Four Days In The Corn, Part I: The Land Of Ole & Goliath

For many Minnesotans, heading south for a winter break is as natural as going "up to the lake" in the summer.  Which southern sojourn did Momma Cuandito and I consider this season?  The list of possibilities included Mexico, the Caribbean, Arizona and Florida.  Even Cuba got a mention.  We chose Iowa.  It's more than where the tall corn grows.

 

Decorah.  For several years we passed through Decorah when our daughter, Jill, attended Loras College in Dubuque.  Both of those cities reside on US Highway 52.  Usually we zipped through, or even by-passed, Decorah in our hurry either to get to Jill or to return home, but on those few occasions when we did make a stop in Decorah, including once for a swim meet when Jill swam for the Duhawks against Luther College, we recognized it as a town worth visiting.  In addition to Luther, this small city is home to two other well known points of interest, the Vesterheim Museum and Toppling Goliath Brewing Company.

 

We arrived early on a Monday afternoon and checked into our Air B&B, Vossheim.  Located on a residential street a few minutes south of downtown, Vossheim is owned by a friend, Linda, whose mother lived in that house for ten years.  The Norwegian word "heim" means "house," and "Voss" refers to the family's ancestral village back in the homeland.  The one-level rental quarters features two bedrooms, one and a-half bathrooms, a huge updated kitchen and a comfortable living room.  Flying in the breeze outside the front door is the flag of Norway.

 

My inclination is to make Toppling Goliath our first stop, but we both acknowledge the folly of such a plan.  It just might be too hard to leave.  So instead, we decide to check out what downtown has to offer.  The main drag in Decorah is Water Street, "not Main Street" as a few locals advised us.  For a small city, Decorah's shopping district along Water Street extends for more blocks than I would have guessed.  It kind of reminds me of Galena, Illinois, a regional shopping mecca, although Decorah is smaller.  Most of the buildings lining Water Street are dark brown two story structures, housing gift shops, clothing stores, art galleries, book stores, cafes, bars and banks.  Oh boy, there is no shortage of banks.  The money must be rolling in from many of the hundreds of nearby farm families.  Radio station KVIK plays classic rock from its studio across the street from the Vesterheim at the west end of Water.  Shades of American Graffiti?  The Winneshiek Hotel is the place to stay if you're looking for conveniently classic lodging.

 

It is not hard to spend half a day downtown, and that's not even including the Vesterheim, which is on our agenda for tomorrow.  Since I became a grandparent I have developed an entirely new outlook on shopping.  My old strategy, pre-grandkids, would be to suck down a beer or two in a bar while Momma Cuan visited the stores.  Now, I actually go into many of the stores with her, not to shop for myself but to see if there's any potential purchase with the beautiful granddaughters in mind.  It isn't until that curiosity has been satisfied that I step outside and wait for my better half.

 

After popping into a few Water Street stores like Modish, Revelation, J.Tupy's  and Margaret's, it's at last time to quench our thirst. The lucky denizens of Decorah are blessed with two microbreweries. So many brews yet, for us, so little time. We decide to save Pulpit Rock for another visit -- I'm confident there will be one -- and make a beeline for Toppling Goliath, just across the bridge spanning the Upper Iowa River from downtown.

 

Walking into Toppling Goliath, we immediately sense a cozy atmosphere.  We sit at the small bar, as is our custom in any tavern, and it doesn't take long for the fellow next to me to ask where we are from.  Did our Minnesota accents give us away, or are we the only strangers in the bar?  I suspect the latter.  It turns out the inquisitor knows the same family that owns our b & b; that family, the Istads, also owned the Whippy Dip ice cream stand in town.

 

My pre-trip research for Toppling Goliath has consisted of reading a 2015 article from the Chicago Tribune, in which it was reported that a Beer Advocate survey named seven TG beers among the top one hundred in the world.  Another website, RateBeer, calls TG's Kentucky Brunch the "second best beer in the world."  I am not too disappointed that Kentucky Brunch is not available during our visit, because its style, imperial coffee stout aged in whiskey barrels, isn't one of which I'm fond.  I do find a few draughts to my liking today, particularly an American pale titled Pseudo Sue.  I wouldn't know a citra hop if it was sitting right in front of me, but its refreshing taste is the keynote to the delectable Pseudo Sue.  Momma Cuan hedges her bets by ordering a flight of six small pours of different offerings.

 

We strike up a conversation with a couple at the bar who tell us they live within walking distance of both TG and Pulpit Rock.  Location, location, location!  I am envious.  When they ask how we'd found out about the TG tap room, I show them the Tribune article, pointing out that the story includes reference to a husband and wife, Tim and Carol Stoddard, whose practice is to bring growlers of TG beer with them on road trips to share in other breweries' tap rooms.  The couple laugh and inform us, "Yeah, we are Tim and Carol."

 

Our fellow beer drinkers are quick to offer their suggestions on Decorah restaurants for us to have dinner.  Some even call a place or two to determine if they are open on Monday; others give us directions.

 

The downtown bistro, La Rada, is our choice.  There, we are seated at the room's best table, tucked into a nook next to a ten foot high bay window.  The outdoor Christmas season scene, with a light snow falling against a twilight sky, could be a postcard.  We enjoy everything about our dining experience, from the tatted up server who totally digs our desire to ease through cocktails before ordering, to the hum of conversation among fellow diners, to Mary's penne with lamb and my flank steak.

 

Back at Vossheim, I magnanimously tell Mary that we should watch the last hour of her favorite show, The Voice, instead of the Monday Night Football Game.  The fact that Vossheim's cable TV package does not include ESPN has absolutely nothing to do with my suggestion.

 

***

 

Our first stop Tuesday morning is back downtown to Impact Coffee on Washington Street, next door to La Rada.  I have been to dozens of coffee shops in the Twin Cities, and I would place Impact right up there with the best of them.  The space is divided into two rooms.  The front is equipped like NASA's Mission Control in Houston.  You must need an advanced mechanical engineering degree to know how to use all their heavy duty coffee brewing gizmos.  We settle for lattes and a couple of scrumptious apricot almond scones that melt in our mouths.  An artsy arch between Corinthian columns separates the front room from the back, where all the comfy chairs are found.  Colorful paintings by local artists adorn the walls of both sections.  If we weren't headed for the Vesterheim, I would camp out on one of Impact's sofas for sure.

 

The Vesterheim is the national Norwegian-American museum, hosting over 24,000 artifacts.  The main building, which is the only one of the twelve open year round, is spread over four levels in a grand old brick structure.  The English translation of the museum's name is "western home."  The first floor focuses on the life that the Norwegians had before emigrating to the States.  Because of their rural cold weather environment, it was a hard existence.  On top of that, their government imposed many restrictions which they were eager to escape by heading across the Atlantic.  The first to do so was a group of fifty-three brave souls in a fifty-four foot sloop christened the Restauration, on which they sailed west in 1825.  A large replica of the Restauration and two other ships are displayed on Vesterheim's first floor.  One of those other ships is the actual Trade Wind (not a replica), the twenty-five foot vessel sailed to America in 1933 by the Hamran brothers, Harald and Hans.  Ships like the Restauration were crowded, limiting the physical possessions the new settlers could bring with them to the new land.  The museum teaches us that the most valuable assets those people had were not what they could stuff in a trunk.  Rather, it was their stories, artistic and mechanical talents, music, recipes and other elements of their Nordic culture which now live on, two centuries later.

 

The second floor picks up the narrative once the Norwegians have reached the New Land.  Two of the museum's most interesting displays are houses located on the first two floors showing a typical family residence both in the old country (on the first floor) and in America (second floor).  The Norwegians were expert craftsmen, as evidenced by the many pieces of furniture in the museum.  Cabinets, tables, desks, chairs, stools, and wardrobe chests are just some of the items housed at Vesterheim.  The folk art known as rosemaling, the practice of decorative painting, adds appeal to things like headboards, walls, lampshades, table tops, picture frames, even refrigerator doors.  The early Norwegians were also master wood carvers and jewelry designers.  Hundreds of those artifacts are displayed nicely on the second floor.

 

The third floor is primarily devoted to beautiful textiles, while the basement level concentrates mostly on military exhibits.  A fascinating narrative describes how many young Norwegian men were drawn into the War Between The States, fighting for both sides, even though they were new to the country and did not share the passions which drove most of their fellow soldiers.  Another basement exhibit details the 99th Infantry Battalion in World War II.  This battalion, comprised of about a hundred Norwegian Americans, were expert skiers and mountaineers who helped liberate Norway from Nazi control.

 

Once we are inside the Vesterheim gift shop, it is hard to leave.  I could spend an entire paycheck -- if I had a paycheck -- going crazy buying fabulous sweaters, knit stocking hats, books, dolls, games, toys and souvenirs.  As you might expect in this town heavily populated by Norwegians, there are entire sets of Ole and Lena cards with humor in varying degrees of taste, good and bad.  Exercising a little self discipline, we escape without too much damage to our pocketbooks.

 

For lunch we decide on a place recommended to us last night by our new friends from Toppling Goliath.  It's the Good Times Grill, located just down the College Drive slope from TG.  Good Times is what I would call a nice sports bar, if such a label is not an oxymoron.  I am impressed with their food choices, and end up with a chili and tacos combo.   My gold standard for chili has been Pecos River Hot from the Loon in Minneapolis.  (The Loon's menu description for their Pecos River is, "No beans, no B.S.")  I am happy to report that Good Times' recipe edges closer to the Loon's than 90% of all the other chili I've had.  My only disappointment with Good Times is that I am unable to sample the beer from their ample list, due to this afternoon's travel plans.

