Held In Suspense For Fifty Years

I like big, fat books in the winter, books that will swallow me up for hours, books that I can read... on the couch by the fireplace, a polar fleece blanket over my knees and my dog sleeping on my feet.
 
- Laurie Hertzel

I'd like to see a show of hands.  How many of you remember what Confession Fridays are?  Hmm, I do not see anyone with her hand up.  Surely you recall my post from June 27, 2014, Personal Prophecies And Yellow Caps, in which I wrote that on the website I frequent, Notre Dame Nation, public confessions are posted as a means of "coming clean."  I then proceeded to make a confession, of which I was not proud, in that Friday blog post regarding the Personal Prophesy Game.  Alas, I have not made a Friday Confession here since, but you are about to read one.

I was reminded of Confession Fridays a few weeks ago when I read Laurie Hertzel's column in the Star Tribune.  Laurie is the Senior Books Editor for that paper, and I make a point of checking out her thoughts which appear most Sundays on the Books pages of the Variety section.  An excerpt from her January 22 column appears above.  She described how certain types of books lend themselves to particular seasons of the year.  For the cold Minnesota winters, she prefers "big, fat books," not the type that you'd bring to the beach in the summer or read while reclining on a hammock in the fall.  She proceeded to suggest five fat book titles: Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy; Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel; Vanity Fair by William Thackeray; Rising Up And Rising Down by William T. Vollmann; and Moby-Dick by Herman Melville.  She admitted she hadn't read the Melville book in its entirety, but intended to do so.  It was her modest admission which triggered this post.

 

Before I continue I should point out that all three of my kids think I'm anywhere from slightly to more-than-moderately eccentric.  Momma Cuan's perception of my traits probably falls more toward the latter end of that spectrum.  I'm okay with all of that; if I weren't I would not be making this Friday Confession.  My guess is that nothing I write here will come as a surprise to any of them.

 

My story begins in the winter of 1962-63.  I was in Father Art Perry's sophomore English class at Assumption High School in Davenport.  As I've noted before in my August 25, 2012 post (Chrome Dome & The Cub Reporter), almost every priest at Assumption had a nickname, some more cleverly bestowed than others, some more derisive than others.  Father Perry's nickname was neither clever nor derisive; it was simply what many redheads are called, "Red."  Red Perry, among the most beloved faculty members at a school sorely lacking in that category, was one of my two favorites at Assumption. (The other was my junior religion teacher, Father Carlos Leveling, who was a "late vocation.")  Father Perry was the kind of teacher who inspired his students to do their best, sometimes for no other reason than the feeling that, like playing for an inspirational coach, you did't want to let him down.  Red was also my homeroom teacher, and our intramural basketball team -- the last organized hoops team of my illustrious career -- was, of course, Red's Raiders.  He was a Notre Dame grad, another plus.  Some guys said he played football for the Irish.  I don't know if that was true, but it didn't take much imagination to picture that squarely built priest with the thick neck as a fullback.

 

The English class was a mixture of grammar, vocabulary, composition and literature.  Sometime during the last week of school before Christmas vacation, Father Perry assigned Moby-Dick, much to the chagrin of my classmates and me.  The unabridged novel was mammoth, coming in at six hundred seventy-five pages.  With visions of our two week break being ruined, we tried our best to convince the priest to assign a more manageable tome, if indeed he felt compelled to assign anything at all.  No such luck.  As if he were doing us a favor, he pointed out to us that even though there would certainly be a test on Moby, it would not be given until the Thursday of our first week back in class in January.  If we all didn't love the guy so much, we would have hated him!

 

Moby-Dick is comprised of several dozen relatively short chapters, and I knew I needed to read a bunch of them every day while on vacation.  Once school restarted after New Years there would be loads of homework from my other teachers which would make last minute binge reading of Moby impossible.  Nevertheless, I let things slide at home, always coming up with a flimsy excuse for ignoring the book.  I told myself I needed a short mental health break before plunging into the assignment.  I was only kidding myself, because the thought of having to plow through the gargantuan classic was always hanging over my head -- not what you'd call a mental health break.  One unproductive day slipped into another, plus there were those pesky inconveniences called Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.  I didn't fare any better during the week between Christmas and the resumption of class.  During the two week break I managed to read only a hundred pages or so.

