Movie Review: "A Star Is Born"

"A Star Is Born": B+.  After watching my oldest granddaughter, five year old Rosie, make her ballet debut recently at the beautiful Masonic Heritage Center, the thought occurred to me that I never posted my review of A Star Is Born.  In a way, the film's title serves two purposes.  First, it is a succinct summary of the story's arc.  Secondly, in real life it reflects the revelation of Lady Gaga as a legitimate actress, one who has already gained international fame as a multi-faceted singer.

A Star Is Born is a love story about two singers trending in opposite directions.  Bradley Cooper, who produced, directed, and co-wrote the script, plays Jackson Maine, a country super star.  He fronts his own band, performing before huge adoring crowds.  But Jackson clearly has his demons even though professionally he's at the top of his game. Jackson's M.O. is to cool down after each show by having his limo driver cruise the city streets while he mixes hard drugs and booze in the back seat.

It is during one of these late night binges that he stumbles into a drag bar.  There, he becomes fixated by the featured singer, Ally (Gaga), and uses his celebrity status to insist that the bar's manager introduce him to her.  She is star struck and he is smitten.  As their relationship grows stronger, he coaches her vocal efforts and invites her to join him on stage, thus putting her in a position to display her talents to arena and stadium crowds versus small clubs.  He even writes songs for her. This is the real deal, not just infatuation.

Every successful cinema love story requires the chemistry to work between the leads.  This has proven to be one of Cooper's skills as an actor -- witness 2012's Silver Linings Playbook (reviewed here November 24, 2012; B+) with Jennifer Lawrence.  No doubt his matinee idol good looks is a valuable starting point.  Gaga, an inexperienced actress, might have been a surprise casting decision, but as it turns out, a brilliant choice.  She has just the right charisma to mold into the character of Ally, a rags-to riches ingenue possessing outstanding vocal talent.

Aside from the discovery of Gaga as an exceptional actress, the greatest strength of the film is the wonderful music, one keeper followed by another.  Some of the concert footage was shot at Coachella, a humongous annual outdoor concert.  With several cameras situated behind Jackson and his fellow band members, we get a sense of what they are seeing and feeling as they go through their set list.  It impressed me as being similar to an Imax experience, without the Imax screen.

Ironically, even though the soundtrack is a definite plus for A Star Is Born, the "music side" of the story also is responsible for most of the negatives.  Biggest among them is the change in direction championed by Rez Gavron (Rafi Gavron), who becomes Ally's agent.  He convinces her to change her genre from folk/singer-songwriter tunes to a pop/dance party sound.  I could not buy into this shift, but alas, Ally did.  In the last stages of the movie, Rez also has a private conversation with Jackson which leads to unfortunate consequences.  Why anything said by Rez, a person Jackson has no reason to trust and whose opinion he'd be unlikely to respect, should have any impact on Jackson is a puzzle and defies logic.

The Cooper-Gaga version is the fourth remake of the original 1937 movie of the same title.  The challenge for Cooper as director and script co-writer is to maintain the interest of the thousands of viewers who are probably already familiar with the story's conclusion.  The aforementioned conversation between Jackson and Rez is problematic, but to give credit where it's due, the last ten minutes of the film partially make up for it.

Unlike my daughter Jill who has seen this film twice in rapid succession and may even go again, I predict that I will not feel the urge to rewatch it, but many songs from the soundtrack merit inclusion on one or more of my go-to playlists.

Movie Review: "Can You Ever Forgive Me?"

"Can You Ever Forgive Me?": B+.  As many skilled actors and actresses do, Melissa McCarthy steps out of her usual comedic comfort zone to take on a serious role in her latest film, Can You Ever Forgive Me?  McCarthy plays Lee Israel, a once popular novelist whose works are now ignominiously stashed on the bargain table in a few small independent bookstores.  Before we can muster any sympathy for Israel, we see her summarily dismissed from a menial clerical job for swearing at her co-workers without provocation.  Clearly this is an unsavory, angry woman who devolves into a pathetic criminal.

Even when she was employed, Israel is practically destitute.  The vet won't look at her sick cat until she comes up with the $90 she owes from previous visits.  Her landlord, although sympathetic to a degree, cautions her that she is close to eviction for past due rent.  She resorts to gathering up books scattered throughout her dingy apartment and carting them to a used book store.  There, a snotty clerk humiliates her in front of other customers, telling her in effect that Lee Israel books are so yesterday.

Although Israel is presumably intelligent and educated, she has convinced herself that the only feasible way she can make a living is by writing.  Her alcoholism no doubt clouds her judgment.  Her long-time agent, Marjorie (SNL veteran Jane Curtin), is bluntly honest with her, trying to convince Israel that there will be absolutely no market for her current writing project, a Fanny Brice biography.  Israel is not convinced.

It is during her research on Brice in a New York public library when Israel makes a discovery which sends her down the road to perdition.  Tucked inside a crusty old volume is a letter which is handwritten by Brice.  After looking over her shoulder to make sure no one is watching, Israel slips the letter into her purse and absconds with it.  A shop owner, Anna (Dolly Wells), whose acquaintance Israel has made, offers her a small sum for the letter, apologizing that she'd be willing to offer more if only the contents weren't so bland.  This apology sows the sinister seed in Israel's mind.  Why not forge letters from famous novelists, playwrights and actors of years gone by and then pass them off as authentic treasures?

Israel uses her writing talents for this very purpose.  She has the ability to concoct expressions and phrases which closely approximate the actual writings of the deceased persons she's imitating.  Her specialties include Dorothy Parker, Noel Coward and Edna Ferber.  This introduces us to a fascinating world I knew little about: dealers who buy and sell collections and various artifacts of former celebrities.  Israel's plan works brilliantly, until it doesn't.  And when it doesn't, things spiral south in a hurry. 

As much as I admire McCarthy's risk-taking for delving into a new (for her) type of character, my favorite of the film's several features is the performance of Swazi-British actor Richard E. Grant.  He plays the role of Israel's complex friend, Jack Hock.  Wearing a long scarf and a tweed jacket, Jack initially gives the appearance of a bon vivant, seriously interested in literature and Israel's resume as a once-popular author.  We find out, simultaneously with Lee, that Jack is, in fact, homeless, a street person whose confidence and presence belie his true lifestyle.  When Lee realizes that she may have gone too far in her game of forgery, she enlists Jack as her partner in crime.  This enhanced level of their relationship leads to both humorous highs and unfortunate lows.

There is an old saying that truth is stranger than fiction.  Can You Ever Forgive Me?, which is based on the memoir of Lee Israel, furnishes strong support for that adage.

