The Book I've Read Five Times

I noticed that The Secret Life Of Walter Mitty, a new movie directed by and starring Ben Stiller, opened for general release on Christmas Day.  I am very interested in seeing this film because Mitty is my favorite short story of all time.  Most studios hold their most promising films in abeyance until the last week of the calendar year, so I have my hopes up.

I've written before that I taught eighth grade for eight years (1972-80), following three as a sixth grade teacher.  Although the eighth grade subjects I taught varied a little bit over the eight year span, one of several constants was that I taught literature throughout the entire duration.  For the first five of those eight years, our main literature text was Explorations In Literature, an anthology of thirty-three short stories, plus assorted poems, published by Houghton Mifflin -- not to be confused with Dunder Mifflin -- in 1972.  Even when our curriculum switched to a different lit book in 1977, I still had my students read many of the short stories found in Explorations, including, of course, Mitty.  I have described Explorations as "the best book I've ever read," because of the wealth and variety of the short stories included therein.

The Explorations list of authors is quite impressive.  Any one of a number of Edgar Allan Poe stories would certainly have been acceptable.  Explorations begins with The Tellale Heart, a Poe offering which contains one of the greatest opening paragraphs ever written.  Ray Bradbury, a famous science fiction writer who passed away a year ago, is the only author with the distinction of having two stories (Dark They Were And Golden Eyed and The Pedestrian) included in the anthology.  Roald Dahl, the British author of the popular children's story, James And The Giant Peach, has his readers on the edge of their seats with Poison. Bernard Malamud, known to baseball fans as the author of The Natural, writes a thought-provoking story, A Summer's Reading, about a high school dropout. And Isaac Asimov, a prolific writer and biochemistry professor, contributes Someday, a futuristic story about the role computers might play in the social world of youth.  It seems only O. Henry, maybe the most famous short story writer of all, and humorous Mark Twain are missing from the Who's Who List of short story scribes put together by the Explorations publisher.

At the end of each school year I would ask my students to rank their five favorite Explorations stories, and their bottom three.  After they voted I would give them the aggregate results, along with the ratings from their predecessors.  This will come as a shock to Momma Cuandito, who believes I've saved every scrap of paper pertaining to my teaching career, but I'll be dag nabbed if I can find those ballots!  Therefore, for purposes of drafting this post, I am left with little choice but to divulge my own personal ranking of my top five Explorations short stories, with the exhortation that you place most, if not all, of them on your 2014 reading lists.

5. The Answer by Philip Wylie. At twenty-two double-columned pages, this is by far the longest of Explorations' thirty-three short stories.  A two-star US general aboard an aircraft carrier is in charge of conducting the testing of an H-bomb which explodes over a volcanic island in the western Pacific Ocean. On nearby Tempest Island a nine year old boy, the son of an erratically behaving missionary, discovers a mysterious "casualty" which has fallen from the sky moments after the detonation.  Months later, an eerily similar incident occurs on the frozen tundra of Siberia during a Soviet weapons test.  Secrets are kept, evidence vanishes, and the leaders of the two cold war superpowers have decisions to make.

4. Different Cultural Levels Eat Here by Peter DeVries.  The scene is an urban bar where the regulars constitute almost all of the clientele.  Two couples, obviously non-regulars, sit at the bar and order hamburgers.  The cook/counterman, as is his custom, asks each of the foursome, "Mit or mitout?"  The reference is obvious: onions.  One of the women comments under her breath about the peculiarity of such phrasing, but the counterman is not deaf.  This sets in motion an uneasy dialogue, and a fascinating study of human behavior.

3. The Survivors by Elsie Singer.  Fosterville is a border town which sent all of its young men, except one, to fight for the Union in the Civil War.  That one exception is the recalcitrant Adam, who chose to join the Confederacy.  Now the war is over, and the town annually celebrates its thirty-five returning war veterans with a Memorial Day parade.   The Union leader is Adam's cousin, Henry.  As the years go by, the former soldiers pass away. Adam remains a loner, a self-imposed outcast, while Henry is the most admired man in Fosterville.

