Here are the movies I've watched at The Quentin Estates during the final quarter of this calendar year. Even though Christmas is over, I must still be in the spirit of giving. How else can I explain awarding a B- to one of the most poorly acted movies I've ever witnessed, Miracle On 34th Street? Yes, Edmund Gwenn won a Best Actor Oscar for his portrayal of Kris Kringle, but the rest of the cast (Maureen O' Hara, John Payne and little Natalie Wood) is embarrassingly bad. On the flip side, I had the pleasure of watching Diner for the fourth time, and The Ox-Bow Incident is one of my five (or so) favorite westerns, notwithstanding its brief seventy-five minute running time.
On a housekeeping note, I have decided to break with tradition and postpone putting together my annual Movie Ratings Recap so that I can include movies I'll see in the theater in January. I addressed the timing issue in my January 12 and 15 posts, and after a consultation with my son Michael (who once told me he didn't read many of my reviews) I think the wait makes more sense. In that way, I can catch more movies which are released late in the year and include them in the Ratings Recap with other films from that same year. As you know, many of the film studios save what they anticipate will be their smash hits until the holiday season. Look for my Ratings Recap for 2012 in approximately thirty days.
1. A Christmas Carol (1984 Christmas story; George C. Scott is the curmudgeon who wants to treat Christmas the same as any other day, until he is enlightened by a series of ghosts) B+
2. Diner (1982 dramedy; Steve Guttenberg, Mickey Rourke, Kevin Bacon and their close buddies hang out at a diner in 1959 Baltimore, and try to solve each other's problems by applying philosophy and street smarts) A
3. Jules And Jim (1962 dramedy; German Oskar Werner is married to Frenchwoman Jeanne Moreau, and neither of them can live without their good friend, Frenchman Henri Serre) B+
4. Miracle On 34th Street (1947 Christmas story; Maureen O'Hara hires white-bearded Edmund Gwenn to play Santa Clause for Macy's Department Store, but the old guy really claims to be Kris Kringle) B-
5. The Moon Is Blue (1953 comedy; Bachelor architect William Holden invites sweet and virtuous Maggie McNamara up to his NYC apartment, where his playboy neighbor David Niven flirts with Maggie and chides William) B+
6. The Ox-Bow Incident (1943 western; Dana Andrews and Anthony Quinn are accused by a posse of cattle rustling and murder, and the posse turns into a sham make-shift jury) A-
7. The Seven Year Itch (1955 comedy; Tom Ewell, whose wife is out of town for the summer, lets his imagination get carried away when blonde bombshell Marilyn Monroe moves into his apartment building) C+
Monday, December 31, 2012
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Movie Review: "Hyde Park On Hudson"
"Hyde Park On Hudson": A-. Franklin Delano Roosevelt was the President of the United States who led us out of the Great Depression and was still in charge when the country entered the Second World War. He is typically listed among the top four or five greatest presidents in our nation's history. It would be easy to gather enough data to produce a cinematic blockbuster extravaganza about FDR's presidency. I can't imagine a Steven Spielberg or James Cameron bi-epic coming in at less than three hours. Even the great philosopher, Mick Jagger, once said, "Anything worth doing is worth overdoing." Luckily, director Roger Michell does not subscribe to the Jagger School Of Excess. Instead, Hyde Park On Hudson is about what transpires over the course of a special two-day weekend at the upstate New York summer home of the President's mother. What makes it special is a visit by the King and Queen of England, George (the stuttering "Bertie") and Elizabeth.
Everyone knew the reason for the Royal Family's visit. Germany was hellbent on overrunning Europe, and England was standing in its way. With memories of horrible World War One less than two decades removed, many Americans did not want to intrude into what they saw as Europe's problems. Not only that, the betting money this time was on Germany prevailing, so did we really want to cast our lot with the losing side? The King, accompanied by the Queen, was coming to persuade the President not only to remain Britain's ally, but to enter the fray. Roosevelt knew the American public's sentiment to remain neutral; after all, he was a politician. So, he decided to have the Royals come to the Hyde Park estate, out of the limelight, instead of the media mecca which was Washington.
The story is mostly narrated from the point of view of FDR's distant cousin, Daisy (Laura Linney). She first meets the President (Bill Murray) on a visit that she expected would last less than one afternoon. Instead, she and he find a chemistry that results in an affair, hidden in plain sight from the rest of the friends, relatives and staff who populate Hyde Park. The President's wife, Eleanor (Olivia Williams), is portrayed as an odd duck. She lives in a separate house with a group of women whose main occupation is furniture making. When she is at Hyde Park, she assumes a role more akin to a senior advisor or a chief of staff than that of a First Lady. Eleanor never questions the closeness which her husband has with Daisy or with Missy (Elizabeth Marvel), Roosevelt's secretary.
FDR uses a specially equipped car which enables him to drive without the use of his legs, a physical condition brought on by polio. Roosevelt and Daisy manage to go for long drives through the countryside, beautifully captured on film by cinematographer Lol Crawley. During one of those drives, Roosevelt shows Daisy a newly constructed house, and tells her he hopes she will use it to think of him when he's gone. Neither of them brings up the subject of Eleanor, how she figures into their present or future plans. The President never complains about his wife. Indeed, he rarely mentions her at all. This is in keeping with the general tranquility of FDR's temperament, as interpreted by Murray. Although he is physically handicapped, give him a drink and light up his smoke and he is good to go. If that is truly how the real FDR was, kudos to the producers for selecting Murray for the role.
