Movie Review: "Murder On The Orient Express"

"Murder On The Orient Express": C+.  Agatha Christie suspense novels often follow a particular structure for which the celebrated writer is most famous.  A crime is committed and, due to an unusual setting, the reader knows that the perpetrator is one of a finite number of characters who has already been introduced.  Most importantly, the perp, whoever it may turn out to be, has no feasible means of escape. Christie's most famous story, And Then There Were None, places the characters on a mysterious inescapable island where a series of homicides occurs.  In many ways the premise of that thriller resembles the blueprint for the author's Murder On The Orient Express, published four years prior to And Then There Were None.  In Orient Express, all of the characters are passengers on or employees aboard the famous, luxurious train.  When one of them is killed in his private compartment, it is up to a fellow passenger, the self-proclaimed "world's greatest detective," Hercule Poirot, to figure out whodunit.  He can take his time because an avalanche caused by a blizzard has derailed the train a million miles from nowhere.

Kenneth Branagh, an Irishman whose fame was established mostly on stage portraying Shakespearean larger-than-life characters, wears three hats in Orient Express, functioning as co-producer, director and protagonist Poirot.  For the benefit of viewers not familiar with the Belgian mastermind, director Branagh films a long introductory scene at Jerusalem's Wailing Wall to show how Poirot, using what seems to be the scantiest of clues, solves a crime involving the theft of a precious artifact from a church.  Part of the fun with any of the thirty-three Christie novels featuring Poirot is admiring his talent for accurately sizing up individuals based on his first impressions.  He has the uncanny ability to notice things that most other sleuths either would not see or else would disregard: the mispronunciation of an Italian city, a small insignia embroidered on a woman's silk scarf, a furtive glance between two people which they thought went undetected, an intentionally missed shot by a military marksman, a not-quite-right accent.  Poirot in many ways is the Belgian equivalent to England's Sherlock Holmes, only without a wing man like Doctor Watson.

It is my unfortunate duty to advise you that the best two features of this movie are the cinematography and the costumes.  Where did this production get derailed?  (Pardon the pun, but I could not resist.)  After much consideration I have come up with one word that synopsizes the heart of the answer: staging.  Rather than let the story unfold with natural segues and continuous flow of the action, director Branagh has chosen to tell this story mostly in a series of one-on-one dialogues which, after awhile, become amalgamated in the short-term memory bank.  There are twelve suspects on board, and the detail-driven detective leaves no stone unturned as he interviews almost all of them individually.  Thus, despite the relatively large ensemble cast, most of the scenes include only two persons at a time, Poirot and his interviewee.  Consequently we tend to forget what any one of them had to say, what alibi they offered or what lie they told -- and there were plenty of them  -- as we and Poirot go down the line.  The movie chugs along --there I go again -- and never picks up speed.

Given the fact that the Orient Express included only three Pullman sleeper cars plus a dining car, the story seems better suited to a stage rather than a film.  For variety's sake, Branagh even has Poirot interview one suspect while seated outdoors in the snow while they await the railroad crew's attempts to get the train back on the tracks.  The staging of that conference struck me as silly and gimmicky.  Plus, some long-range camera shots show the train stuck on an extremely high bridge, so where was the ground where the interview in question took place?

The plot relies too heavily on Poirot's uncanny ability to recall with great precision all of the events, pertinent people and facts surrounding a famous kidnapping case, referred to as "the Armstrong Case," years ago which resulted not only in the death of an infant but in the prosecution and execution of a suspect whom most rational beings would have known to be innocent.  There is no mistaking the notion that Christie, the author, was thinking of the real life kidnapping of Charles Lindbergh's baby in March 1932, a mere eighteen months before she published Orient Express.  Director Branagh's use of black and white flashbacks to show snippets of the Armstrong kidnapping and its aftermath is creepy yet effective.

The denouement, where Detective Poirot not only solves the case but explains how he reached his conclusion, is, again, remindful of Sherlock Holmes.  Branagh sets up this scene inside a nearby tunnel, where all of the characters -- except, of course, for the decedent -- are sitting at a long table as if they were attempting to replicate the Last Supper.  Another example of a poor staging decision.  The soliloquy here by Michelle Pfeiffer's character is so over the top that, were it rendered during an audition, most directors would not have offered her a call-back.

My guess is that most viewers will figure out whodunit no later than the three-quarters of the way through the film.  It would not take the efforts of "the world's greatest detective" to do so.  In the last shot Poirot appears to be on his way to Egypt.  I don't suppose this is intended to set us up for Death On The Nile, another Christie mystery starring Hercule Poirot.  

Movie Review: "American Made"

"American Made": A.  As Tom Cruise proved in 1986's Top Gun, put his character in a high speed jet on a secret mission and you are well on the way to an exciting story with as many twists and turns as the flight path.  In American Made, Cruise plays Barry Seal, a TWA pilot who forsakes a high salaried job and comfortable life with his All American family for the chance to make millions in a shady and extremely dangerous new career.  The story is mostly told via flashback videos recorded by Seal approximately eight years after the initial action.  To assist the viewers, the videos are designated with on-screen labels showing place and year, e.g., "Panama 1978."

Appearing in several scenes is one Monty Schafer (Domhnall Gleeson), who most likely is working for the CIA but, with a twinkle in his eye, never quite expressly admits to it.  When Schafer first approaches Seal, it's disclosed that Schafer and his employer, whoever that may be, already have a thick dossier on Seal, including his background, his family and his strengths and weaknesses.  The major strength would be Seal's elite skill in the cockpit, while the negative characteristic of his penchant for risk-taking makes for an ironic pairing.  Schafer does not need to sell the opportunity to Seal on the basis of patriotism, i.e., helping his government.  The biggest motivation for Seal is money.