 

I started reading like a maniac once school resumed and I was back in "student mode," but as I predicted, there was so much homework from my other classes that there was no way I could finish Moby before the Thursday morning test.  Our in-class discussions covered roughly only the first half of the book.  When I sat down to take the dreaded test, I still had a little over a hundred pages to go.  I decided not to ask my classmates how the story ended because, crazy as this sounds, I wanted to reward myself for hours and hours of reading by arriving at the conclusion organically.

 

Somehow I was able to schlep my way through the exam with enough familiarity, based on what I did read, that I received a B+.  By now you are wondering where the eccentric behavior manifests itself.  Here is what happened on the next school day (Friday), when the graded papers were returned and Father Perry went over the exam.  I covered my ears whenever I realized that the class discussion was about to delve into those last hundred pages!  I discovered that if I lightly rubbed my fingers over my ear canals, I could block out sound at least to the point where the voices were unintelligible.  (Maybe the conversation would have proven to be unintelligible anyway, without my having to resort to those extraordinary measures.)  Naturally I was hoping I wouldn't be called on for those discourses, but I wisely lessened the odds of that happening by volunteering some sage comments about the first part of the book.  My ruse worked!

 

A dutiful student would have, at least, finished the book over that next weekend, but no.  I never picked up Moby again.  Maybe I wanted to get a jump on the next classic, The Last Of The Mohicans, assigned by Red.  It was another pretty fat book.

 

****

 

In the tradition of famed radio host Paul Harvey, here is The Rest Of The Story.

 

Four years ago I was rummaging around the closet in the den at the Quentin Estates, looking for an old book.  Instead of finding what I wanted, I discovered a copy of Moby-Dick.  I was immediately enveloped in shame, remembering that English assignment from dear old Red and how I received an undeserved B+ for bluffing my way through his test.  Not that it would make any difference now, fifty years later, but I felt the urge (the obligation?) to complete the mission.  I still did not know how the story ended, having managed to avoid all conversations, articles, references and movies about the great white whale.  At this point retired with time on my hands, I started from page 1 and did not pick up any other book or magazine until I had reached the surprising conclusion about three weeks later.

 

Thanks to Laurie Hertzel's column, I have now come clean with this post.  If I ever meet Father Red in that Big Library In The Sky, I'll have something to talk about with him besides Notre Dame football.

 

****

 

Since it is unlikely I will have another post about Father Perry or Father Leveling, I would like to add this postscript.  In the fall of 1965 when I was a freshman at Notre Dame, the two of them looked me up in Cavanaugh Hall on a Saturday morning.  They had traveled to ND from Davenport to attend a football game that afternoon.  I thought that was pretty cool of them, especially since I had left Assumption in 1964 for North Dakota.    

Movie Review: "Hacksaw Ridge"

"Hacksaw Ridge": B.  It is probable that most people who have already formed a skeptical opinion about the legitimacy of conscientious objectors will have a change of heart after viewing Hacksaw Ridge.  To gain conscientious objector status, one has to go beyond merely stating an objection to war or a dislike of having to kill the enemy.  The exemption typically has to be grounded in a long standing religious belief.  Many conscientious objectors, once excused from military service, will draw scorn and accusations of cowardice and disloyalty for refusing to bear arms.  It is also probable that those accusers are unfamiliar with the place in US history held by Desmond Doss.

Desmond (Andrew Garfield), a teenager working in a defense plant in Lynchburg, Virginia, feels compelled to enlist in the service when the US goes to war in the '40's.  His alcoholic father (Hugo Weaving) is a vet from the first world war, and is determined to keep his two boys out of the battle.  But shortly after Desmond's brother Hal enlists and Dez sees many of his small town friends doing the same, he follows suit.