The best parts of the movie are the scenes involving King George and Queen Elizabeth. The Roosevelt family, particularly the President's mother, are nervous about entertaining such important guests. Only Roosevelt himself merely takes it in stride. The King and Queen are likewise jittery, concerned about how things will work out on their first trip to America. One of the more humorous scenes occurs when the Royals attempt to "meet some Americans" while their small motorcade drives through pastoral New York on the way to Hyde Park. All they get is a disinterested wave from a farmer working on his tractor. Later, after the King and Queen are shown to their Hyde Park quarters, they worry that the Roosevelts are subtly ridiculing them by assigning them to a bedroom with wallpaper depicting British soldiers from the War of 1812 as cartoon characters. And what about the menu for the next day's picnic? Hot dogs? Ye gods! Samuel West and Olivia Colman are spectacular portraying King George and Queen Elizabeth. Take away the pomp and circumstance and they are (almost) regular people.
There are a few surprises about two-thirds of the way through the story. The movie leaves open the questions of what Roosevelt really felt toward Daisy, and whether Daisy was merely smitten or actually in love. What did Daisy see in him? Was it his intelligence? His mellow manner? His stamp collection? I am pretty sure it was not his good looks. We also come away from the movie wondering if some of the most important decisions regarding the direction of the United States and its allies were made over cocktails.
Everyone knew the reason for the Royal Family's visit. Germany was hellbent on overrunning Europe, and England was standing in its way. With memories of horrible World War One less than two decades removed, many Americans did not want to intrude into what they saw as Europe's problems. Not only that, the betting money this time was on Germany prevailing, so did we really want to cast our lot with the losing side? The King, accompanied by the Queen, was coming to persuade the President not only to remain Britain's ally, but to enter the fray. Roosevelt knew the American public's sentiment to remain neutral; after all, he was a politician. So, he decided to have the Royals come to the Hyde Park estate, out of the limelight, instead of the media mecca which was Washington.
The story is mostly narrated from the point of view of FDR's distant cousin, Daisy (Laura Linney). She first meets the President (Bill Murray) on a visit that she expected would last less than one afternoon. Instead, she and he find a chemistry that results in an affair, hidden in plain sight from the rest of the friends, relatives and staff who populate Hyde Park. The President's wife, Eleanor (Olivia Williams), is portrayed as an odd duck. She lives in a separate house with a group of women whose main occupation is furniture making. When she is at Hyde Park, she assumes a role more akin to a senior advisor or a chief of staff than that of a First Lady. Eleanor never questions the closeness which her husband has with Daisy or with Missy (Elizabeth Marvel), Roosevelt's secretary.
FDR uses a specially equipped car which enables him to drive without the use of his legs, a physical condition brought on by polio. Roosevelt and Daisy manage to go for long drives through the countryside, beautifully captured on film by cinematographer Lol Crawley. During one of those drives, Roosevelt shows Daisy a newly constructed house, and tells her he hopes she will use it to think of him when he's gone. Neither of them brings up the subject of Eleanor, how she figures into their present or future plans. The President never complains about his wife. Indeed, he rarely mentions her at all. This is in keeping with the general tranquility of FDR's temperament, as interpreted by Murray. Although he is physically handicapped, give him a drink and light up his smoke and he is good to go. If that is truly how the real FDR was, kudos to the producers for selecting Murray for the role.
The best parts of the movie are the scenes involving King George and Queen Elizabeth. The Roosevelt family, particularly the President's mother, are nervous about entertaining such important guests. Only Roosevelt himself merely takes it in stride. The King and Queen are likewise jittery, concerned about how things will work out on their first trip to America. One of the more humorous scenes occurs when the Royals attempt to "meet some Americans" while their small motorcade drives through pastoral New York on the way to Hyde Park. All they get is a disinterested wave from a farmer working on his tractor. Later, after the King and Queen are shown to their Hyde Park quarters, they worry that the Roosevelts are subtly ridiculing them by assigning them to a bedroom with wallpaper depicting British soldiers from the War of 1812 as cartoon characters. And what about the menu for the next day's picnic? Hot dogs? Ye gods! Samuel West and Olivia Colman are spectacular portraying King George and Queen Elizabeth. Take away the pomp and circumstance and they are (almost) regular people.
There are a few surprises about two-thirds of the way through the story. The movie leaves open the questions of what Roosevelt really felt toward Daisy, and whether Daisy was merely smitten or actually in love. What did Daisy see in him? Was it his intelligence? His mellow manner? His stamp collection? I am pretty sure it was not his good looks. We also come away from the movie wondering if some of the most important decisions regarding the direction of the United States and its allies were made over cocktails.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Movie Review: "Skyfall"
"Skyfall": B+. The James Bond franchise has had its hits and misses over the past fifty years. Most moviegoers of my vintage can probably name the first four Bond movies, Dr. No, From Russia With Love, Goldfinger (in my estimation the gold standard for this genre) and Thunderball. All starred Sean Connery and all were well received. The latest Bond offerings have met with mixed reviews. What do we expect out of a Bond film? After much deliberation, I have come up with four characteristics. First, there has to be an unforgettable villain. If the villain has one or two memorable henchmen, that is even better. Second, 007 has to utter clever and witty words which we, the viewers, know we ourselves are incapable of creating on the spur of the moment. Third, most of those witticisms should be directed at a woman who has the exotic looks of a supermodel, unapproachable by mere mortal males. And fourth, we don't expect over-the-top special effects, but we are on the lookout for nifty gadgets which are so futuristic that even Navy Seal Team 6 does not have them at their disposal.
