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.