 

Speaking of beer, our last stop before we head out of Dodge is to return to TG to pick up a couple of bombers for our birthday boys, Luke (November 26) and Michael (November 28.)  Being risk-averse, I choose Pseudo Sue which, based on last night's experience, I know the young lads will enjoy.  I also pick up a tall boy four pack of Golden Nugget, one of TG's two widely acclaimed IPAs (the other one being Intergalactic Warrior), for my own consumption.  As we pull out of town I am proud of myself for remembering to bring a cooler from home.  Got to protect the newly acquired precious cargo!

 

Iowa City.  I would be remiss if I did not give a tip of the hat to northeast Iowa.  This is not your father's farmland.  Traveling south from Decorah to Iowa City requires negotiating over ninety miles of country highway, mostly on State Route 150, before hooking up with Interstate 80 near Cedar Rapids for the last short leg.  Although the crops have been harvested long before this late November afternoon, there is no mistaking the beauty of the rolling hills, the plentiful trees -- yes, trees! -- and the well kept farm houses that dot the landscape.  I can't help but make the mental comparison of what we are viewing to the northeast quadrant of North Dakota.  There the land is flat, the farm houses are miles apart, and the one tree is barely visible near the horizon, about fifteen miles from the road.  I love both parts of the country, the undulating topography of Iowa and the wide open plains of North Dakota.  Public Service Announcement:  If time permits, get off the interstate and enjoy the view!

 

Now that I'm in the twenty-first paragraph of this post, I suppose it's about time I disclose the main reason for our Iowa excursion.  Since the turn of the century, the Notre Dame women's basketball program, under the leadership of head coach Muffet McGraw, has established itself as one of the top two in the country, behind only perennial power UConn.  This season the Irish are ranked # 1 in the pre-season polls, and have won their first six games so far.  They have only one regular season game scheduled west of the Mississippi River, and that happens to be against the Iowa Hawkeyes.  What better reason for us to head south?  This will be the first time Momma Cuan and I have ever seen an Irish Lassie game in person.  Tip off is tomorrow night in Carver Hawkeye Arena.

 

We pull into Iowa City around 6:30 p.m., surprised Iowa City has any rush hour at all, let alone one that extends past 6:00.  We are reminded of home as we come upon downtown, where construction has blocked several streets and detour postings are everywhere.  We are staying at the Sheraton in the heart of downtown on the pedestrian mall.

 

Both of us are in the mood for Italian food, and there are two ristoranti within a few blocks.  We select Baroncini, which we find out after the fact from the hotel concierge is the preferred choice of the dual option.  (Don't ask why we checked with the concierge after, instead of before, we ate; that's just how we roll.)  My first impressions once inside the place are (i) nice but unremarkable ambience, and (ii) wonderful aromas pervading throughout.  Pre-dinner cocktails seem like a good, even if not novel, idea, so Momma Cuan chooses an Americano while I opt for a Bloody Boulevardier, which is made with bourbon, campari and sweet vermouth.  After enjoying a few sips, our server inquires how I like the drink, to which I respond positively.  He is proud to announce that he is the one who talked Baroncini's management into putting that concoction on the cocktail menu.

 

Momma Cuan enjoyed her hanger steak entre.  I keep to my personal tradition of ordering a pasta dish whenever I'm in an Italian restaurant.  This time it is agnolotti di Manzo.  Molto buona!  I am also impressed by the fact that Baroncini has Moretti Rossa on tap.  Not all Italian eateries do.

 

Our final stop of the night is to locate a sports bar to check on the Notre Dame vs. Iowa men's basketball game, which is being played in South Bend as part of the ACC-Big 10 Challenge.  We retrace our steps to the pedestrian mall and land in Brothers, a chain-operated watering hole across the street from our hotel.  Apparently Hawkeye Mania has not overtaken Iowa City, because only one of several TV screens is tuned to the game on ESPN.

 

I find it interesting to note the differences between the schools' veteran head coaches.  Mike Brey, the Irish boss, is about as congenial and easygoing as any coach in Division 1.  He rarely raises his voice, remaining calm even when a game is unraveling.  He is gracious with the media, possibly preparing for a post-coaching career in broadcast journalism.  Sometimes his announcer buddies make fun of his attire -- he used to be known for his mock turtlenecks -- and his recent "look," an unshaven countenance.

 

The Iowa Hawkeyes are coached by Fran McCaffery who, like Brey, is fifty-seven years old.  With his silver hair and expensive suits, McCaffery looks more like a Wall Street banker than a gym rat.  It's no real surprise that he holds an economics degree from the Wharton School Of Business.  I always enjoy watching Fran in action because he is hot tempered and not afraid to pick up a technical foul if he thinks his team needs a spark.  He is the quintessential feisty Irishman.  McCaffery has a twofold Notre Dame connection.  He was an assistant coach at Notre Dame for eleven years, starting in 1986.  Also, his wife, the former Margaret Nowlin, was a superior basketball player for the Irish.  On this night, Fran's Irish heritage, coaching resume and relationships do not provide him or his team enough luck.  The Hawkeyes are outmanned and fall to ND, 92-78.

Movie Review: "Sully"

"Sully": B-.  One of the observations I usually make when driving to the airport to catch a plane is the amount of cloud cover.  If it is clear, I always announce to Momma Cuandito, "It's a good day to fly."  I'm sure she appreciates those insightful proclamations coming from someone who is neither a meteorologist nor a pilot.  After having seen Sully, I might have to start watching for birds, not just the clouds, before I say anything.  Of course, I am not an ornithologist either. 

Sully, directed by Clint Eastwood, tells the story of the US Airways captain, Chesley Sullenberger (Tom Hanks), who thought he was on his way from New York City's LaGuardia Airport to Charlotte, but ended up landing less than six minutes after takeoff in the Hudson River.  A flock of birds had struck the plane and disabled both engines.  One hundred fifty-five passengers were on board; only a very few were injured, none fatally.  All are rescued by various commercial and Coast Guard boats and NYPD helicopter crews before the aircraft slowly sinks to the river's floor.

Almost all of the story focuses on the grilling inquiry of Sullivan and his first officer, Jeffrey Skiles (Aaron Eckhart), by the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB).  The board's goal is to determine whether Sullivan made the correct decision to go for a water landing when he was only minutes away from returning to La Guardia or else choosing a vacated runway at nearbyTeterboro, New Jersey.   Not only is Sullenberger's career at stake, but so are millions of dollars which the airline's insurers will be reluctant to pay.  The NTSB's ultimate verdict concerning the cause of the near disaster -- pilot error, mechanical failure or an act of God -- will be the critical evidence in any insurance-related litigation.

The juxtaposition between Sully the life saving hero in the eyes of the adoring public, and Sully the alleged poor decision maker, could not be more stark.  Eastwood's depiction of the NTSB as being heavy handed, pre-judgmental, unappreciative and unsympathetic are over the top.  The board members may as well have been wearing black hats with bandanas over their faces.  Because the story is told more like a documentary than a narrative, we viewers have to wonder whether NTSB investigators are that inhumanely driven in real life.

It is also hard to accept, as the movie would have us believe, that the flight simulations shown near the end of the film --the "big finish" -- were not previewed by either the NTSB or by Sully, Skiles and their lawyers before displaying them in a public hearing.  Speaking of lawyers, are we to believe the pilots go into a hearing like this without a cadre of counsel?  I guess in Hollywood they do!

I acknowledge, as I've done before, that when a filmmaker takes on a project like this where practically everyone knows the ending before entering the theater, keeping the viewers entertained anyway is a unique challenge.  Having "said" that, in addition to what I believe to be a ridiculous portrayal of the NTSB, Sully has much room for improvement.  What follows are three quick examples.

The phone calls between Sully and his wife, Lorraine (Laura Linney), are poorly written and serve no purpose other than to cause us to think that Mrs. S was more worried about a handful of relatively insignificant problems in her own little world than grasping the enormity of what her husband was enduring.  Second, there is no tension whatsoever between pilot Sullenberger and first officer Skiles.  They each have the other's back, and there is no disagreement or second-guessing between them either during the aborted flight or the investigation.  Maybe that's how things actually stood between the two men, but a little tension would have improved the story.  Third, there is a half-hearted attempt to personalize the passenger manifest by introducing a mother-daughter couple and a trio of guys on their way to a Carolina golfing vacation.  Perhaps this is an attempt by Eastwood and writer Todd Komarnicki to emulate the 1970's film Airport which had several interesting passengers, among them Helen Hayes who won a Best Supporting Actress Award for playing a habitual stowaway.  Unfortunately, the Sully side characters are not in the same league as Ms. Hayes.

On the plus side, the reenactment of the crash, which Sully insists be referred to as "a water landing, not a crash," is engrossing, as are the rescue efforts to pluck the passengers before they drown or become hypothermic from the January waters.  Kudos to the casting and  costume teams for selecting and clothing Hanks to look like the real Sullenberger.  You can make that comparison for yourself if you stick around to see the closing credits.  Sullenberger and his wife appear on screen, as do many passengers who identify themselves by their respective seat numbers.

Movie Review: "Manchester By The Sea"

"Manchester By The Sea": B.  When our three children were little, Momma Cuandito and I used to board separate flights to the same destination in order to lessen the odds of leaving them orphans.  When the kids reached grade school we finally executed wills, something we should have done years before.  One of the most important decisions young parents make when creating a will is naming a lucky (?) person to be their children's guardian if catastrophe should strike.  My sister lived in New Jersey and Mary's brother already had five kids.  The logical choice was Mary's single sister, The Great Aunt Margaret.  But we did not spring a surprise on Margaret by naming her as guardian without first discussing the plan with her.  Our strategy was first to ply her with wine at Champp's Bar in Richfield before popping the question.  The strategy worked; she happily -- ironically after shedding a tear -- said "yes."  Fortunately we ended up not having to put her parenting skills to the test.  Now all three of our kids are in their thirties, and Mary and I are still around to bear witness.