2. The Lie by Kurt Vonnegut.  Fourteen year old Eli Remenzel is riding with his parents in their chauffeur-driven limousine to the posh Massachusetts boys' prep school, Whitehill.  Three former US presidents were alums, and Eli's physician father was the fifth generation of Remenzels to attend.  Dr. Remenzel has to remind his wife constantly that neither she nor Eli should expect any favors from the school, even though half the buildings on campus were funded by the Remenzels. So, what's the problem?  Life is good, right?  Not exactly.  Eli has never told his parents that, two weeks ago, he tore up the letter of rejection from the school's admissions office before his parents could read it.

1.The Secret Life Of Walter Mitty by James Thurber.  Walter Mitty is a hen-pecked husband who does not need physical separation from his wife (or for that matter, anyone else) to escape from reality.  His vehicle for these pleasurable respites is daydreaming, but not just your run-of-the-mill daydreams.  For instance, he is the surgeon to whom world famous specialists defer when the patient is at death's door.  He is the expert marksman who can hit his target with any of an assortment of different firearms.  He is the pilot who can get his plane through storm clouds which would keep other mortals grounded.  Sometimes his private thoughts are betrayed by a tendency to speak aloud unconsciously while in a state of mind far removed from his actual whereabouts.  "That man said 'Puppy biscuit' to himself!" exclaimed a nearby woman to her companion.          

Movie Review: "The Hunger Games: Catching Fire"

"The Hunger Games: Catching Fire": B-.  The Hunger Games: Catching Fire (referred to herein as Catching Fire) is the second movie in The Hunger Games trilogy.  If you did not see the first movie, The Hunger Games (reviewed here on April 10, 2012, B+), you probably should not see Catching Fire, nor should you read this review, until viewing the 2012 film.  Although I enjoyed The Hunger Games, one of my beefs was that the central government of the fictitious country Panem changed the rules in the eleventh hour, thereby opening the door for the possibility of a happier ending than what otherwise may have been the case. In Catching Fire, there is yet another rule change, this one explained near the movie's beginning and without which there would probably have been no second installment in the trilogy.  The change is that instead of all survivors from previous Hunger Games thereafter getting a lifetime pass, Panem's powers-that-be, led by evil President Snow (wonderfully played by Donald Sutherland), decide that the Games occurring every twenty-fifth year will include winners from previous years.  Since Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence) and her fellow District 12 survivor Peeta Mellark (Josh Hutcherson) won in year 74 (as we saw in The Hunger Games), they must "play" again in this year's fight to the finish.

As a result of the aforementioned hankie-pankie rules bending by the government, Catching Fire turns into pretty much the same story as The Hunger Games.  Katniss must figure out a way to withstand the cold-blooded attempts on her life by her fellow competitors, while she does what she can to keep Peeta alive.  I have heard that most of the critics, in their infinite wisdom, have declared Catching Fire to be the better movie.  As we like to say on my favorite website, ND Nation, "Disagreeance!"

The evaluation of this new movie when comparing its merits to its predecessor comes down to two basic questions.  First, is the prelude (i.e., the buildup) to the game action itself better in the first movie or the second?  Secondly, once the prelude is concluded, which of the two movies has better game action?  On my scorecard, The Hunger Games gets a higher mark on both counts, particularly with respect to the prelude. The running time of The Hunger Games was 142 minutes, almost two and a-half hours long.  That longer-than-average duration was acceptable because, before the game action started, the filmmakers had to explain to the viewers the history of Panem, why its central government felt the need to conduct the Hunger Games, and how the participants -- euphemistically called "tributes" -- were selected, trained and feted. Simultaneously occurring in The Hunger Games' prelude was the development of Katniss' personal story, including her family life in woeful District 12, and her love interests.

On the other hand, Catching Fire assumes that you have either seen The Hunger Games or have read the related books.  Little time is spent explaining the backgrounds of either the Games or of Katniss.  I am okay with that decision, but the running time of Catching Fire is actually four minutes longer than The Hunger Games.  If anything, it should have been considerably shorter, because without a rehashing of the background, there was less story to tell and therefore no need to make the prelude of the second movie as long as the first.  Consequently, there are times throughout Catching Fire when the movie drags.  Other than a quick explanation of the reasoning behind the rule change requiring the participation of previous Games' winners such as Katniss, the prelude of Catching Fire includes a lot of repetition of things we already saw in The Hunger Games (skills training, a parade, a televised interview featuring Caesar Flickerman (Stanley Tucci), etc.).  Been there, done that, to coin a phrase.