This is not a good time to fall in love, but the heart does not have a calendar nor a watch.  The object of Desmond's affection is the lovely nurse at the Lynchburg clinic, Dorothy (Australian actress Teresa Palmer).  Lucky Desmond usually manages to find a quiet moment in the clinic to try his corny lines on her.  "You need some boy-girl talk practice," she says with a smile.  He knows it, but so what?  She falls for him even though, as pointed out by his friend later in the movie, she is above his weight class.  (Translation using my parlance: Desmond has out-kicked his coverage.)

 

There is a conflict between Desmond's sense of patriotic duty and his conservative religious upbringing.  As a child and a teenager, he found strength in biblical passages when his father went on rampages, threatening the family with a loaded gun.  These incidents are shown via flashbacks, helping partially to explain why Desmond won't touch a rifle following his enlistment.  Dez explains to his exasperated NCO, Sergeant Howell (Vince Vaughn), and the company commander, Captain Glover (Sam Worthington), that he was promised by the army recruiter before enlisting that he would not be obligated even to tote a gun, much less shoot one.  He aspires to be a field medic, having developed an interest in medicine as a way to impress Dorothy.  Thus, he is not attempting to avoid military service, only to avoid being a warrior.  As expected, Glover will hear none of it.  There is a series of related events, including visits to the army psychiatrist, accusations of insubordination and refusal to obey a direct order, bullying by Desmond's fellow grunts, and even a court martial during which his father intercedes.

 

At almost the exact half-way point, we are transported to Okinawa in the south Pacific.  It's a strategically located island which the GIs must capture from the Japanese so that it can be used as a launching point for a future invasion of the Empire of the Sun.  The immediate change in setting and mood, from Virginia's sunny skies where love is in the air to the fog shrouded battlefields where death could come in an instant, is stark.  As Desmond's unit slowly advances toward the escarpment which they must scale to confront the enemy, they make way for the retreating battalion of GIs they'll be replacing.  The latter group, heading somberly and silently in the opposite direction, has been through hell.  Dead bodies are stacked like hay bales on carts.  Those soldiers might be the lucky ones compared to the blood stained, mangled wounded.

 

The passing encounter between Desmond's unit and the evacuating soldiers is not the only precursor to the gruesomeness of the battles we are about to see. We know from the movie's marketing promotions that Doss will become the first conscientious objector to win the Medal Of Honor, so there will definitely be courage and valor.  Telling his story is the main purpose for the making of this film.  The specific heroic feats executed by Doss will prove to be unique and miraculous, even if he were defending himself with a weapon (which he didn't).

 

Director Mel Gibson is known for favoring over-the-top violence, a reason for my original intention to pass on the opportunity to attend this film.  I had read that some of the battlefield scenes brought back memories of the D-Day invasion reenacted in 1998's Saving Private Ryan.  That turns out to be a legitimate comparison.  At times there are so many explosions, fatal shots and body parts appearing with staccato quickness on the screen that the viewer cannot always ascertain "friend or foe," and if a good guy, is it someone we know?  The pre-Okinawa scenes are a little too hokey, and in some instances downright cliched.  The combat scenes, although repetitive, do a fair job of making up for it.

 

If you attend this movie there are two questions I would like you to answer for me.  First, why do the Japanese leave in place the eight story high rope ladder for the GIs to use to mount Hacksaw Ridge?  Second, why is it, in almost every war picture I've seen, that the American ground forces get air support but the enemy never does?

Fab Four Fallacies

I've been home from Liverpool for over four months, but still have Beatles on the brain.  A lot of baby boomers do on this day, February 9, remembering that night fifty-three years ago when Ed Sullivan introduced the Fab Four to millions of American TV watchers.