Movie Review: "The Wife"

"The Wife": C.  When Sony Pictures distributed The Wife it chose a promotional campaign focusing on the acting talents of Glenn Close who plays the title character, Joan Castleman.  Most of the national reviewers, some of whom rarely have a discouraging word about any film whatsoever, followed along a similar vein, emphasizing the work of Close and writing relatively little about the story itself.  After having seen the picture in question, I can see why.  The film is a slogging dud, and the only reason to fork over your admission fee is to ascertain whether the veteran actress deserves the Oscar nomination she is likely to receive.

The plot involves a married couple, Joan and her husband Joe (Jonathan Pryce), who first meet illicitly when she is a student at Smith College and he is her married writing professor.  From their earliest years together she has served first as his editor and eventually as his secret ghost writer.  If not for Joan, it's likely Joe would have never been able to get his first novel, The Walnut, or for that matter any of his subsequent offerings, published.

Joe is a philanderer, a chauvinist, a phony and an unsupportive father, yet Jane, a bright woman, sticks with him.  We learn both from flashbacks and the present narration that he owes every bit of his success to her.  But her help goes beyond what is ethically acceptable; she is the person actually doing the writing for which he is accepting all the credit, even going so far as to tell the press that his wife does not write.  Jane seethes covertly, but when her husband wins the Nobel Prize for literature, things between them come to a boil.

There are several things wrong with this film, the most important being that lack of a surprise element.  I got the feeling that the filmmakers' plan was to stun the viewers with a late revelation that the real writer whose books were universally acclaimed was Jane, not Joe.  The problem with that plan is that anyone who saw the trailer for The Wife already knew going in that Jane was the one penning the stories.  (By the way, the trailer played in theaters and on television for weeks before its Twin Cities release on August 31.)  Even if you never saw the trailer, the cat is let out of the bag with the very first flashback to Jane's days in the sixties as a serious and potentially great writer at Smith.  The part of young Jane is played by Close's real life daughter, Annie Starke.

A second fault with the film is its dearth of realistic, interesting side characters.  Christian Slater plays Nathaniel, a non-fiction writer who practically stalks the Castlemans with the goal of writing an authorized (or, failing that, an unauthorized) biography about Joe.  He knows his preys' secret and tries to get an admission from Jane.  Slater comes across as a weasel.  Max Irons, the real life son of actor Jeremy Irons, plays the Castlemans' son David.  I am going to give Irons the benefit of a doubt and conclude that it was a weak script, not his acting, which made me wish his character had been left on the cutting room floor.

Finally, screenwriter Jane Anderson, adapting an original work by Meg Wolitzer, gets a thumbs down.  Besides the miscalculation on the audience's ability to unravel "the secret" before the half-way point, the script has many sections which deserve criticism.  The low point is a scene in the Castlemans' Stockholm hotel room where Joe, who had minutes earlier failed in his seduction attempt with a beautiful young photographer, Linnea (Karin Franz Korlof), accuses Jane of deserting him, even though it is 4:00 in the afternoon!  The dialogue imposed upon the actors here is anything but sharp, and who could not have correctly predicted that the walnut -- yes, the walnut!-- on which Joe had inscribed a sentiment to Linnea was going to be uncovered by Jane while grappling with Joe?

Seventy-one year old Close is thought of by many in connection with her contemporary Meryl Streep, who is two years younger.  Close's film career began in 1982 with The World According To Garp, and she has had very steady work ever since.  Streep got her first break with 1977's Julia, and is one of the most highly acclaimed film actresses of all time.  Streep has been nominated for twenty-one Academy Awards, winning once for Best Supporting Actress and twice for Best Actress.  Close has been nominated six times, three in each of the two aforementioned categories, but has not caught the brass ring.  It would not come as a shock if Close is not only nominated for her work in The Wife but also, as a sentimental acknowledgement for a solid and long career, is sent home with the gold statuette.

Baseball's Newest Innovation, Openers

The World Series ended last night with the Red Sox out-classing the Dodgers, four games to one.  I did not have a dog in the hunt although I must admit that, in virtually any contest involving a California team versus non-Cali, I pull for the latter.  As for a reason I'll just say it has something to do with my nine post-merger years working at Wells Fargo, and let it go at that.  Now I must wait five cold months for the best sport to resume play.  Before bidding farewell to the season I'm going to write about the game one more time.

***

Depending on your resource, the game of baseball is believed to have originated toward the end of the nineteenth century.  For decades it was commonly labeled "America's favorite pastime" even though today the sport's enthusiasts would have to admit professional football has surpassed baseball for the top spot.  The undeniable popularity of fantasy football accounts for much of the pigskin prevalence.

MLB's executives have tried tweaking baseball's rules to make the game more interesting to viewers, especially young people.  But it's hard to accomplish that goal without incurring the wrath of the purists and traditionalists who think the rules are fine as is.  It is interesting to note that most of baseball's changes during the last ten years have been what you might call "cosmetic" rather than integral to the sport's core.  For example, since 2008 first and third base coaches have been required to wear batting helmets, the catalyst being the death of Mike Coolbaugh, a coach for the Denver Rockies' Class AA affiliate, Tulsa, in July 2007.  He was struck by a line drive while coaching first base.  Concern for safety has also led to the installation of protective netting in front of the infield seats from dugout to dugout (and in some stadia, beyond).  This came about only after several fans were seriously injured by screaming line drive foul balls.

Other more recent rules changes include waiving an intentionally walked batter to first base rather than going through the formality of the pitcher tossing four balls out of the strike zone, and limiting the number of mound visits, excluding pitching changes, to six per nine inning game.  Both of these revisions are intended to speed up the game.  The latter change has noticeably served its intended purpose; the former is more form over substance.

Since the advent of the designated hitter by the American League in 1973 there have been only two changes which clearly affect managerial strategy and the way baseball is played. It is pretty hard for a manager to come up with a unique concept or innovative approach which hasn't already been tried by the hundreds of managers who've come before, including those like Hall Of Famers Whitey Herzog, Sparky Anderson and Earl Weaver.  The first of those two changes was the employment of exaggerated defensive infield shifts.  Although infield shifts have been around since the 1940's, no one paid much attention to them until the last five years or so.  Now shifts are a prominent part of game planning, with several teams even going so far as to change their infield alignment once or twice during the same at bat, depending on the pitch count.  I'm going to save discussion of infield shifts for another day. 

