century theatergoers towards women - is for her to sacrifice herself out of love for her rapist and be brutally murdered. And so she is. Yes, it's all very fucked up. By comparison the 18th-century was a paragon of sanity. After all, at the end of Mozart's <i>Don Giovanni</i> (1787) it's the philandering Don who is dragged into Hell, not his victims. And in <i>Cosí Fan Tutte</i> (1790) sexual infidelity is treated as simply the way of the world; no one is thrown into a sack and stabbed to death over it. </span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNwFcoTz_J5C0ZlxiiXXEZWX_EgWiH9bGl6X17s2kFWOCKTMLWWP5eq0j3aavzgA0OQ1hZRB-1zbpEdYLON-rjeH8YNVvh6epwZfBmGaEveMqFR17PRi-GZpyNmEVE7Ni8pDh2sw/s1600/20190807_rigoletto-day01_seattleopera_sunnymartini_5937.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNwFcoTz_J5C0ZlxiiXXEZWX_EgWiH9bGl6X17s2kFWOCKTMLWWP5eq0j3aavzgA0OQ1hZRB-1zbpEdYLON-rjeH8YNVvh6epwZfBmGaEveMqFR17PRi-GZpyNmEVE7Ni8pDh2sw/s640/20190807_rigoletto-day01_seattleopera_sunnymartini_5937.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Liparit Avetisyant (Photo: Sunny Martini)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Press coverage of this production has mostly emphasized its political aspects. It's "a surefire argument starter" <i>The Seattle Times</i> <a href="https://www.seattletimes.com/entertainment/classical-music/review-seattle-opera-stages-a-rigoletto-thats-a-sure-fire-argument-starter/">writes</a>. (I could argue with that but I won’t.) The misogyny on display in <i>Rigoletto</i> will endure, <a href="https://www.thestranger.com/theater/2019/07/31/40901914/seattle-opera-revisits-rigoletto-in-the-metoo-era">according</a> to <i>The Stranger</i>, "so long as we continue to uphold longstanding social and political norms around consent, harassment, and male power." All very true. But don't let the political chatter deter you from seeing this production. Hume keeps her focus on the human drama at the center of this opera. From the moment the curtain rises and we see a lone Rigoletto sitting in a darkened room while the stark and brooding prelude plays (Carlo Montanaro is the conductor), it’s obvious that we’re in the hands of a director of intelligence. Even the sets tell a story. The Duke's palace fills the whole stage, but the other locations - a bar, a bus stop, Rigoletto's home - are small. They only take up a few feet on a stage consumed in darkness. Outstanding work on the part of Production Designer Richard Roberts and Lighting Designer Jason Morphett. </span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-9y-LHzS6igcRZlcImGOz7Kect-F2Jt-84K4HniuOPaZHQR6bu5JPASP6o50IlZR9VRaEMmCDayUMBhM81SK1QTbNEohE8DKJFvH2Ash5UF6WWQNPFYv_sgXTiCryacqbryH6_g/s1600/20190807_rigoletto-day01_seattleopera_sunnymartini_6304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-9y-LHzS6igcRZlcImGOz7Kect-F2Jt-84K4HniuOPaZHQR6bu5JPASP6o50IlZR9VRaEMmCDayUMBhM81SK1QTbNEohE8DKJFvH2Ash5UF6WWQNPFYv_sgXTiCryacqbryH6_g/s640/20190807_rigoletto-day01_seattleopera_sunnymartini_6304.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Madison Leonard (Photo: Sunny Martini)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br />The singing in <i>Rigoletto</i> is magnificent. Lester Lynch is riveting in the title role. He is as good an actor as he is a singer. Dressed in ill-fitting clothes, he walks and lumbers about the stage clumsily, painfully. Does he have chilblains? Flat feet? One cannot tell. But Lynch conveys to us that Rigoletto’s deformity is more than merely a hump on his back. Physical shame and psychological angst are his lot. Gilda is such an idealized figure that it’s hard to find her believable, yet Madison Leonard does just that. Hers is a thoughtful performance, full of restraint and depth. The Act I duets between her and Lynch, played out in their dingy kitchen, are heartfelt and gripping. These two have chemistry together. They feel like a real family, never more so than when struck with tragedy. Liparit