Attending The Hunger Games and Catching Fire reminded me of going to see Jurassic Park in 1993.  The development of the characters and the background stories which got the characters into the theme park was all fine and dandy, but it was the dinosaurs that drew people in.  In both The Hunger Games and Catching Fire, we can't wait for the actual game action to commence, and once it does we are all in.

Finally, a couple of non-spoiling points about the ending to Catching Fire.  In the final scene there is a combination of a surprise twist and an explanation of immediately preceding events given to one of the main characters.  The surprise twist was fairly successful as a storytelling device, but the explanation is filled with holes.  We are supposed to believe that some characters were made privy to certain important information long ago but, inexplicably, the character to whom the explanation is being given was left out of the loop.  I say, "Nonsense!"

Eichel Michael Was The Big Ticket

Mary's brother, Mike Seiwert, passed away two weeks ago on the day after Thanksgiving, thirty-three months after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and two days after we saw him for the last time at Mayo.  The term "Black Friday" suddenly took on a whole different meaning for our family.  A memorial Mass at Christ The King was celebrated a week ago today.  The church was packed with friends and relatives, gathered together to honor Mike's life and to comfort each other.  The highlight of the Mass was the beautiful eulogy delivered by my nephew Brian, who reminded us that his and Laura's little daughter Amelia now had her "Papa Bear" in heaven with her.   The numerous stories people told later that day about Mike were mostly humorous, which makes sense since he was that kind of guy.  Over the past week I've thought a lot about him myself.  What follows are some of those reflections. 

 

Several years ago there was a restaurant on the corner of Hennepin & Lagoon in Uptown Minneapolis called Zeno.  As far as desserts were concerned, it was purportedly Minneapolis' answer to St. Paul's Cafe Latte. Mary, her brother Mike, Rene and I were Uptown one evening and decided to determine for ourselves whether Zeno was, in fact, worthy of the comparison.  Since we'd just finished dinner in a nearby establishment, none of us claimed to be all that hungry.  Therefore, we decided to order one slice of chocolate cake to split four ways.  The piece delivered to our table was about as big as a cornerstone, with a price to match.  Mike dug right in and devoured nearly 80% of the cake himself while Mary, Rene and I sat at the ready with our forks, afraid that if we made a stab at the cake we'd probably poke Mike's hand instead.  To a detached observer it would have appeared that our dining companion was famished, when in truth we were no more than twenty minutes removed from our dinners.

 

I learned two things that evening: Eichel Michael had a voracious appetite, and don't share a plate of anything with him thinking you'll get your appropriate portion!

 

The ironic thing about Mike was that while he was packing it away and you were aware of his shenanigans, you didn't mind because he was such a great conversationalist and so fun to be around.

 

It turns out that Mike's food-hording (and hogging) strategies were not limited to family occasions.  When his Dakota County colleagues, most of whom had reported to Mike, threw a retirement party for him at the end of last year, they were really "giving him the business" about pilfering food from the break room and creating havoc at lunch time.  With Mike sitting in a front row seat, they even put on a skit, complete with food fights, depicting the jovial times they all enjoyed with Mike as their boss.  After having worked in sterile law offices and corporate settings for twenty-eight years, these revelations were foreign to me.  You mean to tell me that people could actually work hard and play hard at the same time?  With Mike in charge, it was clear the answer was "yes"!  It was equally clear that his colleagues loved him. Six or seven of the women in Mike's group, the "Licensing Chicks," wore customized silk-screened bright yellow T-shirts, complete with a sketch of hatching chicks, to commemorate their position within the organization.  These fun loving gals were just the sort who'd appreciate a boss like Mike.  Incidentally, they wore those same shirts to Mike's memorial Mass!