The second major post-1973 change was created this season, specifically on May 19, 2018.  It was in the Tampa Bay Rays game that day against the California Angels that Rays manager, forty year old Kevin Cash (at the time MLB's youngest manager), came up with an idea that has been copied numerous times in the remaining five months of the season:  the "opener."  An opener, not to be confused with a "starter," is a pitcher who begins the game for the express purpose of throwing only one or (at the most) two innings.  His job is to face the top three to six players in the opponent's batting order, after which he is replaced by a teammate who usually functions as a regular starter in his team's five-man rotation.  The regular starter them pitches as long as he is able, which in today's style of play usually means anywhere from five to seven innings.

In that historical spring game, Cash had Sergio Romo open the game.  The thirty-five year old veteran had appeared in 588 games during his long career, but never as a starter!  Romo was unfazed by his new job description, striking out the side in the bottom of the first.  Then, according to plan, Rays regular starter Ryan Yarbrough took over the pitching duties to begin the home half of the second, hurling six and a-third innings of four hit ball, yielding just one earned run to pick up the win.

Why do managers use an opener to pitch the first inning or two instead of simply going with one of their regular starters?  There are a handful of reasons, but the two I'd place at the top both have to do with the opponent's batting order.

Third Time Through Order:  Statistics show that starting pitchers are less effective the third time through the lineup.  This is the result of a combination of arm fatigue and batters' familiarity with the pitcher's "stuff."  By the time a lineup has turned over twice, most starters, if they are still on the mound, have thrown more than seventy pitches.  Their fast ball tends to lose a little velocity, and their breaking ball isn't spinning as much.  When the fast ball is slower than it was in the early innings, not only is it easier to hit, but the difference in speed between fast ball and changeup diminishes, an advantage for the hitter who is sitting on a fastball but can more easily make an adjustment if he gets a changeup.

By using an opener for an inning or two, the starting pitcher's third time through the lineup is more likely to begin with opponents at the bottom of the order (say, those in the 7, 8 and 9 holes) than the top.  A team's weakest hitters usually occupy the bottom third of the order.

Professional Courtesy:  As you know, baseball has many so-called unwritten rules.  For example, it is deemed unsportsmanlike to lay down a late inning bunt in an effort to break up a no hitter.  Another no no is to steal a base in the last inning or two if your team is winning by more than seven runs.

An unwritten rule germane to this post is the practice of each manager announcing at least one day ahead of time who his starting pitcher -- i.e., the one designated to pitch the first inning -- is going to be.  Although managers are not mandated to make such a proclamation, it is nevertheless offered as a professional courtesy.  Most managers will set up their batting order to utilize and emphasize left handed batters facing a right handed starting pitcher, and visa versa.

The use of an opener makes the rendering of such a courtesy almost useless.  When the opponent uses an opener followed soon by a regular starter who pitches with the opposite arm, a manager's best laid plans can be thrown asunder.  For example, let's say a manager stacks his lineup with left-handed batters because the opponent's announced starting pitcher is a righty.  If a different pitcher, this time a southpaw, enters the game in the second or third inning, that manager must choose between two poisons: use pinch hitters early in the game, or be stuck with his original lineup which he drew up thinking that it would work well against the guy who turned out to be merely an opener.

Other Reasons:  A team might choose to use an opener if no one in its regular five man rotation has had the standard four days of rest between starts.  This can result from double headers or previously postponed games which now have to be made up.  On the flip side, a manager might choose to use as an opener a relief pitcher who hasn't pitched in a week, just to give him some work.

The Rays ended up using an opener fifty-four more times this season after May 19.  Seven other teams, including the Twins, experimented with the innovation as well.  The Brewers manager, Craig Counsell, took the concept to an extreme in the final week of the season when he used relief pitcher Dan Jennings as the opener, then replaced him with another pitcher after Jennings had faced only one batter, the Cardinals' Matt Carpenter, whom he retired.  One clever Twitter fan opined that Counsell brought in Freddy Peralta for Jennings to preserve the no hitter.  No wonder baseball games last so long!

Kevin Cash and Craig Counsell, ages 40 and 48, respectively, are both youthful managers.  Young managers are more likely to think outside the box, bucking methodologies which have been around for more than a century.  Last week the Twins hired Rocco Baldelli as their new field general.  At age 37, he supplants Cash as MLB's youngest.  It would not surprise me to see Baldelli use openers for around 20% of the Twins games next season, especially given the fact that the team has only two regular starters, Jose Berrios and Kyle Gibson, whose places in the rotation are etched in stone.

Quarterly Cinema Scan - Volume XXXIII

Look out for Miss Lotte Lenya,
And ol' Lucy Brown- Mack The Knife (Bobby Darin, 1959)


Movie lovers who claim that the best James Bond movies were those in which Scottish actor Sean Connery played Agent 007 (pronounced "double-O seven") typically receive little argument.  There have been twenty-four Bond films going back to 1962, with the chic, debonaire Connery starring in the first seven.  The first four in the series set the bar high: Doctor No (1962), From Russia With Love (1963), Goldfinger (1964) and Thunderball (1965).  Since they were released during each of my high school years, I consider them main elements in the pop culture of my youth.

Bond was a creation of British novelist Ian Fleming, who unfortunately died at the relatively young age of fifty-six in 1964, just as his fictitious hero was becoming internationally famous via the silver screen.  You might say that James Bond was Sean Connery's alter ego.  Connery became so identified as the secret agent that it took years for audiences to accept him in other roles.  The handsome Bond character exuded confidence, calmness, bravery, a sense of derring-do, and most importantly, a keen wit on display especially at the end of certain scenes.  [Bond after the bad guys' helicopter crashes and burns: "I'd say one of their aircraft is missing."]  With those attributes in mind, perhaps Connery was born to play Bond.  And of course, Bond was a lady killer.  Some of the most ravishing actresses of the day were "Bond Girls," including Ursula Andress, Honor Blackman and Jill St. John.

Last month I had the chance to watch From Russia With Love, which I had not seen since my Minot days.  Almost all of the several rankings of Bond films available on the internet have From Russia With Love graded as one of the top three.  Inquiring minds want to know, "Why?"

For starters, all the requisites for a bona fide Bond caper are present in From Russia With Love.  Beautiful leading lady who falls for the Englishman?  Check (Russian Tatiana Romanova played by the gorgeous Italian actress Daniela Bianchi).  A wicked mastermind with a distinctive accent and a memorable name?  Check (Lotte Lenya as Colonel Klebb, aka Number 3).  A cold blooded assassin?  Check (an almost unrecognizably young Robert Shaw as Red Grant, who appears throughout the film but doesn't utter a word 'till half way through).  Then we have other Bond staples such as the slightly older homeland secretary, Miss Moneypenny, who has a tongue-in-cheek office flirtation game going with Bond, all the while realizing that the chicks in whom 007 is romantically interested are at least ten years younger than she.  Lois Maxwell plays that minor yet essential role in the first fourteen films in the series.  And what would a Bond film be without some gadgets?  There are plenty of them here, such as a folding sniper's rifle with infra-red night vision capabilities and a flat throwing knife, the important difference being they are secretly contained in a single attache case which will explode unless opened in an unconventional way.