Avetisyant, making his Seattle Opera debut as the Duke, was also noteworthy. He looked as natural in a three-piece suit surrounded by cronies as he does when disguised as a student to win over Gilda. In fact, just clip a name tag to his sweater when he’s in the latter role and he could pass as a some fresh-faced new college grad working at a tech company. And finally, kudos are also due to the chorus of male courtiers who surround the Duke. Whether tormenting Rigoletto, sexually harassing any available female, or sleeping off last night's orgy butt-naked on the sofa, they are a macho and detestable lot. We even find some generals and clergymen in their midst (and no doubt PJ and Squee are in there somewhere, too). How one would like to see them all in handcuffs at The Hague. If only.</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span>
<i>Rigoletto</i> will play at McCaw Hall until August 28th.</div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-46152761990574290832019-08-01T05:39:00.000-07:002019-08-01T06:24:34.938-07:00History<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmIjKNZTT827XAZuavaPN-95vh6sDxhir23cJqKwvx8Fr6NDmsiC-sODauAxEHDHZmvcb0wDCHbOdo70IG0m2YUmsCTgasstmN38Z-29qjTqN_7WQCehf638FwwOIp574Jocmkbw/s1600/Julian-Barnes-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="460" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmIjKNZTT827XAZuavaPN-95vh6sDxhir23cJqKwvx8Fr6NDmsiC-sODauAxEHDHZmvcb0wDCHbOdo70IG0m2YUmsCTgasstmN38Z-29qjTqN_7WQCehf638FwwOIp574Jocmkbw/s200/Julian-Barnes-1.jpg" width="192" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><i></i></span></blockquote>
<i><br /></i>
<i>History isn’t the lies of the victors, as I <a href="https://andynicastro.blogspot.com/2017/08/what-is-history.html">once</a> glibly assured Old Joe Hunt; I know that now. It’s more the memories of the survivors, most of whom are neither victorious nor defeated.</i><br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"> - Julian Barnes, <i>The Sense of an Ending</i> </span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"> (2011)</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-75253763530752861542019-07-06T17:45:00.000-07:002019-08-06T16:39:33.751-07:00Seattle Center Murals<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">I was at the Seattle Center earlier today and saw a bunch of murals on the wood barrier outside of Key Arena. I thought they were pretty cool, so I took some pictures. And here they are...</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUyuZCRrPcIoT1p1FjxGSG782ICSyWvbbtA2PLprI8om2jHNXZvNciI2vgBGV5hhax8zlDocn8yc7otw5mDAh_Hh3W4D2gduoUc0Gkg3KG6sDhbCTRscbFl36J2RIRT0FKVGr6cQ/s1600/Mural+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUyuZCRrPcIoT1p1FjxGSG782ICSyWvbbtA2PLprI8om2jHNXZvNciI2vgBGV5hhax8zlDocn8yc7otw5mDAh_Hh3W4D2gduoUc0Gkg3KG6sDhbCTRscbFl36J2RIRT0FKVGr6cQ/s640/Mural+1.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3zg3R595lEE8QSkDyGqOQj9M0QAJOBnjsXSOqGDBlkEH7FLCKw5jp9lEHu9TkWBo9Vje5AlTIglx-Wn2kvVc0Gxmj5grdk-lKv_awc52H4Yw0Gg89xM52kwlYbB_VDzyvW_AXzw/s1600/Mural+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3zg3R595lEE8QSkDyGqOQj9M0QAJOBnjsXSOqGDBlkEH7FLCKw5jp9lEHu9TkWBo9Vje5AlTIglx-Wn2kvVc0Gxmj5grdk-lKv_awc52H4Yw0Gg89xM52kwlYbB_VDzyvW_AXzw/s640/Mural+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCoKpxmR6h_LkUmorIpjgWKX6yc0UP23F1nWmSmVtREYMMrB7rAZdUwwjnyLpTBmLOfSDkyF7pkLkjiPwOAYNLTwLYeH84X-W31h2AxxCqY9r6iKfrz6X-flrK9TEMGMXuBSH3g/s1600/Mural+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCoKpxmR6h_LkUmorIpjgWKX6yc0UP23F1nWmSmVtREYMMrB7rAZdUwwjnyLpTBmLOfSDkyF7pkLkjiPwOAYNLTwLYeH84X-W31h2AxxCqY9r6iKfrz6X-flrK9TEMGMXuBSH3g/s640/Mural+3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9pNaYUoavPwRQc83NzTZHeO7ibvynmBfqEMkShMg6O7UsSibXOJKPP_OcgX99qIYtN1XCspeQFYI2UhNdqgstoMy9BzyU6Qf050JlqpJmp8iu5KSpeXiFEyDOTVTS1FAQc2fxow/s1600/Mural+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="932" data-original-width="1600" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9pNaYUoavPwRQc83NzTZHeO7ibvynmBfqEMkShMg6O7UsSibXOJKPP_OcgX99qIYtN1XCspeQFYI2UhNdqgstoMy9BzyU6Qf050JlqpJmp8iu5KSpeXiFEyDOTVTS1FAQc2fxow/s640/Mural+4.