Another episode, somewhat along the same lines, occurred one Valentines' Day when Mary and I, Mike and Rene and our mutual friends, Gil and Mary Schutrop, decided to have dinner at Stevie Ray's Comedy Club in Bloomington.  Gil and I were not actually sold on the idea, but Mike assured all of us that the food would be great and the entertainment even better.  As an enticement, he also mentioned that he happened to have a "two-for-one" coupon, so the tab would not be so expensive compared to what other dining establishments charged on that special holiday.  Gil and my leeriness turned out to be well-founded; the food was mediocre and the so-called comedy was non-existent.  I got more laughs out of reading Beetle Bailey in the comics than I did from Stevie Ray's troupe.  But here was the kicker.  When our server asked us if we wanted the check, Mike asked for three separate checks, one for each couple, obviously so that he could be the sole beneficiary of the discount coupon.  Gil and I unmercifully chided him for that move, and it continued to be an ongoing inside joke for years to come.  We would not let Mike forget it.  Still, just as was true in the Zeno caper, how could you get mad at that guy with the impish smile and those canyon-deep dimples?

Mike had two nicknames, one self-bestowed and one involving my participation in its creation.  Mike was a die-hard Boston Celtics fan, but when the Minnesota Timberwolves drafted Kevin Garnett out of Chicago's Farragut Academy in 1995, Mike became more interested in the Timbies.  The seven foot tall Garnett turned out to be the best player in franchise history, and Mike quickly adopted KG's well-known nickname, "The Big Ticket."  This new moniker was multi-functional, as Mike used it, in the third person, to refer to himself. He also used it to refer to a certain body part of his, the operative word here being "Big."  It was at times such as those when I realized that I was not the only one who could be accused of laughing at his own jokes. Mike came up with so many uses -- mostly double entendres -- for his new favorite term that I had to wonder if he stayed up all night dreaming them up.

Most of the time Mike was a PG-13 rated fellow, but he was not above slipping in a Big Ticket reference to amuse his companions, especially at Bunny's.  One memorable night shortly after Mike had undergone a vasectomy, he proudly announced to the rest of us at the table that the Big Ticket was happy with his decision because it meant "free sex" -- no more worries or inconveniences with birth control.  I almost spit out my Summit Pale Ale when he shared that insight with us.

The other nickname, and one for which I'll take partial credit, was "Eichel Michael."  My sister Michele and I grew up in a family where we always referred to and addressed our aunts and uncles with that title (e.g., "Uncle Paul," instead of merely "Paul").  I wanted to develop that little formality of respect with my own kids, so when Mary and I had Gina we tried to get her to address Mary's brother as "Uncle Michael."  It didn't quite come out that way from baby Gina's lips, but what she did say was even better: "Eichel Michael." From that day forward, he has always remained Eichel Michael in the Periolat lexicon.

Besides the Celtics, Mike's other main rooting interest was the Gopher men's basketball team.  This made perfect sense, as Mike was an alumnus of the U, and a former varsity hoopster at Benilde High School.  He knew the game of basketball as well as anyone I've met.  His advocacy for the Gophers was a thing to behold, as he did not limit himself to armchair observations and commentary.  Instead, he would rise to his feet and lead cheers.  If pom poms happened to be available, better yet!  "Go Gophers, go," he'd yell. "Go Gophers, go!"  It was hysterical watching the biggest guy in the room turn into a cheerleader, inciting the rest of us fans and imploring the Maroon and Gold to win the game.

Mike was the perfect designated driver.  His drink of choice in a bar would be a Shirley Temple, always ordered with extra grenadine.  Otherwise it would be coffee, at all hours of the day, with so much cream and "fake sugar" (as he called it) that you had to wonder if the contents of the cup contained a liqiud or solid. Mike liked to say that he was metrosexual.   I guess when you're the father of five and The Big Ticket to boot, yet you are comfortable in your own skin to the extent that you're willing to order Shirley Temples and pretend you're on the pom squad, being a metrosexual is a good half way point.