During the three day visit to Liverpool which Momma Cuan and I enjoyed last September, we learned a few tidbits about the Beatles' history which contradicted  some of the "facts" I had in my noggin beforehand from various, and sometimes forgotten, sources.  The four main new sources of information were the two guides who narrated the National Trust Tour of Mendips and 20 Forthlin Road, the guide for the Magical Mystery Tour (affiliated with the Cavern Club) of "Beatle sights" around the city, and the many narrative plaques and captions inside The Beatles Story museum on Albert Dock.  Here are five nuggets which contradict what I'd thought to be true.  In the spirit of keeping with the news of today, you might call them "alternative facts."
 

Song Writing.  What mostly set the Beatles apart from their contemporaries was not their singing ability nor their musicianship. Rather, their charisma and song writing talent thrust them to the top and enabled them to sustain their reign as music's number one act for seven years.  Lennon and McCartney's childhood homes were a short bicycle ride away from each other, and I always pictured them collaborating at both places on a more or less 50/50 basis once they hooked up as bandmates.  The Alternative Fact:  Many more songs were written at Paul's residence, 20 Forthlin Road, than at John's residence, Mendips.  John's Aunt Mimi presented a double-edged barrier.  First, even though she was impressed with Paul's charm, she was not crazy about John having his friends over.  The thought of teenagers invading her prim and proper home did not sit well.  The Quarrymen and the Beatles rarely practiced at her house, even though John was the bands' leader.  Secondly, Mimi looked upon John's guitar as a pointless distraction.  The more time he spent with it, the less regard he gave his studies.  By comparison, Paul's father Jim was a musician who encouraged Paul and his brother, Michael, to pursue their musical interests.  He even had a piano in the living room which all three McCartneys played.  Unlike Mendips there was no female presence, as Paul's mom died when he was fourteen.  The furnishings at Forthlin were a little worn, maybe not much to look at, but a perfect place for teenage musicians to gather.  For every time Paul and John hung out and collaborated at Mendips, they were at 20 Forthlin probably nine or ten times.  Dozens of songs recorded by the Beatles were written in Paul's bedroom and in the living room at 20 Forthlin.  A grand total of only four or five were composed at Mendips.
 

St. Peter's Church Garden Fete.  The date July 6, 1957 is even more famous than February 9, 1964.  That former date is when Lennon's friend and former bandmate, Ivan Vaughn, introduced his school chum Paul to John in between the Quarrymen's sets at the St. Peter's Fete in Woolten.  Paul, who at age fifteen was a year younger than John, impressed Lennon by playing and singing Twenty Flight Rock, a popular rockabilly staple by Eddie Cochran.  He also showed John how to tune a guitar.  Following this first-time-ever meeting between John and Paul, John could not make up his mind whether to invite Paul to join the band.  This indecision was brought about by John's insecurity in the face of an obviously superior musician, and how that might affect John's undisputed role as band leader.  My original understanding was that when John finally decided to offer the invitation, Paul gladly accepted and the rest became history.  The Alternative Fact:  Just as John was torn about extending the offer, Paul was torn whether to accept.  He did not jump at the chance, as I had previously believed.  The Quarrymen were a skiffle band comprised of six guys who were attempting to play a combination of homemade instruments and cheap second hand instruments.  None of them, including Lennon, was any better than a very average player.  Paul, under the tutelage of his father who on occasion played the piano and trumpet professionally, was an accomplished guitarist, and thought he would be taking a step backward musically by joining the Quarrymen.  Within days after John (through Ivan and Quarryman Pete Shotton) popped the question, Paul's family went on a summer holiday.  He had lots of time to mull it over, and kept John waiting until the McCartney family returned to Liverpool.  Finally after more than a month had gone by, McCartney acquiesced.  Within the context of the offer and acceptance, John and Paul were each taking a gamble, John with respect to his leadership status, and Paul with respect to his musical advancement.
 