On all four counts Skyfall does well, although I am not in love with it to the point of putting it on a pedestal with 1964's Goldfinger. I will, however, rank it up there with 1963's From Russia With Love, which many film critics liked the best. As I thought about Skyfall over the last several days following my attendance, my admiration of it has grown. Sean Connery will always be Agent 007 in my heart and mind, but I have no complaint with Daniel Craig. What Craig may lack in the "suave and debonaire department" compared to Connery he makes up for with his athleticism and physique. He is a physical specimen, so natually director Sam Mendes manages to find a scene or two where Bond is shirtless. The main villain is Silva, played by an actor, Javier Bardem, who seems to do his best work as a bad guy with bad hair. (Check out Bardem's pageboy 'do in No Country For Old Men.) One look at Silva's blonde hair in Skyfall is enough to convince the viewer that Silva is a whack job. French actress Berenice Marlohe plays the requisite hot babe, Severine. That may not be as catchy a name as Pussy Galore (from Goldfinger), but it will suffice. Severine first appears as cold as they come, hardly being distracted by the assassination of a guy who's sitting directly across the desk from her in an office. Later, she is more vulnerable while in the company of Bond.
What I like best about Skyfall are the surprises that come along every so often. For example, the opening sequence involves a madcap motorbike chase over the rooftops and through the city streets of Istanbul. Bond is pursuing a hit man named Patrice (Swedish actor Ola Rapace) who has stolen a hard drive which contains the names of the secret agents used by NATO across the globe. It is imperative that 007 regain control of the drive before the covers of all those operatives is blown. Bond and his prey both end up duking it out on top of a box car attached to a train careening through the mountains at high speed. As soon as they start fighting, we know what's going to happen, because we've witnessed this fight scenario many times before in films. As the train approaches a tunnel, the bad guy (in this case, Patrice) is going to put his head up at precisely the wrong moment, smacking his cranium on the arch above the tunnel, whereupon he will meet his maker and the good guy will utter some clever line to bid him farewell. Only that's not what happens! Surprise!
Another surprise, which is revealed too late in the movie for me to elaborate here, involves Bond's boss, M, the veteran espionage agency director. Judi Dench, who like John Goodman makes every movie in which she appears better, is outstanding as M. Because the buck stops with her, M is responsible for the theft of the coveted hard drive containing the secret information. Some exposed agents have already been killed, and the blood is figuratively on her hands. Her superior, Mallory (Ralph Fiennes), advises her to quit before she suffers the shame of being fired. The defiant M refuses, stating that she must finish making things right before she is done. Will she be able to go out on her own terms? M is the most multi-dimensional character in the story, and in a surprising twist, we learn of an unfortunate history between her and Silva.
After the first act we think we know why the movie's title is Skyfall. Another reason comes into play in the final act. Regardless of how many reasons there may be, I do love the song Skyfall by Adele. There have been many songs over the fifty year span of Bond films which have become hits. For my taste, Shirley Bassey's title tune Goldfinger from 1964 and Carly Simon's Nobody Does It Better (from 1977's The Spy Who Loved Me) are the two best. As a big Adelefan I am not impartial, but I'm saying here that her Skyfall makes it a trifecta.
On all four counts Skyfall does well, although I am not in love with it to the point of putting it on a pedestal with 1964's Goldfinger. I will, however, rank it up there with 1963's From Russia With Love, which many film critics liked the best. As I thought about Skyfall over the last several days following my attendance, my admiration of it has grown. Sean Connery will always be Agent 007 in my heart and mind, but I have no complaint with Daniel Craig. What Craig may lack in the "suave and debonaire department" compared to Connery he makes up for with his athleticism and physique. He is a physical specimen, so natually director Sam Mendes manages to find a scene or two where Bond is shirtless. The main villain is Silva, played by an actor, Javier Bardem, who seems to do his best work as a bad guy with bad hair. (Check out Bardem's pageboy 'do in No Country For Old Men.) One look at Silva's blonde hair in Skyfall is enough to convince the viewer that Silva is a whack job. French actress Berenice Marlohe plays the requisite hot babe, Severine. That may not be as catchy a name as Pussy Galore (from Goldfinger), but it will suffice. Severine first appears as cold as they come, hardly being distracted by the assassination of a guy who's sitting directly across the desk from her in an office. Later, she is more vulnerable while in the company of Bond.
What I like best about Skyfall are the surprises that come along every so often. For example, the opening sequence involves a madcap motorbike chase over the rooftops and through the city streets of Istanbul. Bond is pursuing a hit man named Patrice (Swedish actor Ola Rapace) who has stolen a hard drive which contains the names of the secret agents used by NATO across the globe. It is imperative that 007 regain control of the drive before the covers of all those operatives is blown. Bond and his prey both end up duking it out on top of a box car attached to a train careening through the mountains at high speed. As soon as they start fighting, we know what's going to happen, because we've witnessed this fight scenario many times before in films. As the train approaches a tunnel, the bad guy (in this case, Patrice) is going to put his head up at precisely the wrong moment, smacking his cranium on the arch above the tunnel, whereupon he will meet his maker and the good guy will utter some clever line to bid him farewell. Only that's not what happens! Surprise!
Another surprise, which is revealed too late in the movie for me to elaborate here, involves Bond's boss, M, the veteran espionage agency director. Judi Dench, who like John Goodman makes every movie in which she appears better, is outstanding as M. Because the buck stops with her, M is responsible for the theft of the coveted hard drive containing the secret information. Some exposed agents have already been killed, and the blood is figuratively on her hands. Her superior, Mallory (Ralph Fiennes), advises her to quit before she suffers the shame of being fired. The defiant M refuses, stating that she must finish making things right before she is done. Will she be able to go out on her own terms? M is the most multi-dimensional character in the story, and in a surprising twist, we learn of an unfortunate history between her and Silva.