Mike and I had two coaching connections.  The first occurred in his element, basketball.  We were both coaching eighth grade boys teams in the KCYO League (now known as the MCYO, i.e., Monsignor Coates Youth Organization), which was comprised of something like sixteen Catholic grade schools in Minneapolis and its suburbs.  One year, circa 1976, my Most Holy Trinity team traveled over to south Minneapolis to play Mike's St. Stephens squad.  The game was a perfect example of the theorem that the better-coached team does not always win, as my guys prevailed by six or seven points.  The St. Stephens kids simply did not have an answer for Trinity's big horse,Mike Hatten, who, I'm sure, had a double-double.  (If only that term had been in existence then.)  It was the only time in our coaching careers that Mike and I faced each other in any of our many coaching exploits, so the bragging rights were mine.

The second connection was that Mike put in a good word with the league honchos for me to succeed him as the manager of the St. Mane's baseball team at Skippy Field, the home of Park South Little League.  To appreciate this, keep in mind that seemingly half the fathers (and a couple of mothers) who had a kid between the ages of eight and twelve thought they could run a baseball team.  There were six "majors" (highest level) teams at Skippy, and the turnover of managers at that level was almost non-existent.  (I believe Mike was the only manager among the six who actually had a son on his team at that time.)  When a managerial position did open up, such as when Mike finished managing St. Mane's after Brian's final year, there was no shortage of candidates to fill the spot.  It didn't hurt my chances of becoming the next St. Mane's manager that I was Mike's brother-in-law.

Mike affectionately called his St. Mane's team "The Maniacs," a name which was too good to abandon when I took over.  (I called our offense the "Maniac Attack.")  Mike set the bar high, as he was excellent at dealing with kids of all athletic abilities.  He always stayed calm, no matter what was happening on the field, and given his highly competitive nature, that was an astonishing attribute.  The instruction he gave his players was consistently positive, not to mention correct.

Mike's calmness was not just evident in the dugout.  Whenever we visited Morningside Manor for a large gathering, it was clear that his hosting philosophy was "the more the merrier."  He loved company.  The front door was always open, and not just in a figurative sense.  He and Rene literally kept their house unlocked at all times, even when they were out of town.  Whenever I was in their living room, I wondered who was upstairs.  You never knew who was going to emerge from that closed door behind which was the stairway.  I also wondered whether Mike and Rene themselves knew who was up there!

I know my son, Michael, feels honored to carry the name of his uncle.  It is one thing to be named after someone, but when you've had that person be a part of your life for over three decades, the feeling is deeper and the understanding of the reasons why your parents chose that name for you becomes clearer.

I am going to miss The Big Ticket, especially when I visit Bunny's, his old stomping grounds where every server not only knew him by name but also his food and beverage preferences.  We usually sat next to each other, discussing sports while other conversations were going on among our group.  I never did get a chance to ask Mike what he thought about this year's trade which sent The Big Ticket from Mike's beloved Celtics to the Brooklyn Nets.  But no matter what team Kevin Garnett plays for, Eichel Michael will always be the real Big Ticket.      

Album Review: "Baptized" - Daughtry

"Baptized": B+.  When I posted my review of Tim McGraw's Emotional Traffic album on February 11, 2012, I told the exciting story of how I had previously made a mix of nineteen favorite McGraw songs for a road trip to his 2010 Milwaukee concert, and that my evaluation of Emotional Traffic considered how many of those songs would have merited inclusion on my 2010 mix if disc capacity were not a limitation.  It's deja vu all over again, as I have used the same mental approach for Daughtry's Baptized, which was released three weeks ago.  (Note: When I use the term "Daughtry" in this post, I'm referring to the band, whose founder, lead vocalist and rhythm guitarist  is referred to herein as "Chris" or "Chris Daughtry.") 

Baptized is Daughtry's fourth album and, as a big (although not rabid) fan of the band, I purchased their first three albums when they came out between 2006 and 2011.  Last April I made a mix of thirteen songs from those three albums, and I have listened to that mix many times.  Of the mixes I've made during the last two calendar years, it is my favorite.  (An aside: I offered to make copies for my three kids.  Michael simply passed.  Gina also passed and added the zinger that she thought it was weird that I liked Daughtry.  Jill accepted my offer, probably just to avoid hurting my feelings.  Last time I checked, she had yet to play it and probably does not know where it is.)  I found Baptized to be roughly equivalent to each of the first three Daughtry albums, which is to say that there are two or three new songs which are mix-worthy and several others which are very good.