What sets From Russia apart from many films of its genre is the plot, which is more clever and layered than your typical spy action story.  Colonel Klebb has defected from Mother Russia to Spectre, an evil organization with designs on taking over the world.  She is called upon to execute a plan devised by creepy chess grand master Kronsteen (Vladek Sheybal), whereby not only will Spectre gain possession of a top secret Russian communications device called a Lektor, but Bond will be permanently silenced as well.  Klebb dupes Romanova, a clerk in the Russian consulate office in Istanbul, into agreeing to pull off the Lektor theft, believing it to be an act of loyalty to the mother country and unaware of Klebb's defection.  Under orders from Klebb, Romanova convinces the Brits that she will turn over the Lektor to them, but only if Bond arrives in Istanbul to assist.  When Bond sees her photo, he does not need his arm twisted to accept the assignment.

From there we have Bulgarian killers working for the Russians, a pro-western Turk (Pedro Armendariz) with a secret telescope directly below the Russian consulate, a gypsy camp where Bond hides out and is immersed in a shootout, a ride aboard the Orient Express, a helicopter trying in vain to run down Bond (reminiscent of the famous crop dusting scene in North By Northwest), and gondola excursions on the canals of Venice.  It's all great fun.  There are even two scenes, following what I mistakenly took for the ending, where Bond comes face to face with imminent death.  Against all odds he lives for another day.

****

These are the movies I watched at home during the third quarter.

1. Charley Varrick (1973 drama; Walter Matthau and Andy Robinson rob a rural New Mexico bank only to find that their loot belongs to the mafia and hit man Joe Don Baker has been hired to retrieve it.)  B+

2. The Death Of Stalin  (2017 comedy; Steve Buscemi plays Nikita Khrushchev, the master plotter who out-schemes and out-maneuvers several Communist Party leaders to assume control of the Soviet Union when its dictator, Adrian McLoughlin as Joseph Stalin, dies in 1953.)  B-

3. East Of Eden (1955 drama; disillusioned James Dean tries to come to grips with the favoritism father Raymond Massey bestows upon older brother Richard Davalos, while Richard's girlfriend, Julie Harris, becomes the only person who sees Dean's good side.)  C+

4. Faithless (1932 romance; repercussions from the Great Depression wreak havoc on the relationship between heiress Tallulah Bankhead and marketing man Robert Montgomery.)  B

5. From Russia With Love (1963 James Bond thriller; Sean Connery goes to Istanbul to assist beautiful Russian Daniela Bianchi steal a top secret communications device.)  A-

6. The Girl He Left Behind (1956 comedy; college slacker Tab Hunter's lack of ambition turns off girlfriend Natalie Wood, resulting in Tab's military enlistment where he becomes an army slacker.)  D-

7. The Guernsey Literary & Potato Peel Pie Society (2018 romance; Lily James is an accomplished London author who immerses herself in the secrets of a book club started during the World War II German occupation of an English Channel isle.) A-

8. Hiroshima, Mon Amour (1959 romance; a French actress, Emmanuelle Riva, has an affair with a married Japanese architect, Eiji Okada, while she is in Hiroshima to work on a post-war, peace-themed film.)  C+

9. Love Locks (2017 romance; New Yorker Rebecca Rominj accompanies daughter Jocelyn Hudon to Paris, where they unwittingly check into a hotel now owned by Rebecca's old college flame, Jerry O'Connell.)  B+

10. Tully (2017 drama; Charlize Theron is totally stressed out before and after giving birth to her third child, but things dramatically improve when a nighttime nanny, Mackenzie Davis, arrives.)  B

11. The Way We Were (1973 romance; Barbara Streisand, a left wing activist, and Robert Redford, an apolitical writer averse to stirring the pot, fall in love during their college days and proceed to have joy and heartbreak throughout the next decade.)  A-

Movie Review: "Eighth Grade"

You know, Dad, teaching is a lot different now than when you taught.

- Jillian Rose Kaster (2018)

"Eighth Grade": B-.  If the latest film by twenty-eight year old comic writer Bo Burnham had been titled Seventh Grade or Ninth Grade, I probably would have skipped it.  But with eight years' experience as a former eighth grade teacher (following three years as a sixth grade teacher), I felt naturally drawn to check Eighth Grade out.  The action takes place in contemporary suburbia.  Although many of the traits of thirteen and fourteen year olds as illustrated by Burnham have held constant over the decades, this movie simply could not have portrayed young teen life in the seventies, when I was experiencing the best job I ever had.  The reason is simple: the omnipresence -- one might call it the curse -- of cell phones.

The star of Eighth Grade is fifteen year old actress Elsie Fisher, who plays insecure eighth grader Kayla Day.  One of the obvious ironies concerning Kayla is displayed in the opening shot, and thereafter interspersed throughout the story, in which Kayla is making a video of herself rendering advice for the handful of subscribers to her Youtube channel.  (It is never revealed if she has any subscribers at all.)  Her topics include "Be Yourself," "Put Yourself Out There" and "How To Be Confident."  She does not break any new ground, and the verbal delivery is mostly ineloquent.  Only those who know her would be in on the secret that in real life she is unable to follow her own recommendations.  She is the opposite of the person she is urging her viewers to be.

Burnham soon manifests the point with a short first act scene.  Kayla dreads being "honored" with The Quietest Student Award, then cringes when that distinction is announced at an assembly.  Why couldn't she have been as lucky as Aiden (Luke Prael), recipient of the Best Eyes Award?

Kayla is beset with many of the problems common for her age.  She has a few friends, but is in need of a best friend who could become her confidant.  Her dad, Mark (Josh Hamilton), is a single parent trying his best to give his daughter what she needs, but it's tough when she brings her phone, complete with ear buds, to the dinner table.  Kayla finds Mark's attempts at humor annoying.  He tries to initiate a conversation, but runs into a dead end.  Mark deserves more respect, but since we're supposed to be enjoying a comedy, we viewers are asked to brush off the daughter's rude, immature behavior, just as poor Mark does.