In Manchester By The Sea, Lee Chandler (Casey Affleck) is not so lucky.  His older brother, Joe Chandler (Kyle Chandler, who I assume is no relation as this is a work of fiction), has died suddenly although not totally unexpectedly due to a heart condition, and Lee does not learn he is the named guardian of Joe's sixteen year old nephew until Joe is chilling in the hospital morgue.  This manifestation raises a host of problems while setting up a rather unique dynamic.
 

A major issue is logistics.  The nephew, Patrick (Lucas Hedges), lives in Manchester by-the-Sea on the northeast Massachusetts coast, while Lee lives in distant Quincy, a gritty Boston suburb.  But even more problematic is the tainted history Lee has left behind in Manchester.  There is a reason he has moved away from the town where he grew up.  Writer-director Kenneth Lonergan keeps the viewers in the dark, teasing us with hints of Lee's ignominious past.  For example, there are two or more early scenes in Manchester when people with hushed voices say, "So that's the Lee Chandler," as if he were an infamous celebrity.  We also know from copious flashbacks that at one time both Lee and Joe were married but are now divorced.  Their ex-wives are Randi (Michelle Williams) and Elise (Gretchen Mol), respectively.  Placing Patrick with his unstable mother, Elise, is out of the question.  Arguably she is even more ill-equipped to raise a teenager than is Uncle Lee.
 

The dynamic between Lee and Patrick is not of the type often explored in the movies.  Their nexus might be described as "adult vis-a-vis almost adult."  Patrick is not some helpless little child nor is Lee a single parent who will simply add one more kid to his brood.  Their uncle-nephew relationship has always been solid, a fact driven home by flashback scenes of the two of them fishing together on Joe's boat when Patrick was about ten years old.  Now he is a junior in high school, a hockey player and a rock band member with two girlfriends, neither of whom knows about the other.  At sixteen he is legally, if not developmentally, too young to live without supervision, yet he talks and usually acts like an adult.  Most of the time, Lee and Patrick's dialogue resembles exchanges between equals.  Even without his own personal challenges, such as anger management, Lee will be severely burdened if he fulfills his dead brother's wishes.
 

I found the writing and the editing of this film to be inconsistent.  A good example of the latter is a four minute scene in the third act which is comprised of Lee picking a fight with a fellow bar patron who brushes past him.  A wild melee ensues.  Much earlier in the story, a virtually identical barroom brawl is portrayed.  The second time around should have not bypassed the editor's scissors.
 

As for the script writing, I submit for your consideration an excerpt from a review I wrote to my kids on November 29, 2011 concerning Like Crazy, a movie about a college couple, Jacob and Anna, who fall in love:

There is an important scene about three-fourths of the way through the movie where Anna has a crucial face-to-face dialogue with a character named Simon.  But guess what?  We only see them talking; no audible dialogue!  In my humble view, that is lazy script writing, and is the largest negative for me.  It reminded me of a courtroom drama I saw called "Anatomy Of A Murder."  That movie shows testimony from many witnesses, but we never get to see or hear star defense counsel Jimmy Stewart give his closing argument (even though one of the characters states that it was the best closing argument he'd ever heard).  My point is this:  If one of the main characters in a movie has something in the way of a "game changer" to say, I want to hear it.

Now, why do I bring that up here?  Because Manchester's script is guilty of the same offense.  (I might call it the Anatomy Of A Murder Syndrome.)  The most heart-rending moment in the story is a late scene dialogue between Lee and his ex, Randi, in which the crying Randi apologizes for "the awful things I said to you."  Yet the very words Randi is apologizing for are never heard by us!  In a movie with a running time of two and a quarter hours, surely that earlier conversation should have been included for the viewer's benefit.
 

The first half of the story could have used a chuckle or two, but they're all saved for later.  The movie almost turns into a comedy past its half-way point.  When Lee drops Patrick off at his girlfriend Silvie's (Kara Hayward) house for a purported study date, Patrick encourages his uncle to accept the dinner invitation of Silvie's mother, Jill (Heather Burns), so that Lee can keep Jill occupied, thus enabling Patrick and Silvie to make out alone without the mother's intrusions.  In a different scene, when Lee insists that he has to live in Quincy instead of Manchester so he can keep his maintenance engineer job, Patrick replies, "Why?  You're a janitor!  There are plenty of clogged drains and stuffed toilets in Manchester that need clearing."  The first hour of the story needed such infusions of humor for a better pace.

The beautiful cinematography by Jody Lee Lipes  is not enough to raise this hyped movie above a B.  Lee Chandler is too deadpan to watch over the course of two-plus hours.  In the first few minutes of the film, a beautiful brunette intentionally spills a drink on him in a bar in a vain attempt to start a conversation.  Lee does not pick up the aggressive hint.  Much later, Jill becomes exasperated when Lee proves incapable of carrying on a simple conversation.  The needle never lifts off the zero line much when gauging Lee's personality.   A more interesting character than Lee is Randi.  Yet, despite the misleading promotions and posters announcing Michelle Williams as a co-star -- The Guardian's review even suggests her performance might be Oscar-worthy --  Williams is on the screen less than ten minutes.  Maybe a sequel with Randi as the protagonist will be in the offing.  Meanwhile, Manchester might legitimately be called a love story, but the focus is not the relationship between husband and wife; rather, it's the one between uncle and nephew.

Movie Review: "Arrival"

"Arrival": C+.  Arrival is a movie that delivers a message, in fact a bold, thought-provoking message.  But director Dennis Villeneuve takes so excruciatingly long to deliver it that the payoff does not seem worth the wait.  There are too many scenes which repeat the "action" from previous scenes.  How many times do we have to watch the characters hunched over a computer, desperately seeking clues?  How many circular scribbles do Abbot and Costello, the seven-footed aliens who've landed their craft in the US, need to draw on the glass partition separating them from the Americans, only to be followed by the humans attempting replication?  Don't go to this movie hoping that the aliens will remind you of ET.  The seven-legged creatures, christened "heptapods" by the scientists, have no personality, nor are they cute or cuddly.  They remind me of elongated versions of the Pac Man ghost, Inky.

The world comes to a standstill when a dozen spaceships resembling thousand feet long footballs hover near the ground at various locations throughout the world, including Greenland, Sierra Leone, Siberia, China and Montana.  People are panic-stricken.  Are these spacemen friend or foe?  What is their mission and why did they choose those twelve particular spots to visit?  The locations seem to be randomly selected, although a little research reveals two commonalities: All twelve spots have low potential for lightening strikes, and all are places where Scottish singer Sheena Easton had a hit record in 1980.  That last factoid is the only inkling of humor throughout the two hour movie.

The nations housing these uninvited visitors are desperate to find answers.  Surely the various armies can't wait until catastrophe strikes at the hands of the aliens, yet by the same token a preemptive military assault might be apocalyptic.  At first the nations cooperate with each other, sharing data and putting their deep thinkers in constant communication.  The US military brass, led by Colonel Weber (Forest Whitaker), immediately calls on language expert Dr. Louise Banks.  Weber won't take "no" for an answer because he acknowledges Banks' unmatched expertise at translations; she has worked for him before.  In fact, the colonel arrives without warning by landing a huge chopper in the doctor's back yard.  Ten minutes later, they fly off to Big Sky Country.

 

On board the helicopter Banks is teamed with physicist Ian Donnelly (Jeremy Renner), another of Weber's recruits.  The first dialogue between Banks and Donnelly leads the viewer to believe this pair will bicker, or at least disagree, about how to communicate with the heptapods.  A turf battle seems likely.  That expectation never comes to fruition.  Instead, Banks and Donnelly relate to each other professionally, thus lessening the opportunity for witty debate and banter.  For much of the movie Renner's talents are wasted, as Donnelly's primary function appears to be observing Banks with admiration.  This is clearly Adams' movie.

 

The leaders of the various host countries lose patience, and interpret some signals given by the heptapods to be a prelude to battle.  The open communication among the countries starts to shut down.  China is ready to call its own shots without regard to the other nations.  Weber and the Washington brain trust correctly realize that all it would take is one country to start attacking their extraterrestrial visitors and all twelve spacecraft would likely launch a counter-attack.  This possibility puts even more pressure on Banks and Donnelly to solve the mystery.  What are Abbot and Costello trying to tell them?  Communication is essential; that's why Dr. Banks is there.

 

There are two sidebars to the main story arch.  One pertains to Banks' child who is introduced early and then only sporadically.  Although this girl is not directly involved with her mother's activities vis-a-vis the visitors from outer space, you are hereby advised to watch and listen carefully when the mother-daughter relationship is addressed on-screen.  Secondly, the concept of time is a running thread, especially once we get to the half-way point of the film.  The less written here regarding these two facets of the story, the better.  Just know they are key.    

Movie Review: "A Man Called Ove"

"A Man Called Ove": A.  He snarls at a stray cat, yells at drivers who disregard the posted signs strictly prohibiting cars on the path, argues with cashiers over the unfairness of their stores' coupon policies, locks up bicycles which are left anywhere other than the bike rack, angrily confronts a clown for failing to return the same coin he loaned for a magic trick, and grumbles the word "idiots," sometimes very audibly, at people whose behavior isn't in line with his expectations.  Meet Ove (Rolf Lassgard), the fifty-nine year old Swedish version of Clint Eastwood's "get off my lawn" character in Gran Torino.  Ove (pronounced "OH-vah") is the quintessential curmudgeon.  I am willing to forgive Ove's few foibles.  He is my kind of guy!