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-37697491301877776252019-07-04T06:09:00.000-07:002019-07-04T06:33:08.073-07:00The American Businessman<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">In 1963 German journalist Hans Habe met Arizona’s Republican Senator Barry Goldwater. This was his takeaway: </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDIY70YVbVNdUxtkOu-5Ky_oVjuXZdekjPdMI-xDQvWfgzhlLJZAf_x144qlQB7t7rqDY21YOQIbvo_Ezyvx969TFbiEJ-oIUJoqFurUW9DXG6rLskGG-VFpBveQ8gY7VsGFNYxA/s1600/108377-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="217" data-original-width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDIY70YVbVNdUxtkOu-5Ky_oVjuXZdekjPdMI-xDQvWfgzhlLJZAf_x144qlQB7t7rqDY21YOQIbvo_Ezyvx969TFbiEJ-oIUJoqFurUW9DXG6rLskGG-VFpBveQ8gY7VsGFNYxA/s1600/108377-2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Hans Habe</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Here, I thought, stood an American businessman who, when he goes to sleep at night, does not dream of the Knights of Camelot or of Thomas Jefferson or even of Napoleon Bonaparte. The hero of his dreams, in color TV, is the self-made man of America’s pioneering era. Is such a man a conservative? Perish the thought! Conservatism implies the strict rule of law, respect for the existing order to the point of snobbery. The American businessman, on the other hand, admittedly no snob, dreams of the Golden Age of disorder in which a man like H.L. Hunt, the richest man in America...could win his first oil well at a poker game. He dreams of plain lawlessness to which, according to him, America owes her greatness, he dreams of...a form of government without taxes and without central direction. Since we Europeans are accustomed to identify fascism with uniforms, the goose step and discipline of every kind, we find it very difficult to understand the fascism of the American businessman, who would only impose that minimum of discipline required to protect the economic chaos which he favors.</i></span> </blockquote>
<div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"> - Hans Habe, <i>The Wounded Land: Journey Through a Divided America </i>(1964)</span></span></div>
<span style="font-kerning: none;">
</span></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-20104208335001485882019-07-01T06:29:00.002-07:002023-03-23T15:46:59.209-07:00Arts West: The Last World Octopus Wrestling Champion<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbUtxEyoQE11c0rj35KbnA5UOPYA6ya7zIL-1HDUyq4ElpTE7cUJWSEh6-Grn-hWgsNhlCOEumA94XoBO40lYhoUVoOpAufX1xkgh2vQY97NtUklDDmMCJyUBwIixuAxc_mrEWsA/s1600/1920_LWO_BigComposition_Web_Wide-1-615x433.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="615" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbUtxEyoQE11c0rj35KbnA5UOPYA6ya7zIL-1HDUyq4ElpTE7cUJWSEh6-Grn-hWgsNhlCOEumA94XoBO40lYhoUVoOpAufX1xkgh2vQY97NtUklDDmMCJyUBwIixuAxc_mrEWsA/s320/1920_LWO_BigComposition_Web_Wide-1-615x433.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;">Went to see <b><i><a href="https://www.artswest.org/theatre-plays/the-last-world-octopus-wrestling-champion/">The Last World Octopus Wrestling Champion</a></i></b>, a new musical, at Arts West yesterday. Bad. Really bad. It’s about Lee, a Seattle college student who discovers that she’s part octopus, or, rather, some kind of human-octopus hybrid. See, back in 2000 Lee’s mom, a martial arts enthusiast, took part in Seattle’s octopus wrestling competition. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Octopus_wrestling">This</a> was a real thing. Local divers would go into Puget Sound and bring up the largest octopus they could find. It was then weighed and safely returned to the water. Whoever caught the largest octopus won. Now if you're like me, you're probably wondering how a sport with this kind of bone-rattling excitement and action ever died out. Sadly, we'll probably never know. Anyway, Lee’s mom was its champion, but on her last outing things went horribly wrong and….well, it gets a little convoluted and I don’t want to ruin it for you. <i>The Last World Octopus Wresting Champion</i> is part myth, part folklore, part local history, part fantasy. And part love story as well (spoilers ahead). Lee notices her cephalopod abilities when she falls in love with Nia, a fellow college student. Nia soon notices that she, too, is able to transform into an octopus. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
With book, music, and lyrics by Justin Huertas (who got some help from Steven Tran), the main problem with <i>The Last World Octopus Wrestling Champion</i> is its overall mediocrity. The story isn't told well. The characters are stage caricatures, they never approximate real people. With the the exception of the song "Sleep Well, Love", the music is largely unremarkable and unmemorable. An air of amateurishness hovers over this play and never leaves. It need re-writes. It feels like a work-in-progress. Even the title is off: <i>The Last World Octopus Wrestling Champion</i>. What's a "world octopus"? Shouldn't it be called <i>The Last Octopus Wrestling World Champion</i>? If this were a high-school production one would say "Wow, these people certainly have promise". But it's not a high school production. One expects more - but doesn't get it.<br />
<br />
<i>The Last World Octopus Wrestling Champion</i> will play at Arts West to July 28th. </div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-4286986492691139372019-06-20T05:45:00.000-07:002019-06-20T07:32:12.949-07:00Arriving in Vietnam<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhel5cTWcUBviplXY5zOiie2o3c-v6_0Rvh-dRzJEwRdLSCCoG8sziV6A7uei5l33NowE8_5lkYmDt9kCKsbSPryEsrSY7a1Hr6baLLGDcxGE0LvEKdtWHYJMTlu8Phs4m1hVyx9A/s1600/Pico%252BIyer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="593" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhel5cTWcUBviplXY5zOiie2o3c-v6_0Rvh-dRzJEwRdLSCCoG8sziV6A7uei5l33NowE8_5lkYmDt9kCKsbSPryEsrSY7a1Hr6baLLGDcxGE0LvEKdtWHYJMTlu8Phs4m1hVyx9A/s200/Pico%252BIyer.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>
<i><span style="font-kerning: none;">On the morning of the fourth day the dawn light daubed our faces as we came down the skies of Cochin-China*. The passengers were squirming in their seats, not sleeping and not waking, and the air-hostess’s trained smile came stiffly. With engines throttled back the plane dropped from sur-Alpine heights in a tremorless glide, settling in the new, morning air of the plains like a dragonfly on the surface of a calm lake. As the first rays of the sun burst through the magenta mists that lay among the horizon, the empty sketching of the child’s painting book open beneath us received a wash of green. Now lines were ruled lightly across it. A yellow penciling of roads and blue of canals.</span><br /><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-kerning: none;">A colonel of the Foreign Legion awoke uneasily, struggling with numbed, set facial muscles to regain that easy expression of good-fellowship of a man devoted to the service of violence...</span></i></blockquote>
<div style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<div style="font-size: 18px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"> - Norman Lewis, <i>A Dragon Apparent: Travels in Indo-China</i> (1951)</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>* Vietnam</i></span></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-52562923705036275102019-06-13T05:46:00.000-07:002019-06-13T06:10:03.877-07:00Dignity<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i></i></span></blockquote>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjha6-oZDJzWzbvD3_B8GmiuYvi77yKqgbUhpXH9tnqZ1vtSok6IsBaal-EEOII7XxHgBUgKJZN-qGy2ksULgJiGLT_u4way70zCiE9TizAXrGuSll0gj1rJ8jX1nu5e58FEy3VoA/s1600/2048x2730-raymond-chandler-43-jpg-934f6a06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjha6-oZDJzWzbvD3_B8GmiuYvi77yKqgbUhpXH9tnqZ1vtSok6IsBaal-EEOII7XxHgBUgKJZN-qGy2ksULgJiGLT_u4way70zCiE9TizAXrGuSll0gj1rJ8jX1nu5e58FEy3VoA/s200/2048x2730-raymond-chandler-43-jpg-934f6a06.