Brian Epstein.  Just how much in the dark was Brian Epstein before he saw the Beatles perform at the Cavern for the first time on November 9, 1961?  Epstein was part of a huge furniture merchandising family.  As a sidelight, he ran one of the largest record stores in Liverpool called the North End Music Shop (NEMS).  As every Beatles fan knows, Brian became the manager of the Beatles and was intrinsically key to their international fame.  But, how did he ever make the initial connection with the band?  The story I heard countless times from many different sources was that there was a two or three day span during which groups of teenagers would come into NEMS and ask Brian if he had any recordings by the Beatles.  Those kids had heard My Bonnie by Tony Sheridan, a record in which the Beatles functioned as a backup band.  After getting so many in-store inquiries, Brian decided to walk over to the Cavern to see what all the fuss was about, and it was then that he made the decision to offer his managerial services to the band.  The Alternative Fact:  Although the story about the teenagers asking about the Beatles makes for lovely lore, what is much more likely is that Epstein was quite familiar with the Beatles long before the kids walked into NEMS.  Consider that the Beatles distinguished themselves from the hundreds of other local bands by playing the clubs in Hamburg.  Each time they returned home to Liverpool they made sure people knew they had international experience.  Some Liverpudlians actually thought the mop tops were Germans.  The Beatles were also featured in Mersey Beat, the number one music publication in Merseyside and which was sold in NEMS.  It is unreasonable to believe that Brian, the manager of one of the biggest record stores in Liverpool, would not be very much in tune with the Beatles' popularity in Germany.  The inquiries by the teenage customers were a reminder for Brian to check out the lads, but not the revelation it has frequently been labeled.
 

Pete Best.  Has their ever been a more sympathetic music artist than Pete Best, the drummer who was fired by the Beatles less than a year before they hit the big time?  The various accounts of his termination are generally in agreement.  His skills behind the kit were passable, and by all accounts about on the same level as Ringo's.  His mother, Mona, was one of the Quarrymen and Beatles' supporters in the early days, employing them for dozens of gigs at the club she owned, The Casbah.  Pete was fired mostly because he was more laid back than the raucous trio of John, Paul and George, and they didn't feel he fit in.  Pete was a loner.  Ringo, by comparison, was a fun loving chap whose effervescence blended seamlessly with the band's persona.  (The Beatles' main competition in the UK and the States was the Rolling Stones, whose aura was one of sullenness compared to the Beatles' joyousness.  Pete might have fared better as a Stone, although as a drummer he lacked the chops of Charlie Watts.)  The accounts of Best's firing also agree on the most terrible aspect of all.  The Beatles lacked the courage and respect to fire him face-to-face, so they left that dirty work to their manager, Brian Epstein.
 

All four Beatles became millionaires, and their principal song writers, John and Paul, accumulated massive wealth.  Best, left behind in Liverpool, tried to stick in the music business but soon decided he needed a more steady paycheck.  For most of his adulthood he made a modest living as a government office worker.  It's obvious Pete was the victim of unprofessional if not unethical behavior on the part of the Beatles, but because he was an "at will" employee he had no legal recourse.   It was my belief that not only did Pete get hosed, but that he was relegated to living out his life a mere notch or two above the poverty line.  The Alternative Fact:  In 1995 the three surviving members of the Beatles, Paul, George and Ringo, released a new album called Beatles Anthology.  That double disc LP is a compilation of previously unreleased material, outtakes, demos, auditions, radio interviews, in-studio performances, and promotions.  Because some of the material included songs recorded while Pete was the drummer, he received approximately four million pounds (the equivalent of about five and a-half million US dollars) in royalties.  At age fifty-four, Pete was thereupon financially set for the rest of his life life.  Judging by the interviews he has given over the years, he bears no ill will toward the Beatles.  He will turn seventy-six years old later this year.
 

Eleanor Rigby.  One of the Beatles' most haunting songs is Eleanor Rigby.  It is a tale of lonely people -- where do they all belong?  The song appears on the 1966 Revolver album, and was the B-side to the single Yellow Submarine.  In their early years, most of the Beatles' compositions were true collaborations, and the writing credit was accurately designated "Lennon-McCartney."  But once the lads moved from Liverpool to London circa 1963, more and more tunes were either "John songs" or "Paul songs."  (Note: When the Beatles first arrived in America, the reporters asked them how they decided which of the four got to sing lead on any particular song.  Their wisecracking reply was, "Whoever knows most of the words!") Despite this change of regimen, the writing credits continued to list "Lennon-McCartney."
 