After the first act we think we know why the movie's title is Skyfall. Another reason comes into play in the final act. Regardless of how many reasons there may be, I do love the song Skyfall by Adele. There have been many songs over the fifty year span of Bond films which have become hits. For my taste, Shirley Bassey's title tune Goldfinger from 1964 and Carly Simon's Nobody Does It Better (from 1977's The Spy Who Loved Me) are the two best. As a big Adelefan I am not impartial, but I'm saying here that her Skyfall makes it a trifecta.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Dillon Hall Diaries: Black Matt Lowers The Boom
You already know from my two previous posts labeled Dillion Hall Diaries (February 6 and April 15) that during my last three years at Notre Dame I lived in Dillon Hall, the residents of which were sometimes referred to as "Dillon Dirt Bags." Yes, we wore that appellation proudly. But my first ND roost was Cavanaugh Hall, a "freshman dorm," during the '65-'66 school year. The rector of Cavanaugh then was Father Matthew Miceli, a no-nonsense middle-aged Italian Holy Cross priest, equipped mentally and physically to handle the unenviable job of keeping over 250 college freshmen under his roof in line. I write this post in memory of him.
I came to Notre Dame from Bishop Ryan, a Catholic high school in Minot, North Dakota, where the priest who was the principal, Father Blaine Cook, ruled with an iron fist. I realized this from the very first day I met him, when he bragged to my parents that the student body had recently overwhelmingly voted to compete at the Class B (small school) level in athletics, but that he had decided unilaterally to disregard that mandate and keep the school at the Class A level. Never mind that our enrollment numbers clearly called for us being in Class B. With the stern commanding tone thus having been set, I promised myself never to get into his dog house, mostly because I was afraid of the consequences which Father Cook meted out to offenders. To an observer my planned approach might have appeared as respect for the collar, and I suppose part of my good behavior was attributable to that. But mostly I behaved out of fear. I had many friends at Ryan who were more fearless than I, and I saw them pay the price. Father Cook was not a man you should anger.
This m.o. of mine regarding priests with authority carried forward into my freshman year in Cavanaugh. Father Miceli reminded me of Father Cook, and I made sure I toed the mark. One ND alum, Class of '68, recently wrote on Notre Dame Nation that Miceli's "fearsome reputation for cruelty was legend" and that guys who lived in other dorms on the Freshman Quad would not go near Cavanaugh in order to avoid an encounter with Black Matt. Speaking of legends, there was one about our Cavanaugh rector that claimed that he would sometimes wear one regular shoe and one tennis shoe at night so that when he ran down the hall after "lights out" it sounded like he was walking. Apparently, the story goes, in this way he could sneak up outside of a dorm room if he suspected something bad was going on inside. Whether the legend was true or not, the last thing I ever wanted to do was to cross Black Matt. I had enough to worry about, including tough academics and being a thousand miles away from home. But, as the saying goes, the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
On October 9, 1965, the Irish were scheduled to play Army in Shea Stadium. It would be our fourth game of the season, and our third road game. The World's Fair was also being held in New York City at that time. During the summer of '65 I had received an application in the mail to sign up for a student trip to attend the game. The trip was sponsored by the Notre Dame Social Commission, a student organization which was charged with the almost impossible task of making college life in an all-male school fun. I showed the information package to my parents, who readily agreed to help me pay for the trip. Not only would I get to attend the football game and the fair, but this would be my first airplane ride as well. The Big Weekend could not come soon enough. We would leave on Friday afternoon and return Sunday evening.
Those of us lucky enough to be on the trip had a tremendous time. Most people probably remember things about their first ride in the sky. I am no exception, so please allow me this aside. I felt lucky to get a window seat on the plane, but I soon realized that most of my fellow male passengers couldn't care less about the view out the windows. A different view was more interesting, and for that they preferred to sit on the aisle. The reason? It was pretty tough to check out the flight attendants' ("stewardesses" in those days) curves unless you were on the aisle. The other main topic of conversation was that the legal drinking age in New York City was 18, compared to 21 in The Bend. The guys could hardly wait to walk into a Manhattan watering hole to enjoy several legal drinks. I was only 17 that early October, so I did not share their eager anticipation.
The Irish had no trouble with the Black Knights Of The Hudson, cruising to a 17 to 0 victory. We also got to the World's Fair, including a viewing of the Pieta, and everything about the weekend was perfect. That is, until I got back to Cavanaugh Sunday night.
I was looking forward to recapping the weekend highlights for my roommate (a New Yorker who did not go on the trip), but before I could get the first sentence out he advised me, "Black Matt told me he wanted to see you as soon as you got in." Although the rector's room was on the same floor as mine, I barely ran into him during the first five or six weeks of the school year. I was not sure he even knew who I was. I laughingly said to my roommate, "Well, I couldn't be in too much hot water because I haven't even been here since Friday afternoon." Plus, the trip to New York had the blessing of the university, so what could possibly be wrong? Despite what I thought was this sound reasoning, I was definitely worried as I made my way to the rector. All those rumors I'd heard about Miceli suddenly came back to me. The curiosity was killing me. The walk of about thirty yards down the hall seemed more like three hundred.
If you have seen The Godfather you know the look of a disgruntled Italian Don. That was the look of Father Miceli that night. There was no "hello," no "welcome back," no "how was New York?" With a sweeping arm motion he signaled me to enter his chambers, then he asked me two questions, the answers to which he already knew. First, "Where were you?" This struck me as odd, because the list of those who had signed up for the Army game trip had been posted by the Social Commission on Cavanaugh's bulletin boards, and nothing (Nothing!) was on those boards without his knowledge. Even though I knew that he knew the answer to his own question, of course I answered. His second question was, "Did you sign out with Joe?" Joe was our RA, and again I knew that Black Matt knew the answer was "no." All I could think of, in that split second, was the phrase later made so popular by the professional tennis brat, John McEnroe: "You can't be serious!" But of course I did not say that, for the reasons stipulated above.