One cleverly written thread pertains to a pool party to celebrate the birthday of the "coolest girl in school," Kennedy (Catherine Oliviere).  Kennedy's mother, clueless as to the social relationship between her daughter and Kayla (virtually none), invites Kayla to Kennedy's backyard pool party, a birthday celebration.  Good performances by the young actresses perfectly reveal the uneasiness each is feeling:  Kennedy wanting to reprimand her mother and hoping Kayla will decline; Kayla wanting to decline but instead giving an evasive answer so as not to seem ungrateful or uncool.  Kayla decides to attend, but the anguish, anxiety and self-consciousness she feels about appearing in a bathing suit is poignant.  The presence of dreamy Aiden at the co-ed gathering adds to her discomfort.

A different thread executed with less success evolves from the middle school's tradition of having the soon-to-graduate eighth graders shadow a high school student throughout a late spring day.  Kayla is assigned to Olivia (Emily Robinson), whose exuberance over the prospect of showing off her school is off the charts.  When Olivia goes above the call of duty by inviting Kayla to hang out with Olivia's high school friends at the mall, things go south, most notably a back seat game of Truth Or Dare proposed by one of the older boys.

I found it peculiar that, given the title of the film, we never once see Kayla studying.  (Good thing she didn't have me for her teacher!)  And, I only recall one scene where she's actually in a classroom.  We never find out what the subject is, because the students are being put through a "live shooter in the building drill."  Yikes!

Eighth Grade had a couple of laugh-out-loud moments, but not enough to sustain it as a successful comedy.   The first rule for a film that focuses on one character to the point where she appears in every scene is this: the character must be interesting.  Kayla has plenty of attributes to admire, but that does not qualify her as interesting.  Putting down her cell phone once in awhile would be a good first step in changing that.  

A Three Paragraph Autobiography

Exactly three years ago today I was attending my 50th high school class reunion in Minot.  The Ryan High Class of '65 had eighty-nine members.  We have the distinction of being the only class in the school's history not to have received a yearbook.  The two word explanation from the administration at the time was "no money."  It's a sore subject which raises its frowning head every time we get together.

Through the years we have had five reunions.  The same three or four women classmates end up doing 90+% of the work because they still live in the area.  So, by default, the job is theirs to accept or decline.  Thankfully, they have always stepped to the plate.  The reunions have been some of the best weekends of my social life.  We have class members throughout the country, yet many come back for every reunion.  Hardly any classmates have family left in the Magic City.  The attraction is simply the chance to be with folks we only get to see every decade or so and with whom we shared many good times and bad.  As a class we have a pretty high opinion of each other.  I definitely don't have a problem with that; in fact, I think our group's self-assessment is well deserved.

When we were students in the sixties, we were segregated into three tracks.  With rare exceptions, each student attended class only with students in her own track.  Consequently, the opportunities to develop friendships with those outside of our own track were limited, at least during the school day.  For kids like me and the incoming transfers from Minot Air Force Base, that could be problematic.  I believe that's a key reason why our reunions, even though held in a relatively remote part of the country, are well attended.  The reunions have been a vehicle for getting better acquainted with people who, ironically, share a history yet with whom we're not all that acquainted.   A case in point was Ken Korgel.

The most somber part of any reunion is learning who among our classmates has passed away.  As of three years ago, that number was up to fifteen, nine more than was the sad statistic at our 40th reunion. Ken Korgel died as a result of an automobile accident shortly after our 40th.  In the years following his retirement as a water plant operator for the city of Minot, Kenny had taken up ranching on the nearby prairies.  We were not in each other's track at Ryan, and for some reason never connected at a reunion until our 40th in 2005.  (He had transferred out of Ryan before graduation, yet was invited to the reunions.)  After speaking with him for the first time at length, I found him to be a very cordial and humorous guy, attributes common among most in my circle of friends at Ryan.  I regretted that it took forty-some years to get to know him, and was looking forward to seeing him again at the 50th.  Were it not for the reunion we would not have met.

As is common for many schools' reunions, the class members have been asked by the reunion committee to write a little bio each of the few times we've gathered.  For the first reunion in 1975, the classmates were succinct to a fault, writing only a few sentences describing their families and occupations.  But as we got older those bios started to expand.  This ritual was extremely interesting especially with regard to the submissions from classmates who were unable to make the trek to Minot.

For our 40th reunion the committee really went overboard, putting together a booklet with a page set aside for each classmate to submit a longer piece, in some cases accompanied by a picture or two.  The idea was that these would be the yearbooks we never had.  Those self-published nouveau yearbooks proved to be such a hit that the practice was repeated for our 50th reunion.  My submission for the 50th was three paragraphs, much longer than anything I'd sent to the committee before, but generally with a word count similar to what my friends wrote, i.e., those who bothered to write anything.

I've decided to post that 2015 epistle on this blog for two reasons.  First, I tried to insert a little humor, so it's within the realm of possibility, albeit slim, that some of what you read might generate a modest smile.  Who couldn't use a smile?  The second gets back to one of the reasons I've chosen to continue The Quentin Chronicle for now.  One or more of my grandchildren might some day come across the blog and read a post or two.  The subject matter of several of the posts I've written are autobiographical snippets which might fill in some of the blanks if and when they wonder what old Papa Johnny was like.  I wish I had more info on my four grandparents, two of whom died before I was born.  Oral history is hardly comprehensive; it can only take you so far.

Keep in mind that the following was written three years ago.  Some things have changed since then, most notably the arrival of granddaughters Louisa and June.  If I make it to my 60th class reunion, maybe I'll furnish an update.

****

I retired in 2007 after exactly twenty-four years and two days as a commercial attorney at Wells Fargo.  My wife, Mary, and I just celebrated our thirty-ninth anniversary in June. We have three kids, ages 37-31, all of whom are married and live here in the Twin Cities.  Gina is a food manager for a suburban school district, while Michael and Jillian teach high school English and kindergarten, respectively. Our greatest joy is being with our beautiful granddaughters, Rosie (age 2) and Winnie (1).  Mary and I can attest that all the wonderful things our friends told us about grandparenting are true; lots of fun with few of the responsibilities of parenthood.

To avoid being a total couch potato, I enjoy hiking, biking, writing, traveling, attending movies and plays, and checking out the restaurant scene.  For live music entertainment we are groupies of a bluegrass band called Luke Warm & The Cool Hands, mostly because they put on a great show, but also because our son and son-in-law are bandmates.  Mary and I are both big sports fans, especially following the Twins with hopes that they can avoid their fifth consecutive season of ninety-plus losses. We snowshoe once a year so that we can claim to be hardy outdoor enthusiasts.  For a change of scenery in the non-winter months we go to our cabin in the Wisconsin North Woods, where the main activities are boating, reading, canoeing, eating, napping and, naturally, beer drinking (those last two usually occurring in inverse order).  I like to fish, but only for two hours at a time in the middle of a sunny July afternoon. I wonder why I never even get a nibble.