Ove has a big heart both figuratively and, we find out later, biologically.  He visits his wife's grave every day, holding conversations as if she were physically present.  He has promised he will join her shortly, and goes to extremes in attempts to keep that promise.  But life gets in the way.

Ove is the caretaker custodian at a complex of several town homes.  He takes his job very seriously, maybe too seriously.  He leaves notes on the windshields of cars imperfectly parked in an almost-empty lot.  He insults pets and their owners.  He carries a notepad to record the details of equipment borrowed and returned by the residents.  He shows little compassion for a woman whose heater isn't working.  Ove would just as soon live a cloistered existence, but unfortunately for him, his position as custodian requires interfacing with his neighbors every day.  He puts up a gruff front, but deep inside there's a kind soul.  For example, when imposed upon to babysit his neighbor's small children, he enjoys himself even though he does not want to let on that he does.  He goes to bat on behalf of his long-time friend and rival, Rune (Borje Lundberg), whom the "authorities" want to commit to an institution because the man has been incapacitated by a stroke.

Ove's evolving relationship with a pregnant woman, Parvaneh (Bahar Pars), is one of the most captivating side stories of the enduring film.  Ove helps Parvaneh learn how to drive after her husband, one of Ove's "idiots," fractures his leg. He installs Parvaneh's dishwasher without being asked. He enjoys telling her about his happier days when he and his bride, Sonja (Ida Engvoll), were young, another well-told side story.

When a movie spends virtually all of its time focused on one character, that character better be worth our attention. Writer and director Hannes Holm, basing his script closely on the international best-selling novel of the same title by Fredrik Backman, succeeds with flying colors, with copious amounts of humor built in.  Ove can't understand how anyone in his right mind would prefer a Volvo to a Saab.  And woe to any traitor who drives a Renault!  I was particularly impressed with Holm's liberal but seamless use of flashbacks to the times when Ove was a nine year old boy and when he was in his twenties.  Actors Viktor Baagoe and Filip Berg play those roles.  Berg is on the screen quite a bit.  He and Engvoll share a rare on-screen chemistry, delivering a love story with many magic moments.

I can't say enough about Lassgard's lead performance.  Through his body language, his facial expressions and even his gait, the actor is able to put the audience in touch with his wide range of emotions before he utters a word.  When he strains to bend over to pick up a couple of discarded cigarette butts, or when he examines a bent mailbox pole that an errant driver has backed into, we can feel his frustration at his neighbors' disregard for the rules.  The world would be a better place if only more people saw things his way.  Two great minds thinking alike.  I feel the same way.

The Second Best Thing About Liverpool, Part II: Two Nights, One Day

Thursday Evening.  From the time we arrived in town until Thursday evening, almost everything we've done has been Beatle-centric.  Now it's time for a respite.  There is no shortage of Liverpool restaurants which sound enticing in the travel books, but the description of one in particular catches my eye.  Formerly the Polish Catholic Church Of St. Peter, Alma de Cuba is one of those places which is so unique and atmospheric that you wonder if the food can possibly match the setting.  The restaurant is located in the Ropewalks section, which is known more for its nightlife spots than its eateries.  Unlike the Mathew Quarter to which we had walked Wednesday night, Ropewalks is a cab ride away from the Indigo Hotel.  Our plan is to have a drink at Alma de Cuba while we check out the menu, then either stay or try a different spot for dinner.
 

As soon as we walk in we are almost stunned by how cool the place is.  There is an indirect red hue pervading the rectangular space. At the end opposite the entrance we can see where the church's raised alter used to be.  Some paintings and icons more germane to a place of worship than a restaurant still adorn the altar. The first level has a large open wooden floor with a well-stocked bar along one side.  Although there is some seating at that level, most of the patrons are above at tables along the railings which are lined up to match the perimeter of the open floor below.  The chandeliers are circular with long-stem bulbs surrounded by what looks like curved tusks or antlers.  These fancy fixtures are complemented by a copious amount of candles throughout the space, another reminder of the building's past.
 

We sit at the bar and strike up a conversation with the bartender, who looks like he's barely old enough to order a virgin Mary.  Momma Cuan and I have our usuals, wine and beer, and peruse the menu.  We are so impressed with the surroundings that it's probably a foregone conclusion we'll stay for dinner, no matter what the menu says.  We agree that we can't recall any place back home in the Twin Cities which offers this kind of atmosphere.
 

Twenty minutes later we are seated upstairs where we can soak in the awesomeness from a different perspective.  More candles, stained glass windows, a vaulted ceiling, just the right amount of light.  What's not to like?
 

Our original mild concern about whether the food might be merely a second thought here, as is the case with some places with unusual ambience, is dashed as soon as we take our first bites.  Momma Cuan raves about the salmon, "done to perfection."  Keeping with Alma de Cuba's Caribbean theme, I choose the jerk chicken and am more than satisfied.  The portions are generous, so we certainly don't need another course. But when we spot sticky toffee pudding on the dessert menu, we feel obligated to share it so we can compare it to our recently discovered gold standard, the sticky toffee pudding we devoured at the Waterfront Fishouse Restaurant in Oban, Scotland last week.  Alma's version is delicious, but the Waterfront retains the crown.

As we leave the restaurant we see the millennials making their way into Ropewalks.  The sidewalks are crowded and the young folks have spilled onto the streets.  Their night was just getting started, but ours is waning.  Momma Cuan and I grab a cab.  At our age, you can only cram so much fun into one evening.

Well, maybe not!  Back at the Indigo we decide to have a nightcap in the hotel bar.  I know what MC is going to order: a 50-50 mixture of Hennessy and Bailey's, served in a brandy snifter with ice and a wee splash of charged water.   Besides the obvious purpose of having a delicious drink, ordering this concoction usually leads to two ancillary observations.  First, it's always interesting to notice whether the bartender catches on right away or if he acts like he's never mixed anything before other than Jack and coke.  The latter description fits our bartender this evening.  Secondly, how much do they charge?  This can get pretty funny, like when you give a McDonald's cashier $6.25 to pay a $5.17 tab.  Unless there is a key on the establishment's software for the specific item ordered, in which case the dollar amount would be built in, many bartenders are thrown for a loop coming up with a bill for MC's drink. Our Indigo bartender has to convene a summit meeting with a co-worker and their manager to determine a dollar -- I mean pound sterling -- amount.  In any event, they should have comped the drink; too much charged water!  I'm only half-kidding.
 

Friday Afternoon.  Liverpool is the fifth chapter of our six-chapter fortieth wedding anniversary tour -- the others being Reykjavik, Edinburgh, the Scottish Highlands, Glasgow and Manchester -- and the only one about which I had slight apprehension before we left home.  I figured this would literally be a once-in-a-lifetime sojourn to Merseyside, and therefore I wanted to see as much Beatles stuff as possible.  But I wasn't sure if Momma Cuan would feel like we were overdosing on Beatlemania.  It turns out either she is a good actress or else she really got into the Beatles history too.  So on this, our last day in the home of the Fab Four, we are off on a Magical Mystery Tour. 

Magical Mystery Tour is not only the name of the Beatles' ninth studio album, it's the official service mark of the tour company we decide to use today.  The company is run by the same outfit that owns the Cavern Club.  Their buses are brightly colored in psychedelic designs, easy to spot from a distance.  Just like yesterday's National Trust tour, the Magical Mystery Tour also leaves from Albert Dock, but there are two main differences.  First, the National Trust tour drives customers to Mendips and 20 Forthlin Road, and includes admission into those two childhood homes.  After forty-five minutes in each house, the bus returns directly to Albert Dock.  By comparison, the Magical Mystery Tour carries its riders all over the city, including not only external views of John and Paul's old houses, but also the childhood homes of Ringo (10 Admiral Grove, in a purportedly poor section of town called "the Dingle") and George (12 Arnold Grove in the Wavertree neighborhood, where he was born and lived for six years before his family moved to Speke).  Strawberry Field and Penny Lane are famous landmarks we visit, as is St. Peter's Church in Woolten.  That's where on July 6, 1957,  Ivan Vaughan introduced fifteen year old guitarist Paul McCartney to sixteen year old pseudo-guitarist John Lennon, whose band, the Quarrymen (in which Ivan was a member), had just finished playing its afternoon session at the church's garden fete.  We also drive by various other places such as schools the Beatles attended, bars where they played or hung out, and the cemetery where Eleanor Rigby is buried.  Of course no tour of this type would be complete without a pass down Lime Street, where the action in the thirty-nine second Beatles song Maggie Mae takes place.  The tour is narrated, with several photo stops along the way.  [For an additional tidbit about McCartney's Allerton neighborhood, see Note # 1 at the end of this post.]
 

I was always under the impression that Ringo's Dingle neighborhood was much poorer than where George grew up in Wavertree.  Now having seen them in person, it is my impression that the actual housing units themselves are very similar, almost identical, and at least now the neighborhoods do not appear to be impoverished at all.  Both 10 Admiral Grove and 12 Arnold Grove closely resemble row houses I've seen in Baltimore, except that the Liverpool version has the front entrance at street level instead of at the top of several stairs.  They are two-story buildings built right up against their property lines, almost as if they share a common wall with their neighbors on either side.  There are no front or back yards.  The buildings' fronts are perfectly flat with little stoops but not a front porch.  Ironically, both Admiral Grove and Arnold Grove are narrow streets, not really what one pictures upon seeing or hearing the word "grove."  [For an additional tidbit regarding Arnold Grove, see Note # 2 at the end of this post.]
 