The '65-'66 school year was the last year the dorms at ND had mandatory room checks. We had to be present and accounted for in our rooms by 10:30 each weekday night, and by midnight on the weekend. Once the RAs took our attendance, we were free to move about -- but not leave -- the dorm. All of the outside doors were locked except for the front door, and a security guard was posted there. If a dorm resident was on campus, he was required to abide by those rules. If he was going to be off campus, he had to sign out ahead of time with an RA. In my situation, the thought of signing out with Joe never crossed my mind because I mistakenly reasoned that signing up with the Social Commission was, in effect, letting the university know where I was going to be on that Friday and Saturday night. Signing out with Joe would have been redundant, form over substance. Wrong! I was AWOL.
Black Matt lowered the boom. He "campused" me for two weeks. That punishment meant that I was immediately confined to campus through the following two weekends.
Ordinarily that penalty would not have been too painful for me. I did not have a car and I had practically no money (especially after spending a weekend in New York City), so I rarely ventured off campus anyway. However, those particular upcoming two weeks were not scheduled to be ordinary circumstances for me. My parents were planning to make the 2000 mile round trip drive from Minot to visit me for the Southern Cal game weekend, October 22-24. Black Matt's punishment thus put me in a pickle. I couldn't tell my parents to stay home. They already had tickets for the Southern Cal game, a game which had been circled on the schedule for months by college football fans across the country. USC was ND's perennial arch rival, and the memory of the 1964 game in the LA Coliseum in which a phantom holding call cost the Irish not only the game but the National Championship was fresh on the minds of the faithful. The 1965 game was going to be The Revenge Game. (In fact, the main rallying cry at all the pep rallies preceding the game was "Revenge! Revenge!") My dad, the quintessential Irish Catholic, was the football team's greatest fan. There was no way he was going to miss the game. The other big problem was having my parents wondering how their son could possibly get into trouble with his rector after being in school less than two months.
After the first of my two weeks of punishment I asked Joe -- who, by the way, was a cool guy -- if he thought I stood a chance of getting Black Matt to waive the second half of my "sentence." Joe's reply, in essence, was "not a chance." He indicated that the rector sometimes campused guys for longer periods than two weeks for similar offenses. In retrospect I should have sucked it up and asked Miceli face-to-face for a break anyway. Instead, I talked myself out of it. I might have been a chicken, but at least I was a live chicken. I will never know if Joe was right, but he knew the priest better than anyone else in Cavanaugh.
The weekend of my parents' visit did not turn out to be so bad after all, proving once again what The Marquis always said: The things you worry about the most seldom happen. The Irish got their revenge, 28 to 7, lifting their record to 4 and 1. We spent a lot of time that weekend walking around the beautiful Notre Dame campus, and I enjoyed being the tour guide. The biggest negative was that I had been looking forward to eating with my parents in real restaurants, especially Portafino's seafood restaurant in nearby Niles, Michigan, but had to settle for Huddle burgers and the grog served up in the dining hall. The weekend flew by and then it was time for the tough goodbye. As my parents pulled away I wondered if they prayed that I would not get into hot water with my rector again.
***
Father Miceli passed away a week ago today at the age of 89. There has been a lot written about him on ND Nation and in the South Bend Tribune. What people had to say about him was all good. A few highlights: He was born in San Giuseppe Jato, Italy in 1923, and moved to the US when he was six years old. He graduated from Notre Dame in 1947 (the year I was born), and was ordained five years later. He celebrated the 60th anniversary of his priesthood earlier this year. He taught theology at ND from 1954 to 1962, and after a one year stint at the University of Portland returned to teach theology at ND from 1963 to 1993. He was the Cavanaugh rector for twenty-eight years, commencing in 1963, and when he left that position in 1990 he held the Notre Dame record for most consecutive years serving as rector of the same dorm. He lived out his retirement years residing in Holy Cross House on ND's campus and pursuing his favorite hobby, making wine.
Despite the legends which originated years ago, there is no question that Black Matt will be remembered by most as a good guy. In fact, a Notre Dame alum and former resident of Cavanaugh has established a scholarship at the university in Father Miceli's memory. Apparently Black Matt had a great sense of humor which my contemporaries in Cavanaugh did not get to see. In 1994, the last year before Cavanaugh was converted into a women's dorm, Father Miceli celebrated a Mass in the Cavanaugh Chapel. At the final blessing, he urged the male congregation to go out after graduation and make as much money as possible to donate to the university, so that the funds could be used to construct an additional women's dorm and "the urinals can be brought back to Cavanaugh."
I regret that I never made a point of getting to know Father Miceli. In fact, I avoided him during the remainder of my freshman year before moving into Dillon in the autumn of '66. I felt the punishment he laid on me the previous October did not fit the crime. Isn't that what the biblical verse "an eye for an eye" is all about? They say Italians never forget when someone does them a disservice. I am 50% Italian. Right or wrong, I was not able to get past the Army Weekend Incident. In retrospect, at some point I wish I had. On many occasions when I returned to Notre Dame following graduation, I made a point of paying a quick visit to Father "Flash" Flanagan, my rector in Dillon, but never ventured to the North Quad to see Black Matt. That was, and remains, my loss. May Father Miceli rest in peace.
I came to Notre Dame from Bishop Ryan, a Catholic high school in Minot, North Dakota, where the priest who was the principal, Father Blaine Cook, ruled with an iron fist. I realized this from the very first day I met him, when he bragged to my parents that the student body had recently overwhelmingly voted to compete at the Class B (small school) level in athletics, but that he had decided unilaterally to disregard that mandate and keep the school at the Class A level. Never mind that our enrollment numbers clearly called for us being in Class B. With the stern commanding tone thus having been set, I promised myself never to get into his dog house, mostly because I was afraid of the consequences which Father Cook meted out to offenders. To an observer my planned approach might have appeared as respect for the collar, and I suppose part of my good behavior was attributable to that. But mostly I behaved out of fear. I had many friends at Ryan who were more fearless than I, and I saw them pay the price. Father Cook was not a man you should anger.