Even though we’ve been in it for almost sixteen years, I am reluctant to join the twenty-first century.  I am not on Facebook, don’t own a Kindle, and still subscribe to the print edition of the daily newspaper.  Snapchat and Instagram are foreign to me. I signed up for Twitter three years ago; my next tweet will be my first.  I do know how to use e-mail, however, so if your time permits, please let me hear from you at periolat47@gmail.com.

Movie Review: "Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again"

"Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again": A.  Does the existence of a few imperfections automatically eliminate a film such as Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again from being deserving of the top rating?  Not in my little world.  Exhibit A is this post.  It would be easy to find fault with a plot twist here or a string of unlikely coincidences there, but the bottom line is that I can't rip a movie I thoroughly enjoyed.  I would gladly pay to see it again.

Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again, sometimes publicized as MM2, is billed as the sequel to the 2008 movie, Momma Mia! (aka MM1).  It is surprising that, given the enormous commercial success of MM1, the producers waited ten years for the most recent installment.  Both movies are built around the songbook of Abba, a Swedish quartet which has sold over a half a billion records and placed fourteen tunes on Billboard's Top 40 chart.

As is common with many musicals  -- for example, the play Beehive currently offered at the the Old Log Theater -- the story lines are more or less flimsy vehicles around which songs are introduced.  While it certainly is not necessary to have seen MM1 in order to catch on quickly to the story line of the new movie, a one paragraph synopsis of the former is hereby provided as my first of three public service announcements.

MM1 tells the story of Donna (Meryl Streep) and her daughter Sophie (Amanda Seyfried).  Donna owns a Greek island villa which she has attempted to convert to a hotel, but with mixed results.  It's there Sophie plans to have her wedding.  By secretly combing through Donna's diary, Sophie has learned that any of three men, Brit banker Harry (Colin Firth), Swedish sailor Bill (Stellan Skarsgard) or Yank architect Sam (Pierce Brosnan), might possibly be her biological father.  Without informing her mother, Sophie invites all three men to her nuptials, believing that once she gets to know them she will be able to figure out which one is her dad.  Of course Donna eventually discovers her daughter's ploy, but it is too late.  The trio of her former lovers has already checked into their rooms.  What happens next are the half-baked, and therefore fun, attempts to unravel the mystery.  We are also kept waiting to find out whom Sophie chooses to walk her down the aisle.

Ten years ago I gave MM1 a pre-blog rating of B-.  My main gripes were the hokeyness level (even lower than what I expected) and the sub-standard singing by many of the main players.  How could the sequel, released three weeks ago, be so much better that it deserves an A?  The simple answer is that the new movie keeps most of the positives of the first -- great songs, well-executed, large scale choreography, beautiful scenery and almost all of the original ensemble of cast and characters -- but trims a little of the hokey aspect and for the most part leaves the singing to the actors who can actually sing.  A better answer is that the plot has much more meat on its bones, and we are treated to the appearance of an enchanting, extremely talented new actress, Lily James.

MM2 is not only a sequel to the 2008 film, but a prequel as well.  In the present day somewhere between one and five years have passed since the conclusion of the original story.  Sophie, still played by Amanda Seyfried, is experiencing bittersweet emotions.  The Greek island inn her mother had always dreamed of owning, the Hotel Bella Donna, has experienced a renaissance.  Sophie has gone to great lengths to throw an elaborate "grand reopening," with a guest list including her "three dads" from MM1 and her mother's two besties and former Dynamos bandmates, Tonya (the hilarious Christine Baranski, who will surprise you if you're only familiar with her work in the television series The Good Wife) and Rosie (Julie Walters).  But the namesake of the hotel, Donna, has recently perished.  Adding to Sophie's heartbreak is her troubled relationship with her mate, Sky (Dominic Cooper), who is in New York.  It doesn't appear that Sky will make the party, and the prospects for Harry and Bill's attendance are equally dim due to circumstances beyond Sophie's control.

Interspersed with present day scenes are many flashbacks to 1979; hence, the prequel.  We follow the rapidly moving exploits of young Donna, energetically played by James.  From the film's opening scene we viewers know this is going to be a fun ride when, during her college commencement speech, Donna breaks into the Abba song, When I Kissed The Teacher, and the whole graduating class romps all over the premises to the shock and surprise of the faculty (one of whom is Abba co-leader Benny Andersson in a cameo appearance).  This table setting reminded me very much of the opening scene from La La Land (reviewed here January 23, 2017; A), when motorists on an LA interstate get out of their vehicles to perform a huge song and dance routine.  Young Donna's travels take her to France and Greece where she meets and has one night stands with Harry, Bill and Sam in rapid succession.  It sounds so salacious, but we are neither offended nor hugely disappointed thanks to the talents of Ms. James.  Her on-screen vitality makes the flashbacks the best parts of the show.

There are two moments in the movie which merit a special commendation.  As I alluded to above, Harry and Bill have conflicts which seemingly will prevent them from making their way to the Greek isle for Sophie's party.  Harry is stuck in Tokyo negotiating a lengthly, boring business contract, while Bill, the adventure seeking sailor, is somewhere in Scandinavia where he is being presented a prestigious lifetime achievement award.  Bill solves his logistical conundrum by having his twin brother, who is disheveled and intoxicated, stand in for him without anyone at the ceremony catching on.  It is the best of several funny moments.

The other praiseworthy scene is probably my favorite in any film I've seen in recent memory.  As an armada of ships rapidly sails toward the Bella Donna, dozens of crew members and passengers all break out into Abba's best tune, Dancing Queen.  I could not resist either smiling or toe tapping!  By the way, for those of you keeping score at home, the soundtrack for MM2 contains sixteen songs, all written by one or both Abba men (Andersson and Bjorn Ulvaeus), and six of which were also heard on MM!.

Finally, I promised you two more PSAs.  First, if you plan to attend the movie but have not closely read the list of cast members, don't.  There are two final act surprise appearances.  I benefitted from my failure to read the entire list of cast members beforehand; lucky me!  And lastly, unless you're on your way to a fire, I recommend sitting through the entire duration of the final credits.  Another surprise awaits.

Movie Review: "Sicario: Day Of The Soldado"

"Sicario: Day Of The Soldado": B.  With the plight of Mexican immigrants being an almost daily news item over the last several months, the setting for Sicario: Day Of The Soldado is timely.  The story overcomes several shortcomings to result in a movie most will find worth seeing if for no other reason than to give viewers an idea of the scope of problems facing both the migrants and the U.S. government, particularly the Drug Enforcement Agency and the Border Patrol.