One reason fans love the Beatles songs Strawberry Fields and Penny Lane is the imagery they evoke.  I am surprised that seeing those two places in real life does not match the pictures I'd conjured up.  Strawberry Field used to be a thickly forested area behind Mendips, and the grounds where a Salvation Army orphanage was located.  Young John Lennon liked to sneak over the back yard fence to enter Strawberry Field when his Aunt Mimi wasn't looking.  Lennon identified with the orphans because his own father, a merchant seaman, had abandoned his family, and Lennon's mother was talked into letting her oldest sister, Mimi, raise John.  When Lennon wrote the song, he inexplicably added an "s" to the second word of the title.  Today, much of the original footprint of Strawberry Field has been developed into residential housing -- Woolten is a desirable neighborhood -- and the original Salvation Army building has been replaced by a more modern office building.  In short, Strawberry Field does not currently come close to how it appeared in the '60's.
 

Penny Lane, as it turns out, does not really contain a roundabout at all, notwithstanding the song's lyrics.  I pictured a circular drive with spokes/roads going off in different directions. Instead it is busy point where several streets intersect, kind of like Seven Corners on the West Bank of Minneapolis.  If you are familiar with the song, you might wonder if there is a barber shop, a bank, a shelter and a fire station.  The answer to all four is "yes," with an asterisk.  The asterisk is because the shelter is really just a simple bus stop, and the fire station has closed.  The intersection is heavily trafficked and is under construction, so the mood isn't quite what I was hoping for.  Penny Lane is a "McCartney song," although Paul, John and George all would have ridden the bus passing through that intersection dozens of times on their way to the town center.
 

The second main difference between the National Trust tour and the Magical Mystery Tour is that, unlike the National Trust tour which returns its passengers to Albert Dock, the Magical Mystery Tour terminates at the Cavern Club.  We arrive there about 2:15 in the afternoon.  The comparison between Mathew Street at night and during the day is like, well, night and day.  This afternoon there are more tourists and fewer scary people milling around than there were Wednesday night.  Now that our comfort level has increased, I can't wait to see what the "new" Cavern Club is all about.
 

The Cavern Club is as historically important to the Beatles rise to fame as any other landmark in Liverpool. It opened in January 1957 as a jazz club, and eventually transitioned into the most popular rock venue in town by the early 1960's.  The Quarrymen first played there on February 21, 1957, and four years later (February 9, 1961) the Beatles played their first gig in that cellar.  Pete Best was the Beatles' drummer at the time.  Another of the many bands that played there was Rory Storm And The Hurricanes, whose drummer was some guy named Ringo Star.  Best was axed on August 16, 1962, two days after Lennon, McCartney and Harrison offered the job to Ringo.  Ringo first played at the Cavern with the Beatles on August 19th in what turned out to be one of the most famous (or infamous) moments in the band's history.  Up until that time, the Beatles were arguably the most popular band in Merseyside, but one reason for that adulation was that Best had a large contingent of worshipers.  On the 19th, those fans showed up at the Cavern and chanted, "Pete forever, Ringo never!"

The Beatles played 292 times in the Cavern.  Their last gig there was August 3, 1963, six months before the British Invasion.  One thing that set the Beatles apart from the dozens (if not hundreds) of bands in Liverpool was the experience they gained from playing many shows in Hamburg, Germany between August 1960 and December 1962.  When they first started playing at the Cavern, a lot of kids showed up to see "the band from Germany," not realizing the lads were fellow Liverpudlians.
 

When the Beatles were in Germany, they were hired by a British rocker named Tony Sheridan to back him up on an old song titled My Bonnie.  The song's artist was credited on the record label as "Tony Sheridan And The Beat Brothers."  When word got out across the Channel that the Beat Brothers were, in fact, the Beatles from Liverpool, teenagers sought out Beatles recordings.  One of the places they looked was in a record shop called NEMS, for North End Music Stores, one of the largest record outlets in the UK.  Brian Epstein, whose family owned the store, went to the Cavern to check out the group, and the rest is history.  It should be acknowledged that the foregoing story has been subject to various challenges and modifications regarding Epstein's previous knowledge of the Beatles, but no one disputes that the first time Epstein saw the Beatles perform was at the Cavern during a lunch time show on November 9, 1961.  Less than three months later he became the Beatles' manager.
 

The building above the "old" Cavern Club was demolished in 1973 to make way for an underground railway line.  The new Cavern Club was built in 1984 on essentially the same footprint as the old one, using 15,000 bricks which were rescued from the place prior to demolition.  The interior of the Cavern is about three stories down a flight of stairs from Mathew Street level.  The interior looks like three tunnels with low curved brick ceilings.  The tunnels are separated by brick walls which have curved apertures serving as glassless windows.  The center tunnel leads from the bar situated at the bottom of the entry stairway to the opposite end about twenty yards away where the small stage is located. Tables line both sides of all three tunnels.  The two side tunnels are outfitted with closed-circuit TVs so that, regardless of which tunnel you're in, you can view the stage either via TV or through one of the wall apertures.
 

The place is packed when we enter.  It seems more like Friday night than early Friday afternoon.  Momma Cuan scores a front table in the center aisle while I cash in the free beer coupons we were given by the tour.  On stage is a solo artist named Tim Shaw covering Beatles songs while he plays an electric guitar with panache.  Shaw has this crowd of Beatles fans singing, clapping and partying like it's 1964.  I have never heard of Tim Shaw before, but he immediately rises to my imaginary Top Ten list of best artists I've seen in a live performance.  As he's singing I realize that this is definitely a highlight, maybe even THE highlight, of our three days in Liverpool.
 

When his set is finished we scoot across the street to the Cavern Pub for another beer and some snacks, then back down the stairs to the Club to check out the next singer.  I did not catch his name, but Shaw was too hard an act for almost anyone to follow.  This time we're seated at a table in a side tunnel.  I snap a photo of a framed picture of the band Queen, which had their first-ever gig at the Cavern on Halloween night, 1970 and whose lead singer was the late Freddie Mercury.  I send the picture to Lindsey and Michael, who sometimes call my granddaughter, Winnie, "Fred."  What a great day, and we still have the evening to look forward to.
 

Friday Evening.  I am so proud of myself for having made dinner reservations at 60 Hope Street before we left home.  It is the only restaurant in Liverpool recommended by both Fodor and Frommer.  Fodor -- we call it the Bible -- has never given us a bum steer on any of our trips, so Frommer's additional seal of approval should make it a sure bet.
 

After a short break at the Indigo we catch a cab to take us to the eastern edge of the town center.  Hope Street is the only street in the world which has two cathedrals.  We're going to start at the north end of Hope where Metropolitan Cathedral Of Christ The King (the Catholic cathedral) sits on a hill, then walk a mile south down Hope to the Liverpool Cathedral (Anglican).
 

The cabbie proves to be another character, just like the one we met Wednesday.  "Oh, you want Paddy's Wigwam," he exclaims.  He advises us that the locals call the Catholic cathedral "Paddy's Wigwam" because most of the Liverpudlian Catholics have Irish roots, and the facade of the building does indeed resemble a wigwam.  It is past 6:00, too late in the day to enter, but Mary and I walk around the enormous cement patio surrounding the place.  The three dimensional relief which, taken as a whole, gives the wigwam effect, looks more like prehistoric birds up close.  The other notable architectural designs on the church are the extensions from the building to the ground, each appearing to me to be a poor man's flying buttress.  The flying buttresses on the Notre Dame de Paris are the ones I'm most familiar with, and they lend a unique and Gothic mystique to the structure.  By comparison, the ones on Paddy's Wigwam are straight, rectangular and metallic, reminding me of shoots one might see on the grain elevators of the North Dakota prairie.
 

There are two uncommon sculptures situated blocks apart on the west side of Hope Street.  The first consists of a pair of stone pillars located half-way between the two cathedrals.  On one pillar is a carving in the likeness of the Anglican archbishop, and on the other, two feet away, is a carving in the likeness of the Catholic archbishop.  It looks like the spiritual leaders are having a conversation.  The symbolism is apparent, even to a finance major like me: a call for peace and cooperation between the two denominations, Catholic and Anglican.  I'm sure the location, equidistant between the cathedrals, is not a coincidence.

The other uncommon sculpture is one of the most unusual pieces of art I've even seen.  Twenty-seven sculpted suitcases and a few guitar cases appear to be strewn about the sidewalk near the Liverpool College Of Art.  Some of the luggage is connected to or piled on top of others, while a few pieces are only bound to the pavement.  This work of art, titled A Case History, was created by John King, who installed it in 1998. Some but not all pieces are accompanied by identification tags.  There is a nearby display board which identifies the "owners," most of whom are past and present Liverpudlian celebrities.  Incidentally, Lennon and Stuart Sutcliffe, the original Beatles bass player, attended the art school.

By the time we reach the Liverpool Cathedral dusk has set in.  This cathedral might be the biggest church I have ever seen, no surprise since we could observe its gigantic bell tower from the River Mersey ferry boat two days ago.  The church is surrounded by a densely wooded ravine, giving it the appearance of a medieval fortress encircled by a moat.  All that's missing is a drawbridge!  The combination of the dark red stone and the graying skies is almost spooky.  I don't think I'd go near there on a dark and stormy night.
 

We retrace our steps for a couple of blocks to 60 Hope Street.  This is the kind of upscale place which is gaining in popularity in the States.  The strategy employs farm (or sea) to table, fresh ingredients from local providers, with the emphasis on having a creative chef and well-trained service staff.  Check, check and check!  After sharing the poached pair appetizer, Momma Cuan orders veal rib eye and I have whole Dover sole.  Two enthusiastic thumbs up!  We are very happy with our selections, and offer mutual congratulations for our fine decisions.
 