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Most people go through life using up half their energy trying to protect a dignity they never had.</i></span></blockquote>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"> - Raymond Chandler, <i>The Long Goodbye</i> (1953)</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-31780935214296485022019-06-07T07:33:00.001-07:002021-01-27T08:38:44.812-08:00Seattle Rep: Tiny Beautiful Things<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimW2TkpmxOmXHMSR7VZEIGJTYAQf2ImEz7C_7fgnfL0uCBg7cMuBnfEzk9WGIw4QyNtpmEuG8Wjuf_R5lk2mXdSxZL9T6HAAJTMopl4G0tqTHYoku0lApmIplL0SdMjSUgJ5Rq4w/s1600/original-tb_header.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="960" height="109" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimW2TkpmxOmXHMSR7VZEIGJTYAQf2ImEz7C_7fgnfL0uCBg7cMuBnfEzk9WGIw4QyNtpmEuG8Wjuf_R5lk2mXdSxZL9T6HAAJTMopl4G0tqTHYoku0lApmIplL0SdMjSUgJ5Rq4w/s320/original-tb_header.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">I recently saw <b><i><a href="https://www.seattlerep.org/Plays/1819/TB/Synopsis?gclid=EAIaIQobChMIoeLsitHX4gIVkchkCh2FNwlNEAAYASAAEgKo7_D_BwE">Tiny Beautiful Things</a></i></b> at the Seattle Repertory. It was awful, just terrible. Between 2010 and 2012 author Cheryl Strayed worked as an advice columnist for the website <i>The Rumpus</i>; her <i>nom de plume</i> there was Sugar. </span>She was very good at this job and soon developed a big following. In 2012 she published a collection of her advice-column correspondence under the name <i>Tiny Beautiful Things</i>. That book is the source for this adaptation by Nia Vardalos (of <i>My Big Fat Greek Wedding).</i><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">The play is set in Sugar's apartment, where she reads the letters which pop-up on her laptop. Three people on stage act as the letter writers; they go in and out of various characters. Sugar is a winning confidant. When people present her with their life problems - adultery, depression, miscarriages, etc. - she usually responds with a story or confession of her own. Her advice is exactly what one would expect - upbeat, affirmational, heart-felt, etc. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">If you are (or were) a fan of those confessional daytime TV shows - Jerry Springer, Maury Pauvich, Sally Jesse Raphael, etc. - then this play is for you. It has the same earnest banality. Someone tells Sugar their problem. Then she relates an anecdote from her own life and delivers advice of TED-talk-esque depth - believe in yourself, you have more strength than you know, you inspire me, etc. Then on to the next letter - and so on for an hour and forty minutes. It's all very easy, neat, simple to digest. But the more I thought about this play, the more I disliked it. In no other art has the human condition been put forward more starkly than in theater, yet this play is little more than a parade of pat and facile answers to the difficulties of life. And if you believe that theater has something important to say about being human (and I do) then there's something off-putting, even offensive, about Sugar's ultimately shallow responses in the face of suffering. No doubt if we dropped her into the end of <i>King Lear</i> she'd tell the old duffer that his courage under his misfortunes is an inspiration to her, that his love is greater than his grief, etc. If she popped in at the end of <i>The Iceman Cometh</i> she'd let everyone in the saloon know that the resilience they'd shown over the past few days fills her hope and optimism, and that, deep down, all of them, especially Hickey, need to learn to forgive themselves. And I'm sure she'd have some uplifting words for Oedipus: "Don't be so hard on yourself. So you have a thing for MILFs..."