Chris Daughtry gained fame in 2006 by participating in the highly rated American Idol on Fox TV.  He distinguished himself from his competition by being true to his hard rock style, regardless of what the theme of the evening called for.  AI favors contestants who (i) have the chameleon-like ability to alter their style among several genres selected by the show's producers, and (ii) appeal to teens and young adults of the female persuasion, who are the most likely voters.  Chris did not fill the bill in either respect, thereby finishing fourth.  If he had capitulated, it's likely he would not have had the career success he's achieved to this point. Other than Carrie Underwood and possibly Kelly Clarkson, he has achieved more stardom as a singer than any other AI participant, win or lose.

I consider Daughtry to be kind of a poor man's Bon Jovi.  Both bands are rooted in rock with excellent vocalists, and both bands have a deep catalogue of songs for which you crank up the volume when they come on your music player.  Bon Jovi's songs tend to be longer and slightly more complex, with more varied structure and instrumentation.  One thing I noticed about Daughtry's songs is that they never end with a vocal fade-out.  That is neither a plus nor a minus, although it comes in handy for purposes of deciding how to adapt a song for live performances.  (The most difficult aspect of rehearsing, and playing, a song live is having everyone in the band on the same page at the song's end.)

One of Daughtry's favorite musical themes is recounting things from the past.  Four of the twelve songs in Baptized fall into that category, including Long Live Rock & Roll, the best song on the album.  There have been a few other songs, such as John Mellencamp's R.O.C.K. In The USA and Rock And Roll Heaven by the Righteous Brothers, which salute some of the stars of yesteryear, but Daughtry's offering takes the concept several notches higher.  Long Live Rock & Roll pays tribute to many artists directly, but it is the indirect references to them by inference which are most admirable and ingenious.  For example, he uses the capitalized generic words like "Kiss" and "Journey" in the lyrics; he refers to "Kurt" and "she" without literally naming Cobain and Courtney Love; and he asks the listeners to "pour some sugar" on his memories, which of course is a discreet nod to Def Leppard.  My favorite lines: 

We still argue about who's better,

Motley Crew or GNR,

We still can't believe Van Halen

Turned into Van Hagar. 

 

Other effective songs about looking back include Wild Heart (pleading with his girl friend to go back to her fun-loving former self), The World We Knew (pining for the days when it was simpler to be in love) and 18 Years (reminiscing with a childhood friend).

 

My second favorite song on Baptized is Witness, a slow, steady gospel-flavored tune which showcases Chris Daughtry's powerful evocative chops.  The theme here is don't give up; you need to put mind over matter. 

 

Now you're letting your confusion take control

And leading you down a dark and lonely road

Even that won't last forever

Just look around and see you're not alone. 

 

What would a rock album be without at least one "apology song"?  Broken Arrows is a good one (as was Crawling Back to You off Daughtry's 2011  album, Break The Spell), comparing the singer's ineptitude coming up with the right words to shooting with broken arrows. 

 

Seems like every little word I say

Keeps getting twisted,

Coming out wrong...

I'm trying to hit the mark

But I'm shooting with broken arrows. 

 

Chris Daughtry, known more for his impassioned growl, displays an impressive falsetto in Broken Arrows. This august range also shows up on High Above The Ground, a pretty love song with a catchy hook. 

 

Battleships is a cleverly written song which uses maritime references to describe the singer's disintegrating relationship with his woman. 

 

The maps and lines are broken down tonight...

 ... we're changing like the tides.

 

and 

 

Even when the waves get rough

I don't wanna see the day we say we've had enough. 

 

Several years ago, when R.E.M. was still in existence, I read an interview with Michael Stipe, the lead singer and principal song writer of that band.  He was asked why his band's songs hardly ever included guitar breaks.  Stipe replied that the omission was intentional, because he would not know what to do with himself on stage while the guitarist was strutting his stuff in a solo spotlight.  The same question could (and should) be asked of Chris Daughtry, whose band's songs likewise are usually sans guitar breaks.  My opinion is that Daughtry's songs would work better if guitar breaks were employed more often.  That's another difference between Daughtry and Bon Jovi, which has the renown lead guitarist Richie Sambora to fill those mid-song bars.  Be that as it may, it's not all bad for Daughtry to play Avis ("We try harder!") to Bon Jovi's Hertz.  I still dig them both.