This m.o. of mine regarding priests with authority carried forward into my freshman year in Cavanaugh. Father Miceli reminded me of Father Cook, and I made sure I toed the mark. One ND alum, Class of '68, recently wrote on Notre Dame Nation that Miceli's "fearsome reputation for cruelty was legend" and that guys who lived in other dorms on the Freshman Quad would not go near Cavanaugh in order to avoid an encounter with Black Matt. Speaking of legends, there was one about our Cavanaugh rector that claimed that he would sometimes wear one regular shoe and one tennis shoe at night so that when he ran down the hall after "lights out" it sounded like he was walking. Apparently, the story goes, in this way he could sneak up outside of a dorm room if he suspected something bad was going on inside. Whether the legend was true or not, the last thing I ever wanted to do was to cross Black Matt. I had enough to worry about, including tough academics and being a thousand miles away from home. But, as the saying goes, the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
On October 9, 1965, the Irish were scheduled to play Army in Shea Stadium. It would be our fourth game of the season, and our third road game. The World's Fair was also being held in New York City at that time. During the summer of '65 I had received an application in the mail to sign up for a student trip to attend the game. The trip was sponsored by the Notre Dame Social Commission, a student organization which was charged with the almost impossible task of making college life in an all-male school fun. I showed the information package to my parents, who readily agreed to help me pay for the trip. Not only would I get to attend the football game and the fair, but this would be my first airplane ride as well. The Big Weekend could not come soon enough. We would leave on Friday afternoon and return Sunday evening.
Those of us lucky enough to be on the trip had a tremendous time. Most people probably remember things about their first ride in the sky. I am no exception, so please allow me this aside. I felt lucky to get a window seat on the plane, but I soon realized that most of my fellow male passengers couldn't care less about the view out the windows. A different view was more interesting, and for that they preferred to sit on the aisle. The reason? It was pretty tough to check out the flight attendants' ("stewardesses" in those days) curves unless you were on the aisle. The other main topic of conversation was that the legal drinking age in New York City was 18, compared to 21 in The Bend. The guys could hardly wait to walk into a Manhattan watering hole to enjoy several legal drinks. I was only 17 that early October, so I did not share their eager anticipation.
The Irish had no trouble with the Black Knights Of The Hudson, cruising to a 17 to 0 victory. We also got to the World's Fair, including a viewing of the Pieta, and everything about the weekend was perfect. That is, until I got back to Cavanaugh Sunday night.
I was looking forward to recapping the weekend highlights for my roommate (a New Yorker who did not go on the trip), but before I could get the first sentence out he advised me, "Black Matt told me he wanted to see you as soon as you got in." Although the rector's room was on the same floor as mine, I barely ran into him during the first five or six weeks of the school year. I was not sure he even knew who I was. I laughingly said to my roommate, "Well, I couldn't be in too much hot water because I haven't even been here since Friday afternoon." Plus, the trip to New York had the blessing of the university, so what could possibly be wrong? Despite what I thought was this sound reasoning, I was definitely worried as I made my way to the rector. All those rumors I'd heard about Miceli suddenly came back to me. The curiosity was killing me. The walk of about thirty yards down the hall seemed more like three hundred.
If you have seen The Godfather you know the look of a disgruntled Italian Don. That was the look of Father Miceli that night. There was no "hello," no "welcome back," no "how was New York?" With a sweeping arm motion he signaled me to enter his chambers, then he asked me two questions, the answers to which he already knew. First, "Where were you?" This struck me as odd, because the list of those who had signed up for the Army game trip had been posted by the Social Commission on Cavanaugh's bulletin boards, and nothing (Nothing!) was on those boards without his knowledge. Even though I knew that he knew the answer to his own question, of course I answered. His second question was, "Did you sign out with Joe?" Joe was our RA, and again I knew that Black Matt knew the answer was "no." All I could think of, in that split second, was the phrase later made so popular by the professional tennis brat, John McEnroe: "You can't be serious!" But of course I did not say that, for the reasons stipulated above.
The '65-'66 school year was the last year the dorms at ND had mandatory room checks. We had to be present and accounted for in our rooms by 10:30 each weekday night, and by midnight on the weekend. Once the RAs took our attendance, we were free to move about -- but not leave -- the dorm. All of the outside doors were locked except for the front door, and a security guard was posted there. If a dorm resident was on campus, he was required to abide by those rules. If he was going to be off campus, he had to sign out ahead of time with an RA. In my situation, the thought of signing out with Joe never crossed my mind because I mistakenly reasoned that signing up with the Social Commission was, in effect, letting the university know where I was going to be on that Friday and Saturday night. Signing out with Joe would have been redundant, form over substance. Wrong! I was AWOL.
Black Matt lowered the boom. He "campused" me for two weeks. That punishment meant that I was immediately confined to campus through the following two weekends.