</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheIrtPL1Tx0uqhlQh8qt-jazLGnaYd5c2D6nCMCxUE5IFsvoSPkQnq02rTMwXftt16uSMFRAabZYTAjHm6X1A04DQd5LJAretCkd3oeiXZnVGBLr76UJJiXmoolkNvqLAOMJ6kPg/s1600/19SRT_TBT-245A.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheIrtPL1Tx0uqhlQh8qt-jazLGnaYd5c2D6nCMCxUE5IFsvoSPkQnq02rTMwXftt16uSMFRAabZYTAjHm6X1A04DQd5LJAretCkd3oeiXZnVGBLr76UJJiXmoolkNvqLAOMJ6kPg/s640/19SRT_TBT-245A.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif" style="font-size: small;">Julie Briskman, Charles Leggett, Chantal DeGroat, and Justin Huertas (Photo: Alan Alabastro)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">Sugar is very candid and open about her own life but I'm not sure that serves her well. At one point she admits that her grandfather sexually abused her. Apparently he made her give him handjobs when she was between the ages of two and five. This obviously fucked her up. Years later, she dealt with this trauma in an unusual, and for me a very questionable, way. One day when she was outside she came across a newly hatched bird that had fallen out of its nest and onto the ground. She picked it up (which she knew automatically meant that its mother wouldn't acknowledge or care for it). Then she put the little birdling in a paper bag and smothered it to death. The writhing of the struggling creature against her hands somehow recalled grampy's flaccid penis. Eventually the bird stopped moving. This experience was cathartic for Sugar (though, one imagines, less so for the bird). Although at this point, if I, too, may be candid, I had to ask myself "Is this really someone I should be taking advice from?"</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<br />
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">The most powerful letter is one from a man whose 22-year-old son was killed in a car accident. It’s a missive of pain, grief, and anger. Effectively it constitutes a long confessional monologue, and it’s a genuine <i>tour de force</i> for the actor performing it. Charles Leggett plays it in this production and, like a dog with a bone, once he gets hold of it he ain't letting go. He stammers, hems and haws, pauses very pregnantly. He's very good - and I do mean that seriously. As the letter goes on, he starts blubbering. Then everyone in the audience starts blubbering too. How could we not? Sugar starts to give him her advice, and soon there's more waterworks in the audience. It’s so sad. And yet - thinking about it later - there was something cheap about the whole thing. Cheap and sordid. Like when they shot Old Yeller in the movie just to get a roomful of kids to cry. Ultimately, it felt very manipulative.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuyeyqMWQ2pe6rjWWlisFbWdvQZ05O-2M0kbd6Pk_rhkHqDH6Pt90OqqdhI7QgaIysOomRlA77zvTWl5CqftZogrXRJ9kbQuCPjYjJ8UJdnMBpb9gKtXfbUGc_DE5YQlgPcI6Mw/s1600/19SRT_TBT-261A.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuyeyqMWQ2pe6rjWWlisFbWdvQZ05O-2M0kbd6Pk_rhkHqDH6Pt90OqqdhI7QgaIysOomRlA77zvTWl5CqftZogrXRJ9kbQuCPjYjJ8UJdnMBpb9gKtXfbUGc_DE5YQlgPcI6Mw/s640/19SRT_TBT-261A.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif" style="font-size: small;">Charles Leggett and Julie Briskman (Photo: Alan Alabastro)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">So, with the writers I find fault, but I don't find any with with the actual production itself. The actors are all very good. It would be hard to imagine a better Sugar than Julie Briskman. The moment she walked onstage the entire audience warmed to her. I've already praised Charles Leggett as one of the letter readers; the other two - Chantal DeGroat and Justin Huertas - are equally good, even if they don't have quite the show-stopper that he has. The set design by L.B. Morse wonderfully captures the ordinariness in which most of us live our lives (no matter how messy), and the lighting by Robert Aguilar manages to sculpt the action and provide a sense of variety to what is essentially a very static play. Despite this play's shortcomings director Courtney Sale did a commendable job.</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span>