Eleanor Rigby is a Paul song.  In a radio interview with Pop Chronicles he explained that the song's working title was Daisy Hawkins, but in the process of redrafting and demo-ing the song for his mates, the title changed to Eleanor Rigby.  Paul also claimed that he never knew, or knew of, anybody with that name or with the surname of the priest, Father McKenzie, referred to in the song. The Alternative Fact.  Behind St. Peter's Church where Lennon and McCartney first met, there is a quaint graveyard, the home of many tombstones decades of years old.  One of those grave markers is for Eleanor Rigby.  The "real" Ms. Rigby passed away in 1939 at the age of forty-four.  When confronted with this intriguing news of the grave, Paul reluctantly admitted that maybe, just maybe, he was subconsciously aware of the decedent when he was searching for a song title.  What makes dubious Paul's insistence that he did not intentionally borrow the name from the tombstone is that just a few feet away from the dearly departed Eleanor is the grave of a man named McKenzie. 

Ninth Annual Movie Ratings Recap

This is the most exciting time of year for the movie industry and its legion of fans, from LA to London, Sundance to Cannes, and Toronto to Tribeca.  There are six huge events within a six week period, and we are right smack dab in the middle of it.   In early January the Golden Globe Awards, sponsored by the Hollywood Foreign Press, kicked off the hoopla, succeeded a few weeks later by the Screen Actors Guild awards ceremony, more commonly known as the SAG Awards.  The SAG Awards were quickly followed by the Directors Guild Of America presentations, which took place last Saturday, and this coming Sunday the British Academy Of Film And Television Arts, aka BAFTA, will honor its winners.  Of course the Big Kahuna, the most anticipated and tradition-soaked ceremonies, are the Academy Awards, as chosen by the Academy Of Motion Picture Arts And Sciences.  The Academy will bestow this year's Oscars on February 26.

The astute readers among you might wonder, "Wait a minute, Old Boy.  We thought you wrote that there are 'six huge events,' but you only mentioned five."  Oh, my, you are right!  How could I have forgotten the eagerly anticipated Ninth Annual Movie Ratings Recap?  How convenient that the Recap, which is the missing sixth piece, comprises the heart of this post!
 

This will be the sixth annual Recap I have posted on this blog.  The first three were sent, pre-blog, to my kids via unsolicited -- and perhaps unread -- e-mails.  As the name "Recap" implies, this post is simply a summary of the rankings for the movies I saw and reviewed here during the twelve month period which ended last week on January 31.  I am sorry to report that I only managed to take in nineteen films at the theater during that time, compared to twenty-five during each of the two immediately preceding years.  Would you be interested in hearing my excuses?  No, I didn't think so.
 

As always, the movies within each ranking are listed in my order of preference within that group (e.g., within the B+ group, my favorite was Sing Street), and the month of my review is indicated after each title.
 

My movie wishes for you this new year are that you are able to escape to the cinema more often, and that all the popcorn chompers, pop slurpers, texters and talkers be sitting far away on the other side of the theater.

A:

Cafe Society (August '16)

La La Land (January '17)

A Man Called Ove (November '16)

A-:

Patriots Day (January '17)

B+:

Sing Street (May '16)

Fences (January '17)

The Invitation (May '16)

Hidden Figures (January '17)

B:

They Will Have To Kill Us First (April '16)

Manchester By The Sea (December '16)

Free State Of Jones (July '16)

Money Monster (June '16)

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot (March '16)

Gypsy: Rock & Roll Nomads (April '16)

B-:

Sully (December '16)

Indignation (August '16)

C+:

Arrival (November '16)

Love & Friendship (June '16)

The Girl On The Train (October '16)