I find it interesting to note that even though both Alma de Cuba and 60 Hope Street serve fantastic food, their diners' surroundings could not be more different.   Alma de Cuba is heavy on atmosphere, so much so that it would be worthwhile to stop in only for a drink and take in the vibe of the old former church.  60 Hope Street, on the other hand, looks brand new, with polished wooden floors, brighter than average lighting and a swarm of employees who leave little unnoticed.  The walls at 60 Hope Street are painted a pleasant robin egg blue, but are unadorned with any artwork, fabric or wall coverings.  It's as if the proprietors want their customers to concentrate on the food without distractions.  Both restauarants' approaches worked for us.
 

This is our last night in Liverpool.  One more stop is in order.  I wrote in Part I that I'm a sucker for olde English pubs with the work "Ye" in its name.  As luck would have it, one of John and Cynthia Lennon's old haunts, Ye Cracke, is only a block west of Hope Street.  The pub is in pretty good shape considering it's a nineteenth century building.  As we step from the sidewalk through the side door we can hear voices from other rooms in the rear, but there is only one patron sitting at the rail in the first room.  He is all by himself, listening intently to a football (soccer) game being broadcast on a tiny radio which sits on a shelf high on the wall.  There is no TV, but he is engrossed as he enjoys his pint and follows his favorite team the old fashioned way.  This must be Liverpool's version of a sports bar!
 

A young bartender soon appears, and after he delivers our beers a pretty woman named Leslie approaches us from behind the rail.  She is the manager, if not the owner.  She is all smiles, possibly because we are tourists -- the bartender must have tipped her off -- who sought out her famous tavern.  She shows us around the place, including the War Office, a small square hideaway in the middle of the interior where John, Cynthia and their friends, including Stuart Sutcliffe, used to shoot the bull.  Leslie brags that almost nothing inside has changed over the years, claiming that the ashes still at the bottom of the War Office's fireplace are from Lennon's cigarette butts.  Some of the artwork on the walls was drawn and signed by Stuart.  There is also an etched mirror paying tribute to John and Stuart who, together with their friends Bill Harry and Rod Murray, gathered as a foursome at Ye Cracke and christened themselves "The Dissenters."  They promised each other as art students that, when they went on with their own lives, they would make Liverpool famous.
 

By now Leslie and Mary have become BFFs, so they pose for pictures behind the bar.  If only we lived in Liverpool, we'd be regulars, just like John and Cynthia.
 

*****
 

Note # 1:  There is a visual memory which has stuck with me ever since September 30, the day Mary and I went on the Magical Mystery Tour and visited (for the second day in a row) Paul McCartney's house in Allerton.  There was a woman standing in the doorway of a residence close to where the bus parked around the corner from McCartney's.  Our tour guide identified her as Lily, who was a long-time friend of Cynthia Lennon.  Lily's mental acuity has deteriorated a little over the years, but she frequently waves to the tourists as they pass by her place.  The tour bus probably parks in the same spot every day.  She might have been in her own world, but there was joy in her face.  When our group was walking back to the bus, I was trailing a bit.  Lily was still standing in her doorway.  I waved to her and she seemed so pleased that I did so.  She smiled and waved back.  That was over a month ago.  I am thinking of the tune Paul wrote, I've Just Seen A Face, which includes the lyrics, "I've just seen a face I can't forget the time or place where we just met." 

Note # 2:  George Harrison's childhood home was 12 Arnold Grove.  When George became a celebrity, he sometimes used a made-up name such as when making dinner reservations or meeting people who didn't recognize him.  His alias was Arnold Grove.  One night George attended a concert where the headliner was his good friend, Eric Clapton.  Clapton spotted Harrison in the audience and called him up to join the musicians on stage for a song.  As Harrison was making his way up, Clapton told the crowd, "For this next song we have invited a guest guitarist, Arnold Grove!" The crowd politely applauded but didn't realize it was George until he reached the spotlight.  Then their cheers raised the roof.  

The Second Best Thing About Liverpool, Part I: Two Days, One Night

The train trip from Glasgow to Liverpool took a shade under four hours, including a transfer in Wigan, England.  Momma Cuandito and I jump into a cab to take us from Lime Street Station to Hotel Indigo, and immediately are treated to a taste of the Scouse humor for which Liverpudlians are so famous.

Cabbie: Where ya from?

 

Mary: Minnesota.

 

Cabbie: Aye, and why did ya come to Liverpool?

 

Mary: We're here to see all the famous Beatles landmarks.

 

Cabbie: Aye, the Beatles.  Did ya know that the Beatles are the second best thing ever to come out of Liverpool?

 

Mary, deciding to play along:  No I didn't.  What's the first?

 

Cabbie, with a dry delivery:  Why the Liverpool Football Club, of course.

 

As the Mop Tops once sang, "I should have known better."

 

Ever since I listened to the Beatles on the radio in late January 1964, I have been a fan.  (You already knew this via your vivid recollection of my March 10, 2014 post, The Old Boy Raises One In Honor Of Mike Smith.)  Their three appearances the following month on the Ed Sullivan Show sealed the deal.  I determined some day I was going to make the pilgrimage to Liverpool and see for myself where it all began.  Now, fifty-two years later, the chance has arrived.  For three days we will be in the city that the Beatles put on the map!

 

Wednesday Afternoon.  The Hotel Indigo is conveniently located near Pier Head, which along with Albert Dock constitutes the famous Liverpool waterfront.  On this beautiful sunny afternoon, our first order of business is to ferry 'cross the Mersey.  In case those words ring a bell, Ferry Cross The Mersey was a huge hit for Gerry And The Pacemakers.  What does that song and that band have to do with the Beatles?  Gerry And The Pacemakers was another Liverpool quartet which overwhelmed the American music scene in the first wave of the 1964 British Invasion.  Before the summer of '64 was over, Gerry and the boys had cracked the Hot 100 on the US Billboard charts four times, including two in the Top 10.  Unlike any of the Beatles' early songs, Ferry Cross The Mersey was actually about Liverpool.  And for the most important Beatles connection, Gerry And The Pacemakers' manager was Brian Epstein, whose principal client was none other than the Beatles. [For an additional tidbit about Ferry Cross The Mersey, see Note # 1 at the end of this post.]

 

The River Mersey, about a mile wide, separates Liverpool from the Wirral Peninsula, commonly referred to as "the Wirral," and empties into the nearby Irish Sea.   After leaving Pier Head, the ferry makes a fifty minute loop with quick stops at Seacombe and Woodside on the Wirral while the Pacemakers' song is pumped over the PA system.  Gotta love the Merseybeat sound!  The ship provides the very best perspectives of the Liverpool skyline, which is dominated by three large buildings dubbed the Three Graces.  This magnificent view makes up for the Wirral's nondescript shoreline across the water, where the main attractions appear to be ugly commercial and industrial admiralty enterprises.  Regarding the lyrics to Ferry Cross The Mersey, the lack of interesting features on the Wirral convinces me that when Gerry sang "... and always take me there, the place I love," he must have been on the Wirral desperately wishing he was in Liverpool instead.  [For an additional tidbit about the Three Graces, see Note # 2 at the end of this post.]

 

Wednesday Evening.  After a short stop back at the Indigo to unpack and put our feet up for a bit, it is time for Happy Hour.  Our plan is to casually meander over to what's called the Mathew Street Quarter, where the famous Cavern Club is a must stop for Beatle pilgrims.  There is no shortage of interesting pubs to try in this compact city, and each of the three travel books we researched (Fodor, Frommer and Rick Steves) has their faves.  One such place which sounds intriguing  along our pedestrian route is Ye Hole In Ye Wall.  I'll admit I am a sucker for any tavern with the olde English word "ye" in its name; this one has two!

 

Ye Hole is noteworthy if not famous for at least two reasons.  First, it claims to be the oldest pub in Liverpool, dating back to 1726.  Upon entering, one sees nothing which would raise a doubt about such an assertion.  The wooden floors and wooden walls separating the small rooms, even the bar itself, look and feel as if they've been in place for centuries.  The pub's second item of notoriety stems from the fact that, until 1975 when the city ordinances mandated change, the only water closet was for the males.  The men's room is on the main floor but, sure enough, to reach the women's room ladies have to go behind the bar and up a flight of creaky stairs.  It takes me a moment to spot the small sign posted on the wall at the end of the bar directing distaff patrons to the women's room.  I need to take a picture of that famous sign without blatantly exposing myself as a tourist.  As I get off my barstool I brush against a well dressed gray-haired man who ends up standing right in front of the sign for at least fifteen minutes, chatting with the barmaid.  Finally he leaves and I am able to capture the sign, as Mary wonders if we'll ever go into any establishment without me snapping a photo.  In my defense, at least I don't use a flash!

 

The temptation is there to enjoy a second pint, but we wisely choose to have it in another tavern.  As we are leaving Ye Hole through the small entryway, I notice the cool murals painted with large colorful curved lettering and dainty flowers on the interior walls between the front doors, so of course I have to take a picture of that too before we leave.  What I don't realize is that the same well-dressed man is standing out on the sidewalk, watching me.  "Do you think those paintings are worthy of a photo?" he asks.

 

I sense trouble, but I play it straight.  "Yes," I answer.  "Are you the owner?"

 

It turns out he is not the owner, but he is the artist who painted all those magnificent interior designs.  He introduces himself as James Rice -- I hope I am remembering his name correctly -- and after a chat he agrees to allow me to take a picture of him in front of his work.  He is obviously pleased that Mary and I admire his creativity.