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><i>Tiny Beautiful Things</i> will play at the Seattle Repertory Theatre until June 23rd.</span></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-61391630639803540192019-05-23T05:54:00.001-07:002019-05-23T05:59:36.013-07:00Intellectuals<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGLpRZ4Dg7oQzDS9z-47V55ogkhJYXKm5xRdeHRCwHIHKjmyV6flLO_A5NuCyucPOb3_Ga0IJVXlDo1VI2FSjAgfAQNWIJn2KxI2vsDITMKSer1kEU9SpH0BaXxh7FmEzfLZF7LQ/s1600/p01hg1g1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="477" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGLpRZ4Dg7oQzDS9z-47V55ogkhJYXKm5xRdeHRCwHIHKjmyV6flLO_A5NuCyucPOb3_Ga0IJVXlDo1VI2FSjAgfAQNWIJn2KxI2vsDITMKSer1kEU9SpH0BaXxh7FmEzfLZF7LQ/s200/p01hg1g1.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Intellectuals are the only group in society who are fundamentally international. Everyone who believes in the intellect takes his place in the great family tree of the human intelligence in which those who have influenced him are his true ancestors, and these ancestors are from every race, every creed, and every condition. I am all for regionalism, for decentralization, for the “goût du terroir” </i>[local flavor]<i> in our artists, but I think that nationalism, though it has proved the soundest and deepest instinct in this war, and is beyond praise as a sentiment when our country is in danger, is not one of the most forward-looking of human creeds. It has won wars, but it has also made them, and it is to that love of truth which unites artists and scientists, that common belief in virtue and reason, that we must look for the perpetuation of peace and the prevention of wars to come.</i></span></blockquote>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"> - Cyril Connolly, “French and English Cultural Relations” (1943)</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9580330.post-83390102187474533442019-05-10T06:31:00.000-07:002019-05-10T08:52:04.294-07:00The Nose of the Alligator<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Np3nvHJHAYRC-L2CWrn_fauL52zMEhj_KU-G2M4_HGtwu6CCEgWGSdSPQl10XEyM7Xapt1DZIPTXkd_vl6BytpGImdthzg9KxP7t30jWl8Gkhse-dk72QeRc1pJsk99bazwAxQ/s1600/mw48081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="751" data-original-width="544" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Np3nvHJHAYRC-L2CWrn_fauL52zMEhj_KU-G2M4_HGtwu6CCEgWGSdSPQl10XEyM7Xapt1DZIPTXkd_vl6BytpGImdthzg9KxP7t30jWl8Gkhse-dk72QeRc1pJsk99bazwAxQ/s200/mw48081.jpg" width="144" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>We drive to the French Embassy in a hired Daimler…The Churchills were the last to arrive and I was surprised to notice that when they enter, the whole room stands up as if they were reigning sovereigns.</i></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Winston pays me lavish compliments on my speeches in the House and deplores my absence from it...He said that he had made friends with de Gaulle at last, whom he had found “much mellowed”. He said that he had liked the Russians. “The disadvantage of them is”, he says, “that one is not sure of their reactions. One strokes the nose of the alligator and the ensuing gurgle may be a purr of affection, a grunt of stimulated appetite, or a snarl of enraged animosity. One cannot tell.” </i></span></blockquote>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> - Harold Nicolson, </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Diary</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">, December 19, 1945</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 21px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
Andy Nicastrohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01068549227906879399noreply@blogger.com0