The opening shot of federal agents in low flying helicopters combing the vast west Texas desert near the Rio Grande is grim and gripping.  The area is pitch black, pierced by the powerful search lights aboard the copters.  The humans below, presumably having illegally crossed the border/river moments before, appear as desperate prey, running away but with nowhere to go.  This is the first of many times Italian director Stefano Sollima successfully employs the unforgiving land as a central element to his film.

The feds' focus abruptly narrows from illegal immigration to terrorism when two explosions occur back-to-back.  The first happens in the desert in the aftermath of the helicopter pursuit. A suspect fleeing from the Border Patrol detonates his suicide vest, leaving prayer rugs -- likely evidence of his Muslim faith -- beneath his body.  The second takes place in a Kansas City supermarket, with scores of customers killed or injured by a band of terrorists who appear to be Middle Eastern.  Here is where the script writing gets a little dubious.  CIA agent Matt Graver (Josh Brolin) and his team deduce that the two incidents were perpetrated by men transported from the coastal waters of Somalia to Mexico, then on to the U.S.  They further conclude that a Mexican drug cartel must have been in cahoots with Somali war lords to pull off such unfettered trans-oceanic transportation.  Graver's solution is to start a war between the two leading cartels, a la gangland battles seen in The Godfather.  By the time that war ends, the cartels will be weakened.  This pretext to what the CIA orchestrates is not only far-fetched but, as we find out less than half way through the movie, erroneous.

One of Graver's first moves is to hire cold-blooded black operative Alejandro Gillick, played by the excellent Benicio del Toro.  [Note: Don't make the same mistake I've occasionally committed by confusing American actor Benicio del Toro with Mexican producer and director Guillermo del Toro.  The latter won two Oscars for his work in last year's The Shape Of Water (reviewed here on April 21, 2018; A-).]  Gillick's connections in Mexico smooth the way for the CIA to execute high profile crimes, an assassination and a kidnapping, staging both to appear as the work of opposing drug overlords, thus achieving the CIA's desired war between that country's two most powerful cartels.

The kidnap victim, Isabela Reyes (Isabela Moner), is the middle school age daughter of one cartel's leader.  The central story line concerns what happens while Isabela is in the custody of the CIA agents.  Their original plan to transport her swiftly by land north across the border does not go as planned; neither does their end game strategy.  Ironically the ruthless killer, Gillick, forms a protective bond with the young girl, while he and the detached Graver separate.

A subplot which eventually intersects with the main story arc is the saga of impoverished teen truant Miguel (Elijah Rodriguez).  He hangs out with an older crowd in the border city of McAllen, Texas.  They convince him that his bilingual skills will serve him well in the clandestine business of smuggling immigrants into the US.  Easy money.  Miguel is forced to grow up fast, getting in way over his head.

I am giving this movie a B, a solid B in fact, because it delivers plenty of tension, lots of gunfire and other high speed action, captivating cinematography, and most of all excellent acting.  Brolin and del Toro each have enough screen presence and machismo to carry this genre alone.  Put them together and you can be confident your money will be well spent.  Seventeen year old Moner is the real deal.  She is on the screen for at least half the movie, superbly handling a wide range of emotions and predicaments.  I hope filmmakers take note.

Unfortunately Sicario has a few problems of time and space which detract from the finished product.  For example, following a shootout in the middle of the Mexican nowhere, Graver jumps into a vehicle, does a U-turn and heads for Texas.  In the blink of an eye he is crossing on to American soil.  Meanwhile Gillick, who was in the same shootout with Graver, sets off on foot and spends days in the desert in an attempt to reach Texas.  Not even CIA spy satellites can detect his whereabouts.  In another scene, a man is shot in the middle of the night under a desert butte.  The men who are responsible are shown quickly leaving the scene in the morning sun.

The reputation of the CIA has taken several blows during the US "occupation" of Iraq.  Waterboarding and other forms of torture, mistreatment of prisoners (e.g., Abu Ghraib) and the killing of innocent civilians are some of the charges leveled against that agency and various defense contractors.  Sicario: Day Of The Soldato will not do anything to ameliorate the criticism.  In an early scene when the U.S. counter-terrorism strategy is being devised, the Secretary Of Defense tells Graver, "Dirty is exactly why you're here."  No kidding.  

Without the depiction of some CIA operatives' abhorrent behavior, the film probably would not have been made.  In real life, is such conduct necessary to win a war?  That is for others to determine.

The Case Of The Flyaway File

A few days ago I came across an envelope which was buried beneath a short stack of papers in our den.  I had used the envelope to stash credit card receipts until I received an actual monthly statement from the card issuer showing those charges.  My practice was to make sure the dollar amounts on the statement matched my receipts.  Then I would shred the receipts.  For some reason, I never shredded a particular receipt which now remained in the envelope.

The receipt in question is in the amount of $37.97 from the 212 Motel in Olivia, Minnesota.  The fading yellow paper bears the date July 28, 2006, exactly twelve years ago today.  I may not be able to remember what I ate for lunch yesterday, but I vividly recall the details of that evening.  It is a story I have never told anyone -- and I mean anyone -- but to mark the occasion of this twelfth anniversary, I am posting it today.

****

July 28, 2006 fell on a Friday.  Momma Cuandito was spending the entire week at our Northwoods cabin, while I stayed home to toil at my job at Wells Fargo, drafting loan agreements, promissory notes, mortgages, subordination agreements, manure easements and other exciting documents.  Momma Cuan had asked me to switch cars before she left, because my Lap Of Luxury, a 2005 Toyota Corolla, had more trunk space than her Mellow Yellow, a 2004 Volkswagon bug convertible.  She needed the extra room to haul some odds and ends, most certainly including several bottles of wine, to the cabin.

I usually use the time Momma Cuan is away to attend movies and sometimes concerts which I know she would not enjoy.  For example, my favorite genre of music is classic rock, which would not be on her top five list.  Such an opportunity presented itself that Friday night at Jackpot Junction, a casino in Morton, Minnesota with a fairly big outdoor arena.  The headliners were REO Speedwagon and Styx, two Illinois bands which gained national fame and are among my favorites in the geezer rock category.  Opening for them was Mickey Thomas who at that time was a solo artist but who had gained fame as the voice of several well known bands such as Jefferson Starship and Elvin Bishop.  (If you listen to oldies radio stations, you have undoubtedly heard Fooled Around And Fell In Love several dozen times.  Although the credited artist is Elvin Bishop, the lead vocals are by Mickey who played in Elvin's band when that # 3 hit was recorded in 1975.)

Buying a single ticket for the concert was no problem, but the asking price for the cheapest room at the casino's hotel was over $125.  In those days I would have opted to drive back to Minneapolis after the show rather than spend that kind of money on a room.  But there was a better alternative.  A mere sixteen miles north of Morton was the little burg of Olivia, home of the 212 Motel with rates less than one-third of the casino's.  Thus, my plan was hatched: attend the show, then make the twenty minute drive to the 212.