 

We have time to try one more pub on our way to Mathew Street, where we expect to eat dinner.  After our pleasant experience at Ye Hole, we think we might get lucky again.  I've read about a bar en route called Thomas Rigby's, so that is our destination.  The main attraction there will be a combination of interior quaintness and a garden courtyard.

 

Finding any particular small pub in the canyons of Liverpool's town center is not easy.  Many of them are located in narrow alleys sometimes called "wynds," "closes" or "heys."  Most of those alleys are not found on street maps, thereby requiring a lot of guesswork for an out-of-towner.  We walk right by Rigby's without realizing it, but after we eventually draw that conclusion several blocks later, we spot it as we backtrack.

 

Rigby's is your prototypical UK bar.  Over 90% of the patrons are men, especially in the early evening.  There are no seats at the bar.  Customers can stand there while they place their order, and they can drink standing up, but that's it.  If they prefer sitting while imbibing they must retreat to a table along the walls.  The beer selection in Brit pubs is usually above average, but unlike Ireland where Guinness is omnipresent, there is no one malt beverage which has cornered the UK market.  Another feature which Mary and I both find to our liking:  Almost every bar offers half-pint pours for roughly half the price of a full pint.  This enables patrons who are unfamiliar with the offerings to try several without floating away or bursting the bladder.  In the unlikely event I ever own a bar, you will find that customer-friendly feature there.

 

At last we we are ready for dinner.  Mathew Street, a five minute walk from Rigby's, turns out to be a disappointment, at least initially.  We come upon Mathew Street unexpectedly, as it is only a notch wider than those wynds and closes.  My first impression of this brightly lit corridor is that it reminds me of a cross between Bourbon Street and Atlantic City.  Okay, I've never been to Atlantic City, but you get my drift, right?  The adjective best describing the place is "seedy."  The street's length is only the equivalent of a short city block.  Loud music, some good some bad, some live some recorded, is blaring from the bars and clubs along both sides.  Flashing neon signs light up the cobblestones, and hustlers outside the doors are shouting enticements to attract foot traffic into their establishments.  The people promenading down the street are an even mix of tourists, millennials and vagrants.

 

Mathew Street draws the curious crowds for one reason.  It was the home of the Cavern Club where the Beatles played 292 times, usually in eight hour shifts, before and after their various gigs in Hamburg.  It was in the Cavern Club where Brian Epstein first witnessed a Beatles performance shortly before becoming the band's manager.  Although the original Cavern Club was brought down by a wrecking ball in 1973, a newer version of the Cavern Club was erected just a few feet from the original.  The Cavern Club currently features live music every day starting at 11:00 in the morning.  Most of the artists are cover bands and tribute bands whose repertoire is heavy on Merseybeat oldies.

 

Across the street from the Cavern Club is the Cavern Pub, a small but popular restaurant replete with photos from Mathew Street's heyday.  Mary and I had temporarily planned the Pub as a dinner destination, but the general vibe of the surroundings causes us to go to Plan B.  On the way down John Street to Mathew we had passed a Turkish restaurant called Shiraz, and they were doing a land office business, especially for a Wednesday night.  We decide to give that place a try, and luckily grab the only unoccupied table.  Shiraz is only the second Turkish restaurant I've been in -- the other was in New York City -- but we know immediately from the aroma that we've made the right decision.  Every plate we see coming out of the busy kitchen looks divine.  Kebobs, curries, adana, chops, barbecue, etc.  The patrons seated on either side of our table are scarfing down their feasts like they haven't eaten all week.  It is tough to pick something off the tempting menu, so I wisely select the Shiraz Special Mixed Grill, described as follows:  "If you are finding it hard to choose, why not try this generous mixture of adana, lamb, chicken and lamb chop?"  Rice and a salad accompany the meal.  I enjoy every morsel.  My rationale for practically licking the plate clean is that we will have a twenty minute walk back to our hotel.  [For an additional tidbit on adana, see Note # 3 at the end of this post.] 

 

Thursday Afternoon.  The first thing to know about seeing Liverpool's Beatle landmarks is that, despite the fact that there are any number of tours which will take people around to all the sights, there is only one tour through which you can actually gain entry to Mendips and 20 Forthlin Road, the childhood homes of John Lennon and Paul McCartney, respectively.  That tour is operated by the National Trust, which owns those two residences.  Because the National Trust tour presents that unique opportunity, I took no chances, making our reservation back in July, two months before our trip.

 

Mendips was the home of Lennon's Aunt Mimi, the eldest of five sisters including John's mother, Julia.  It was Mimi who, with her husband George, raised John, mostly because Julia was too immature for the responsibility.  The two story home is one of the building's two units, and is located on busy Menlove Avenue in the Woolten neighborhood.  There are only two other couples who have joined us on the tour.  A man named Colin, a National Trust custodian, is our tour guide throughout the house, and is extremely knowledgeable about the Beatles' history.  The narrative he tells is almost as much about Mimi as John.  She ran a tight ship and kept things immaculate.   She constantly prodded John to take his school work seriously, alas, a losing battle.  She was worried about the friends John invited to the house, including Paul and George, requiring them to use the side entrance.  Mimi paid particular attention to visitors' clothing, hair styles and accents, always aware of which part of town they lived in.  She did not want John influenced by the wrong people.  Mimi grudgingly allowed the Quarrymen, precursor to the Beatles, to practice at Mendips occasionally, but her historic admonition to her nephew lives on: "Playing a guitar is fine, John Lennon, but you'll never make a living at it."

 

Colin takes us around the four rooms of the first floor, with many nuggets on Lennon's upbringing making his presentation riveting.  Then he allows us to explore the second floor, advising that we not all go at once due to space limitations.  He also suggests that we might want to try singing in the front interior porch, just as John and Paul liked to do because of the echo chamber effect.  While the other two couples hurry upstairs, Mary and I detour into the porch where I sing I Call Your Name to her.  It is one of the few songs the Lennon-McCartney duo actually wrote at Mendips.  Although it's not a weepy song, Mary starts tearing up about half-way through.  Guess I must sound pretty bad.  [For an additional tidbit on Mendips, see Note # 4 at the end of this post.]

 

The minibus comes by shortly thereafter to transport us to 20 Forthlin Road in Allerton.  As the crow flies it is only about a mile from Mendips.  In fact, John and Paul used to sneak across Allerton Park Golf Course as a shortcut between their houses.  The differences between 20 Forthlin and Mendips are very apparent.  Other than London, Liverpool was bombed more frequently during World War II than any other English city, no doubt because it functioned as a primary seaport.  As a result, there are many neighborhoods in the city, Allerton among them, where the government oversaw the hasty construction of residential housing to accommodate the returning vets and their soon-to-be expanding families.The multi-unit buildings along Forthlin Road reflect that period in history.  Unlike Mendips, which is one of only two units in a semi-detached house, Number 20 is one of about a dozen two-story units in its nondescript building.  The entire length of the street is lined with such uninspiring structures.  Construction speed was more important than creature comforts.

 

Our hostess there is Colin's wife, Sylvia, who does an excellent job illustrating what life was like there for Paul and his younger brother, Michael.  In their teen years they were raised by their father, Jim, after the unexpected passing of the mother when Paul was only fourteen.  (The song Let It Be is written for said Mother Mary.)  Jim did not make much money floating among low level positions, but as a part-time musician he encouraged his sons to take up various instruments.  (Contrast that with Mendips, where John's Aunt Mimi looked upon music as an intrusion upon her piece and quiet!) In the living room at Forthlin sits an upright piano, the same kind on which Paul composed many songs even before he met the Quarrymen in 1956.

 

The National Trust has not attempted to "spiff up" the house.  For example, the appliances, furniture, wallpaper and bedding are all of the same vintage as what the McCartneys owned in the fifties.  One immediate impression is how small each of the rooms is at Forthlin.  Paul and his brother shared a tiny bedroom for most of their childhood.  Sylvia pointed out a drainpipe on which the McCartney boys used to shimmy to and from the second floor bathroom window when they needed to be undetected by their father.

 

One feeling I came away with from both house visits is that it was awesome to actually be standing in the same rooms where Lennon and McCartney collaborated dozens if not hundreds of times to make the sound track of my late teen years.

 

The minibus drops us off where we began, Albert Dock.  From the perspective of yesterday's ferry, Albert Dock appeared as a drab series of red stone buildings, what you might expect from the converted warehouses that they are.  But approaching Albert Dock from the city side we quickly see a much more interesting facility.  An interior harbor, about the size of six football fields where longboats of different solid colors are picturesquely anchored, provides a haven from the swiftly flowing Mersey.  Along two sides of the harbor reside several shops, studios, restaurants and small offices.  Two highly recommended tourist attractions which we did not have time to visit, the Merseyside Maritime Museum (on the third floor of which is the International Slavery Museum) and the Tate Liverpool modern art gallery, also reside at Albert Dock.

 

After a delicious lunch of chicken curry and a deli board at Smugglers' Cove, Momma Cuan and I continue our Beatles bonanza inside The Beatles Story, the world's only permanent  Beatles-themed museum.  I am thoroughly impressed with the Beatles Story, which I would rank in my top ten -- maybe even top five -- museums I've patronized.  It's the kind of place that is much better than it probably needs to be.  The museum, which is housed inside Albert Dock, provides a wealth of information artfully and cleverly displayed on easy-to-read displays, murals, plaques, paintings, dioramas and picture captions.  The emphasis is on the Beatles' formation and early years, which meshes with my preference for the group's pre-White Album catalogue.  That is not to say that the last years of the band, and even their astonishing solo careers, are not covered as well.  Besides the expected biographical information on John, Paul, George and Ringo, we get to learn about many of the other people who were instrumental in their meteoric rise: manager Brian Epstein; producer George Martin, sometimes lovingly called "The Fifth Beatle"; John's first skiffle band, the Quarrymen; original drummer Pete Best, whose mother, Mona, owned the Casbah Coffee Club, where the Quarrymen and Beatles performed numerous times; the Beatles' first manager, Alan Williams, who admits he is "the man who gave away the Beatles"; Bill Harry, the founder and principal writer for Liverpool's most important music publication, Mersey Beat magazine; and Stuart Sutcliffe, the Beatles first bassist and Lennon's best friend who left the band before they hit it big so he could pursue his first two loves, art and Astrid Kirchherr.