Ordinarily that penalty would not have been too painful for me. I did not have a car and I had practically no money (especially after spending a weekend in New York City), so I rarely ventured off campus anyway. However, those particular upcoming two weeks were not scheduled to be ordinary circumstances for me. My parents were planning to make the 2000 mile round trip drive from Minot to visit me for the Southern Cal game weekend, October 22-24. Black Matt's punishment thus put me in a pickle. I couldn't tell my parents to stay home. They already had tickets for the Southern Cal game, a game which had been circled on the schedule for months by college football fans across the country. USC was ND's perennial arch rival, and the memory of the 1964 game in the LA Coliseum in which a phantom holding call cost the Irish not only the game but the National Championship was fresh on the minds of the faithful. The 1965 game was going to be The Revenge Game. (In fact, the main rallying cry at all the pep rallies preceding the game was "Revenge! Revenge!") My dad, the quintessential Irish Catholic, was the football team's greatest fan. There was no way he was going to miss the game. The other big problem was having my parents wondering how their son could possibly get into trouble with his rector after being in school less than two months.
After the first of my two weeks of punishment I asked Joe -- who, by the way, was a cool guy -- if he thought I stood a chance of getting Black Matt to waive the second half of my "sentence." Joe's reply, in essence, was "not a chance." He indicated that the rector sometimes campused guys for longer periods than two weeks for similar offenses. In retrospect I should have sucked it up and asked Miceli face-to-face for a break anyway. Instead, I talked myself out of it. I might have been a chicken, but at least I was a live chicken. I will never know if Joe was right, but he knew the priest better than anyone else in Cavanaugh.
The weekend of my parents' visit did not turn out to be so bad after all, proving once again what The Marquis always said: The things you worry about the most seldom happen. The Irish got their revenge, 28 to 7, lifting their record to 4 and 1. We spent a lot of time that weekend walking around the beautiful Notre Dame campus, and I enjoyed being the tour guide. The biggest negative was that I had been looking forward to eating with my parents in real restaurants, especially Portafino's seafood restaurant in nearby Niles, Michigan, but had to settle for Huddle burgers and the grog served up in the dining hall. The weekend flew by and then it was time for the tough goodbye. As my parents pulled away I wondered if they prayed that I would not get into hot water with my rector again.
***
Father Miceli passed away a week ago today at the age of 89. There has been a lot written about him on ND Nation and in the South Bend Tribune. What people had to say about him was all good. A few highlights: He was born in San Giuseppe Jato, Italy in 1923, and moved to the US when he was six years old. He graduated from Notre Dame in 1947 (the year I was born), and was ordained five years later. He celebrated the 60th anniversary of his priesthood earlier this year. He taught theology at ND from 1954 to 1962, and after a one year stint at the University of Portland returned to teach theology at ND from 1963 to 1993. He was the Cavanaugh rector for twenty-eight years, commencing in 1963, and when he left that position in 1990 he held the Notre Dame record for most consecutive years serving as rector of the same dorm. He lived out his retirement years residing in Holy Cross House on ND's campus and pursuing his favorite hobby, making wine.
Despite the legends which originated years ago, there is no question that Black Matt will be remembered by most as a good guy. In fact, a Notre Dame alum and former resident of Cavanaugh has established a scholarship at the university in Father Miceli's memory. Apparently Black Matt had a great sense of humor which my contemporaries in Cavanaugh did not get to see. In 1994, the last year before Cavanaugh was converted into a women's dorm, Father Miceli celebrated a Mass in the Cavanaugh Chapel. At the final blessing, he urged the male congregation to go out after graduation and make as much money as possible to donate to the university, so that the funds could be used to construct an additional women's dorm and "the urinals can be brought back to Cavanaugh."
I regret that I never made a point of getting to know Father Miceli. In fact, I avoided him during the remainder of my freshman year before moving into Dillon in the autumn of '66. I felt the punishment he laid on me the previous October did not fit the crime. Isn't that what the biblical verse "an eye for an eye" is all about? They say Italians never forget when someone does them a disservice. I am 50% Italian. Right or wrong, I was not able to get past the Army Weekend Incident. In retrospect, at some point I wish I had. On many occasions when I returned to Notre Dame following graduation, I made a point of paying a quick visit to Father "Flash" Flanagan, my rector in Dillon, but never ventured to the North Quad to see Black Matt. That was, and remains, my loss. May Father Miceli rest in peace.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Movie Review: "Chasing Ice"
"Chasing Ice": B+. If you thought global warming was a myth propagated by environmentalists or a figment of the collective imagination of nature-loving tree huggers, you will probably be convinced otherwise after watching this rather short (71 minutes between opening and closing credits) documentary. The film shows the mission of scientist James Balog and his team to capture visual evidence of the relatively rapidly changing landscape of several huge glaciers in the northern hemisphere. To achieve his objective, Balog set up dozens of cameras in Iceland, Greenland, Alaska, the Canadian Rockies and Glacier National Park in Montana. (The closing credits indicate he has since added Mount Everest to the list.) The cameras were designed to snap a photo of the same target every thirty minutes during daylight hours for months at a time. After some early set backs, the results achieved by Balog's enterprise, under the banner Extreme Ice Survey, are triumphant. What you will see on screen is some of the most spectacular footage of natural phenomena you will ever witness.
Each camera had to be mounted and secured in a location where a clear shot of the targeted glacier was available. The apparatus had to be able to withstand hurricane force winds and temperatures well under forty degrees below zero. To reach the best vantage points, Balog and his small team of fellow scientists risked their lives traipsing over unsteady ice platforms, scaling treacherous crevices, rock climbing and hiking across the frozen tundra. One of their biggest challenges, especially in the early stages of their endeavor, was overcoming the utter disappointment and frustration of dealing with faulty component parts. Any malfunction of even the tiniest component in the guts of a custom made camera resulted in failure. And in Balog's business, any failure was almost catastrophic, because once a glacier melted there was no future opportunity to capture the moment on camera. The glacier was not going to reappear.