I looked forward to the concert experience all week.  I ducked out of work at noon that Friday, which in itself was something to relish.  I figured I'd drive all the way to southwestern Minnesota with the top down on Momma Cuan's bug, but I only made it to Eden Prairie when I eighty-sixed that notion.  It was too windy, and the skies looked threatening.  I settled for driving the remaining route with the top up, listening to Styx and REO CDs with the volume turned up to "11."  (Thank you for the thought, Rob Reiner!)  By the time I got to Jackpot Junction, roughly one hundred miles from home, I was totally pumped for the show.

Mickey Thomas was one of the best concert openers I have ever seen, not just an undercard filler but a bona fide rocker whose voice I'd put up against anybody's.  My faves, besides the aforementioned Elvin Bishop song, were Sara and Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now, two Starship songs with Thomas as lead vocalist, both having hit # 1 on the Billboard chart in the mid-eighties.

Styx and REO alternated top billing on their joint national tour.  For the Jackpot Junction gig it was REO's turn to close.  Both bands have been around since the seventies, and claim repertoires which enable them each to play their own songs over ninety minutes without once having to resort to a cover or a song the fans had never heard before.  For the record, Styx has released sixteen singles which have cracked the Billboard Top 40; for REO, the number is thirteen.  REO's masterpiece album released in 1980, High Infidelity, is one of the most commercially successful LPs in the history of rock, with virtually every song, not just those released as singles, getting substantial radio air play.

Neither of the headliners disappointed that evening.  They gave everything they had for the Minnesota fans, even though they had probably grown tired of playing mostly the same songs at every show from year to year.  The only gripe I have, attributable to both bands, is that they are posers.  Think of every rock concert cliche, and those guys are guilty of all of them.  Windmill guitar strumming, a la Pete Townshend; jumping on top of an amp to get a silhouette in the spotlight; racing across the stage from side to side for no apparent reason; asking the fans to fill in with vocals on a chorus or two.  Still, I forgave them.  It's their music that mattered most, and these guys rocked the house.

What would a concert be without a brew or two to enjoy with the rest of the audience?  I was proud of myself for abstaining during Thomas' set, but made sure I had a pint for each of the following two.  The skies had cleared and the outdoor air was warm, perfect beer drinking weather.  At one point I wished I'd been extravagant enough to stay at the casino hotel; I could have pounded down a couple more cold ones and walked to my room instead of driving to Olivia. 

When the concert ended around 11:00 there was the expected log jam of hundreds of cars all trying to leave via the sole exit driveway.  Either the audience had been comprised of a lot of locals, or else there were plenty of cheapskates like me who were unwilling to pay the casino's exorbitant hotel rates.  I made the executive decision to drive to Olivia with the top down.  The weather wasn't bad, and I wanted to experience the bliss one gets from riding in an open convertible through the countryside on a starlit summer night.  I owed it to myself, especially after aborting my open air westward drive earlier in the day.  What good was it to have a convertible at your disposal and not put the roof down?  It would only be for sixteen miles.  What could possibly go wrong?

I found out the answer to that question within seconds after leaving the casino grounds and turning north onto U.S. Highway 71.  Although I had checked my bag at the 212 on my way down to Morton, I had left a small manilla file filled with papers in the back seat of the bug.  I had purposely put the file there so that I could look over its contents -- a combination of work-related documents and a few newspaper articles -- during an anticipated coffee break on my way home Saturday morning.  But being unaccustomed to driving a convertible, I failed to take into account that the file and its contents would blow around once I gathered speed on the highway.

I wasn't more than fifty yards beyond the Jackpot Junction exit when the file and papers did, in fact, start blowing all over.  I thought for sure they would escape the car, which at that moment was probably traveling only twenty miles an hour.  I foolishly tried to gather the papers by reaching back with my right hand while simultaneously steering with my left.  The first result was a swerve or two.  The second result was a red flashing light in my rear view mirror.  The Renville County Sheriff was lying in the weeds.

When you think about it, it makes sense.  What better place for the cops to set up shop for DWI suspects than at the exit of an outdoor venue which had just hosted a rock concert?  On most nights, it would be easy pickings or, if you prefer, low hanging fruit.

I immediately pulled over, then waited for what seemed forever for the fuzzy wuzzy -- thank you for the term, Detective Kojak -- to approach.  I had my drivers' license and proof of insurance ready to present.  He merely glanced at it, then asked me to step out of the car.  He took me to the space between my car and his, where an extremely bright flood light from the squad was pointing.

Kojak: Have you been drinking?

I had only a second or two to think about how I would answer, if in fact I decided to answer at all.  I had consumed only two pints, and I was confident that even having three would not have put me over the limit.  Nevertheless, I decided to lie.  "I had one beer," I replied.

He ordered me to stand on one foot and count to 30 by threes (three, six, nine, etc.).  Luckily I was wearing tennis shoes which afford much more balance than almost any other style of footwear.  I passed the test, no problem.  But wait... there was another part to the test.

Kojak: Now stand on the other foot and count backwards from 30 by threes (thirty, twenty-seven, twenty-four, etc.).  

I considered informing him that I taught eighth grade math for eight years, so he should really come up with something more challenging, maybe an algebraic equation.  That consideration was quickly abandoned.  No one else thinks my jokes are funny.  Why should he?  I did as told.

Then he gave me a breathalyzer test which involved blowing into some kind of apparatus which he took back into his car while I stood there in the flood light. Meanwhile, dozens of cars were exiting Jackpot Junction and slowly passing me by.  Gawkers!  What if someone recognized me?  What an embarrassment!  What if the whole ordeal was being filmed by a dash cam and would appear later on Spike TV?  What if I registered over the limit?  "No way," I convinced myself.  Still, I thought about the five grand an acquaintance of mine had to pay a well known Minneapolis lawyer to defend him in a DWI case.  I felt guilty even though I was not.

A few minutes later he came out of his squad.  "You are under the limit, although I think you did have more than one beer."  How did he know?  I was pretty impressed with the accuracy of his equipment.  As he returned to his car he called over his shoulder, "Drive safely."

Before I got back behind the wheel I gathered up the wind blown papers, stuck them back in the manilla file and threw it all in the trunk.  Crawling along the highway at 35 mph, it took me at least a half hour to reach Olivia.

Discovering the faded yellow receipt from twelve years ago has brought back memories, both good and bad.  It has also caused me to add something to my To Do List:  I've got to put the Uber app on my phone.