 

One of the displays located in a separate room of The Beatles Story is a makeshift stage set up to look like the Beatles' concert arrangement, complete with guitars, a drum kit with the band's name on the bass, speakers and monitors.  Mary is several minutes ahead of me going through the museum, so she waits in the room with the stage.  When I finally catch up, she suggests that I get behind the drums for a quick photo op.  Good idea!  Ninety seconds later, a pseudo security guard comes in to tell us that I've set off a silent alarm.  He is nice enough about it, but we have to move on.  Luckily, Mary has snapped the pic before his arrival.  The bottom line: The old guy, who fifty-plus years ago used to drum to Beatles songs in his Minot basement, once again got to pretend he was Ringo, if only for the briefest of moments.

 

*****

 

Note # 1:  An additional tidbit about the song Ferry Cross The Mersey by Gerry And The Pacemakers.  The song was written by Gerry Marsden and was the second biggest hit (# 6 on the Billboard charts) for the band, trailing only their first US single, Don't Let The Sun Catch You Crying (# 4).  There has been some discussion about the exact title of the song, with three different possibilities.  The title as it appeared on the 45 rpm label was Ferry Cross The Mersey.  Those are the four words clearly sung by lead vocalist Gerry in the song.  However, there were some pressings of the vinyl label put out by Columbia Records which read Ferry 'Cross The Mersey.  Those issues with the apostrophe are collectors' items, as they quickly went out of circulation.  Finally, some commentators have espoused the theory that there should be a punctuation mark such as a comma, a period or an exclamation point after the word "Ferry" because, according to them, the song is a command, or at least a strong suggestion.  The singer is urging the listener to get on the boat, pleading, "Ferry!  Cross the Mersey."

 

Note # 2:  The Three Graces are the Royal Liver Building, the Cunard Building and the Port Of Liverpool Building, all adjacent to each other at Pier Head.  On the top of the Royal Liver Building sit two enormous sculptures called liver (pronounced LEE-ver) birds.  The birds are Liverpool's most famous landmarks, easily seen not only from the Mersey but also from portions of Liverpool's town center.  The legend goes that if the birds ever fly away, Liverpool will cease to exist.  Good thing the sculptures are tied down to the roof with many cables, a necessity brought about by the severe winds which frequent the area.

 

There are two mildly amusing stories which relate to the birds.  One is that the original intent of the sculptures was to incorporate parts of the city's seal which references King John, the royal who granted Liverpool its charter in 1207.  King John used an eagle for his own official seal, a nod to his patron, St. John The Evangelist, whose symbol was an eagle.  However, that idea was miscommunicated to the sculpture's designer, Carl Bartels, who fashioned the birds to look like cormorants instead of eagles.  Oops!

 

Secondly, the female bird on the river side of the building is viewing the water, while her male companion is facing the city.  According to folklore, the female is on the lookout for boats, while the male is searching for a pub.

 

Note # 3:  The restaurant Shiraz describes adana as "a renowned dish from southern Turkey which is made from chopped prime lamb combined with peppers, flat leaf parsley and flaked chili."  The dish gets its name from a major Turkish city close to the Mediterranean coast.

 

Note # 4:  The Beatles break-up in 1970 has been attributed to several factors: the 1967 death of Brian Epstein, who had the ability to smooth over the band's internal rough patches; the clashing egos and divergent musical directions of Lennon and McCartney; the frustration of Harrison whose music in large part was kept off Beatles albums; and, the ongoing struggle for perfection which increased every year following the band's 1966 conversion from a touring band to a studio band.  But the number one culprit, if you will, which most Beatlemaniacs blame for the quartet's demise was the omnipresence, with Lennon's blessing, of Yoko Ono.  Pages could be written in support of that claim, but in a nutshell I will offer one sentence.  When Yoko not only showed up for Abbey Road Studio rehearsals and recordings but also rendered musical advice appreciated only by Lennon, that was the last straw.

 

So, Yoko was the bad guy.  Okay.  But before we cast too many stones, consider this.  Were it not for Yoko, Mendips probably would not be available to generations of Beatles fans to explore.  John lived there from age five until age twenty-two (mid-1963).  After the Beatles became worldwide sensations, he bought his Aunt Mimi a home in the country so she could escape his annoying fans.  Between 1965 and 2000, Mendips came under the ownership of several people, one of whom agreed to having a film production crew drastically change the interior floor plan to make way for their equipment.  This remodeling convinced the National Trust not to acquire Mendips like it had acquired McCartney's preserved home on Forthlin Road.  Two years later, Yoko came to the rescue by purchasing Mendips and immediately donating it to the National Trust.  The home was "un-remodeled" to restore it to the way it looked when young John lived there.

 

According to our guide Colin, the only string attached to Yoko's gift was the stipulation that the Trust not permit visitors to take photographs inside the building.  Security and protection of intellectual property are cited as the reasons.  Colin pointed out that Yoko's desire is for fans to consider Mendips part of John's personal history, separate from the Beatles.  There is no Beatles memorabilia, per se, within.        

Movie Review: "The Girl On The Train"

"The Girl On The Train": C+.  Other than realizing that The Girl On The Train is based on the best selling novel by Paula Hawkins, I went in cold to see the movie of the same title.  I had not read the book nor even a snippet of any movie review.  What I expected, something similar to Agatha Christie's Murder On The Orient Express, proved to be way off.

The story centers around three very imperfect women.  Their imperfections are what drives the plot.  Rachel (Emily Blunt) is the girl on the train, and the story's first narrator.  Unlike Orient Express, she is not traveling across the continent; in fact, it's a commuter train.  As the train slowly passes by the back yard of a beautiful suburban home with an ocean view, she tells us it's her favorite house.  She even knows the street address.  How weird!  It's not until later we learn why she has that info.  Much of the story telling follows suit, waiting until a later point to explain head-scratching actions and dialogue.  That is not to say all such puzzles are explained.  Rachel is an alcoholic and thus, as a narrator, not all of her recollections of events are made clear for the viewer.  She can fairly be labeled a stalker.

 

Megan (Haley Bennett) is the young nanny whose face could launch several thousand ships.  (I wonder, has Ben Affleck has seen this film?)  Her employers are Tom (Justin Theroux) and Anna (Rebecca Ferguson) who have an infant daughter, Evie.  Megan appears trustworthy until she surprises Anna with the announcement that she is quitting immediately.  She justifies her inconsiderate behavior by pointing out to Anna that the young mother does not have a job, the implication being that Anna does not really need a nanny.  Megan goes to a psychiatrist, Dr. Kamal Abdic (Edgar Ramirez), to whom she admits that she is incapable of telling the truth, even to him.  She also reveals that the first thing she does when she gets off work is to jump in the shower "to wash off the baby smell."  Megan is a liar with mental health issues, and can fairly be labeled a nymphomaniac.

 

The character of Anna is underdeveloped, but we do know that she is "the other woman" who is now married to Rachel's ex, Tom, and lives with him in Rachel's wonderful old house.  Anna may appear angelic, but don't let that sweet countenance fool you.  She is a conniver and a manipulator.  Granted, she is a victim, but she might fairly be labeled as an enabler.

 

The men in this story are no bargain either, each of them devoid of moral fiber.  The psychiatrist lacks will power and makes stupid, career-jeopardizing decisions, while the other two lead males are abusers to different degrees.  It is accurate to write that, with exceptions that you can count on one hand, all of the characters are unlikable.  With an ensemble like that, the story itself better be good.  Alas, it isn't.

 

To use a low-hanging metaphor, the tale is slow to leave the station.  After the first half hour we wonder if it will ever kick into high gear.  The herky-jerky time line, with an abundance of flashbacks, contributes to this drag effect.  How sad is it that Rachel feels compelled to ride the train time after time and gape at her old stomping grounds?  She is stuck in neutral, mostly because her alcoholism and probable depression hold her captive.  Blunt's portrayal of the wounded Rachel, sometimes lucid but often downcast, confused and memory-challenged, is the main reason to watch this film.

 

The present day catalyst occurs when Rachel, through the train's window, spots Megan standing on her home's ocean-side balcony, passionately kissing a man who Rachel knows is not Megan's husband, Scott (Luke Evans).  Rachel is certain of what she's witnessed because, on several prior rail journeys past Megan's home, Rachel has become almost fixated by what she's deemed to be a couple (Megan and Scott) in the throes of wedded bliss.  Rather than let it ride -- no pun intended -- Rachel decides to right a wrong.  This, even though Rachel herself has plenty of her own problems which she'd be better off addressing.

 

At least three of the six main characters do something so far fetched that I almost want to skim through Hawkins' novel to determine whom to blame, her or script writer Erin Wilson.  I am guessing Hawkins is the culprit because those unlikely actions are needed to advance the plot.  One example: Character A, knowing s/he is under twenty-four hour surveillance by the police in connection with a missing persons case, goes over to the residence of Character B, also under police suspicion, and spends the night.  Yeah, right.

 

I am usually a sucker for train stories, but to label this film as such would be a misnomer. Rachel spends as much time walking around Blenheim Road as she does on the train.  My fondness for train stories remains intact.