Movie Review: "12 Years A Slave"

"12 Years A Slave": B+.  Although I had heard that 12 Years A Slave was generating a lot of Oscar buzz and was based on the true story of a free black man who is kidnapped by slave traders, I was not that keen on seeing it.  I have never enjoyed watching filmed scenes containing a lot of violence and bloodshed, and the word was out that portions of this movie were over the top.  There was a particular scene in Django Unchained (another slavery-related film reviewed here on January 11, 2013) which turned my stomach.  Was it possible that the director of 12 Years, Steve McQueen, was trying to out-do Django director Quentin Tarantino?  When I later read that 12 Years won the revered Toronto International Film Festival's People's Choice Award, however, I decided to see it anyway.  Just before the movie started, a little old blue haired lady, accompanied by a middle age man who was probably her son, sat down in one of the handicap seats in front of me.  It was at that moment I told myself to cowboy up.  If Great Grandma can handle the gore, so could I.

The movie 12 Years A Slave is based on an autobiography written in 1853 by Solomon Northup, who is played by Chiwetal Ejiofor.  In 1841 Northup was a free black man living the good life in Saratoga Springs, New York with his wife and two young children.  The family is portrayed as upper middle class.  While the other members of his family are away, Northup accepts a temporary job as a violinist, and travels to Washington, DC with his two white employers.  One minute Northup is enjoying wine with dinner in the company of his new acquaintances, and the next thing he knows he is waking up in a cell, cuffed and chained to the floor.  He quickly and correctly surmises that he's being sold into slavery, and his truthful claims of being a free man are disregarded.  His captors begin to call him by the name Platt, presumably to lessen the chance of Northup's true identity being discovered before they can get him south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Almost all of the middle 90% of the story depicts life on the plantations.  After being transported by boat to Louisiana, the first plantation owner he serves, Ford (Benedict Cumberbatch), is relatively humane, although some of Ford's white overseers are suspicious of Northup's intelligence and dignified air.  Unfortunately for Northup, Ford is indebted to another plantation owner, Edwin Epps (Michael Fassbender), forcing Ford to sell Northup to Epps in partial satisfaction of the debt.  Once Northup's transfer to the new owner is complete, things go downhill precipitously.

Fassbender's Epps is a powder keg waiting to explode.  One has to wonder what percentage of the slave owners were anything like him.  The movie shows in one scene after another how the southern whites looked upon the slaves as chattel.  Mothers are split from their children.  Slaves are flogged for minor shortcomings. The women are sexually abused.  At the end of each swelteringly hot day in the fields picking cotton, the slaves' output is weighed, and woe to those who don't measure up.  In one heart-wrenching scene, Northup is forced against his will to whip one of the female slaves.  Lynching is commonplace, no questions asked.

Given the fact that the story is based on an autobiography, we know Northup eventually finds freedom.  (We also could figure this out from the film's title.)  Perhaps that is the reason why the final act directly pertaining to this newly reacquired status is a short one.  Samuel Bass (Brad Pitt) plays a key role here, but his character is woefully underdeveloped.  I would have preferred more details regarding the attainment of freedom, as well as more of an explanation of the events that occurred when Northup was first captured by the kidnappers. 

12 Years A Slave is a good reminder that slavery was an incredibly sad but very real blemish on our country's history.  Although we might tend to think of slavery and the Civil War together, slavery went on for decades before the Civil War started in 1861.  Even to this day there are many historians who take the position that, leading up to the Civil War, the main dispute between the Union and the Confederacy was over the question of states' rights being usurped by the federal government.  Defending states' rights appears on the surface to be a noble cause, until we come upon the topic of slavery.  It is impossible to respect and defend any state law which legalized the practice.

As for the violence and bloodshed, McQueen could have toned it down a bit without waylaying the story's message.  Some of the violence does not make sense, such as the beating of the slave whose production was more than two times that of any of the others.  Why would a plantation owner incapacitate his best worker? Is it blood that sells tickets?  The film would have been a better one without so much of it, although maybe not as memorable.