The movie has a good mixture of the three main elements of the story: adventure; scientific explanations, complete with easy-to-understand charts and photos, of what we are witnessing; and, a look into the personal life of Balog, who amazingly was doing all of this strenuous work with a chronically "bum" knee. At several points throughout the film, before-and-after pictures of the same landscape are shown on a split screen. Sometimes images of familiar things, such as the Empire State Building or the island of Manhattan, are superimposed to give the viewer a sense of scale. The glaciers are undoubtedly shrinking, and in some cases literally disappearing. One of the many effects of these phenomena is the rising of the water level in our oceans. The masses of melted ice have to go somewhere. When you think of all of the coastal cities throughout the world, their populations are at risk if the warming trend doesn't reverse. One of the (perhaps) less-than-obvious possibilities is that hurricanes will have even more devastating effects on coastal cities than in the past, because there is a lot more water which the winds will blow up from the ocean onto the land.
I was fascinated by the camera work of cinematographer Jeff Orlowski, who filmed Balog and his two on-site teammates as they worked to set up and maintain the mounted cameras. It was evident that Balog and his teammates were flirting with danger, but Orlowski must have been risking his life too. One memorable sequence shows Balog and his cohorts clinging to safety ropes as they made their way down a crevice so deep that the bottom could not be seen. Yet, the cinematographer was several feet below those men! Are you kidding me?
Other than citing a noticeable spike in carbon dioxide emissions, the film does not go into detail about what is causing the sad deterioration of the world's glaciers. What is there about the makeup of carbon dioxide that has this deleterious effect? Since I am not a scientist I would have appreciated a minute of two of explanation, although I am willing to take it on faith that carbon dioxide is anathema to ice. I found it interesting that the filmmaker does not point the finger at any specific villain, either by identifying an industry or a country. Given the short duration of the film (as noted above), there certainly was time to do so. Yet, time is found to show the global warming infidels, such as Sean Hannity, mocking those who are sounding the warning bell.
Chasing Ice is a story that took years in the making, an undertaking that could only have been accomplished with a treasure chest of funding and sponsorship. As a viewer, I would have been curious to know the costs associated with Balog's work. The cost of the cameras alone must have reached the high six figures, if not more. This information is not furnished. I chuckled during the closing credits when the screen proclaimed that the scientists wished to thank their sponsors, without whom their work would not have been possible. I estimate that a list of about forty to fifty sponsors appeared below that statement, but that information stayed on the screen for, maybe, just five seconds. If I ever rewatch the movie on DVD, I guess I will have to freeze frame those closing credits to determine the parties who dug deep to fund the expeditions.
Each camera had to be mounted and secured in a location where a clear shot of the targeted glacier was available. The apparatus had to be able to withstand hurricane force winds and temperatures well under forty degrees below zero. To reach the best vantage points, Balog and his small team of fellow scientists risked their lives traipsing over unsteady ice platforms, scaling treacherous crevices, rock climbing and hiking across the frozen tundra. One of their biggest challenges, especially in the early stages of their endeavor, was overcoming the utter disappointment and frustration of dealing with faulty component parts. Any malfunction of even the tiniest component in the guts of a custom made camera resulted in failure. And in Balog's business, any failure was almost catastrophic, because once a glacier melted there was no future opportunity to capture the moment on camera. The glacier was not going to reappear.
The movie has a good mixture of the three main elements of the story: adventure; scientific explanations, complete with easy-to-understand charts and photos, of what we are witnessing; and, a look into the personal life of Balog, who amazingly was doing all of this strenuous work with a chronically "bum" knee. At several points throughout the film, before-and-after pictures of the same landscape are shown on a split screen. Sometimes images of familiar things, such as the Empire State Building or the island of Manhattan, are superimposed to give the viewer a sense of scale. The glaciers are undoubtedly shrinking, and in some cases literally disappearing. One of the many effects of these phenomena is the rising of the water level in our oceans. The masses of melted ice have to go somewhere. When you think of all of the coastal cities throughout the world, their populations are at risk if the warming trend doesn't reverse. One of the (perhaps) less-than-obvious possibilities is that hurricanes will have even more devastating effects on coastal cities than in the past, because there is a lot more water which the winds will blow up from the ocean onto the land.
I was fascinated by the camera work of cinematographer Jeff Orlowski, who filmed Balog and his two on-site teammates as they worked to set up and maintain the mounted cameras. It was evident that Balog and his teammates were flirting with danger, but Orlowski must have been risking his life too. One memorable sequence shows Balog and his cohorts clinging to safety ropes as they made their way down a crevice so deep that the bottom could not be seen. Yet, the cinematographer was several feet below those men! Are you kidding me?
Other than citing a noticeable spike in carbon dioxide emissions, the film does not go into detail about what is causing the sad deterioration of the world's glaciers. What is there about the makeup of carbon dioxide that has this deleterious effect? Since I am not a scientist I would have appreciated a minute of two of explanation, although I am willing to take it on faith that carbon dioxide is anathema to ice. I found it interesting that the filmmaker does not point the finger at any specific villain, either by identifying an industry or a country. Given the short duration of the film (as noted above), there certainly was time to do so. Yet, time is found to show the global warming infidels, such as Sean Hannity, mocking those who are sounding the warning bell.
Chasing Ice is a story that took years in the making, an undertaking that could only have been accomplished with a treasure chest of funding and sponsorship. As a viewer, I would have been curious to know the costs associated with Balog's work. The cost of the cameras alone must have reached the high six figures, if not more. This information is not furnished. I chuckled during the closing credits when the screen proclaimed that the scientists wished to thank their sponsors, without whom their work would not have been possible. I estimate that a list of about forty to fifty sponsors appeared below that statement, but that information stayed on the screen for, maybe, just five seconds. If I ever rewatch the movie on DVD, I guess I will have to freeze frame those closing credits to determine the parties who dug deep to fund the expeditions.
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