We viewers are told that American Made is based on a true story.  Those of us familiar with the seventies recall that the United States, despite public statements and press releases to the contrary, supported various dictatorships around the globe, particularly in Central and South America.  The fear was that a democratically elected government would open the door to a rise in anti-Americanism, resulting in a central government leaning toward communism.  In the midst of the Cold War, it was important for the US to support pro-western leaders such as Panama's Manuel Noriega.  The most vital method of support was furnishing guns and ammo.  Secretly transporting that arsenal from the States to Panama was the mission which Schafer presented to Seal. There was little doubt in Schafer's mind that Seal, a natural-born daredevil, would say yes.

Seal goes into this arrangement with the CIA with eyes wide open.  He is cognizant of the dangers, knowing that his own government will disavow any connection to either himself or the gun running operation should Seal stumble into trouble. Seal chooses not to tell his wife, Lucy (Sarah Wright), what his new occupation is.  She believes he is and always will be a pilot for TWA, a job which affords their family a very comfortable lifestyle in New Orleans. He'd be crazy to even consider another position.

Once Seal has taken on the high risk quasi-sorties for the U.S. government, his appetite for excitement is whetted further.  A Columbian drug cartel run by three hombres, including Pablo Escobar (Mauricio Mejia), needs to get its contraband goods into the United States. Seal seems to them the ideal candidate. No sense flying an empty plane back home from nearby Panama, they point out.  When they mention $1000 per kilo (about two pounds), Seal's eyes light up; his plane can probably carry 1500 pounds! Of course he'll be their guy. What's to lose, except maybe his freedom, his family and his life?

The story gets more complex, with head-scratching decisions made by Seal at every turn. Well, maybe not so head-scratching when you consider that he can't find room on his property or in the local banks' -- yes, plural -- vaults for all his cash. If only his line or work did not have to be on a cash-only basis!

As is true with many stories involving clandestine operations, the plot takes us to a variety of unfamiliar locations such as: Nicaragua, home of the Sandinistas who were opposed by the US-supported Contras with the help of Seal; the swamps and bayous of Louisiana, Seal's preferred location for dropping off the Columbian cartel's inventory; and Mena, a western Arkansas hamlet chosen by the CIA when it moved Seal and his astonished wife out of New Orleans for security purposes.

At age fifty-five, Cruise continues to accept roles which actors half his age might find too strenuous.  Wright, playing his on-screen wife, is twenty-one years younger, yet the age difference is not at all apparent.  Playing Seal had to be a challenge.  In one scene he's confidently playing cat-and mouse above the Gulf with Border Patrol planes; in another he is staring down the barrels of automatic weapons held by a band of itchy-fingered revolutionaries in the jungle; in yet another sequence he is trying to soothe his seething wife after the family has been uprooted from New Orleans.  No matter his predicament, we are pulling for him at every stage.

Finally, a word about the ending.  It has long been my belief that movies which tell a story mostly via flashback have a self-imposed hurdle to ascend because, arguably, the dramatic potential of the last act is jeopardized.  We know that, no matter what leads up to that point, we will eventually reach that very point in the story arc.  But American Made's ending totally sideswiped me; I did not see it coming.  As I was watching the movie I realized that it easily qualified for a grade of A-, which is reserved for the very best movies I have seen in a given year.  But because of the masterful ending I have decided to raise my original ranking by one notch up to an A.

Four

The number four has prominence

in our society,

It may not be Almighty One

but outshines two and three.

Four presidents on Rushmore:

George, Tom, Ted and Honest Abe.

Four Majors in the golf world:

Masters, Opens, PGA.

Music had some great quartets:

Beatles, Kinks, Coldplay, the Who,

the Stones, Led Zep, CSNY,

And don't forget U2.

Four suits are found in every deck:

Spades, diamonds, clubs and hearts.

Four evangelists wrote the gospels:

Matthew, Luke, John and St. Mark.

A swimming relay has four strokes:

Back, breast stroke, fly and free.

Four spaces on a music chart:

F, A, C and E.

The Rams' Fearsome Foursome,

The Steelers' Steel Curtain,
Vikes' Purple People Eaters,

All four-man D-lines I am certain.

A secondary has four backs,

Four infielders in baseball,

Four seasons comprise every year:

Spring, summer, winter, fall.

I've lived in the Quad Cities,

Four years under the Dome,

Illinois, Iowa, Nodak, Minny,

I've called each one my home.

Today I hit the Big Seven-0,

I look back at my life,

Four-plus decades of wedded bliss

with Mary, my patient wife.

We have been blessed with three great kids:

Gina, Michael, Jill,

They still find time for their old man

even though I'm o'er the hill.

Things 'round here haven't been the same

since two thousand thirteen,

A new day dawned, new roles assumed

for Momma Cuan and me.

How is it possible for these little girls

to send us over the moon?

We've got our own Mount Rushmore Four:

Rosie, Winnie, Lulu, June.

Rosie's an adventurer,

She's always on the go,

The zoo, the mall or T-ball,

She never takes it slow.

Winnie loves the great outdoors,

A Minnesota girl at heart,

You'll find her biking down the street

or swinging in the park.

Tiny dancer Lulu

has a rhythm and a beat,

She runs around and talks a lot,

She's lightning on her feet.

Four month old June's a happy babe,

Always ready with a smile

that can light up any room she's in,

though no teeth for a while.

I've always liked the number four

without reason or rhyme,

I could just as easily picked six,

or seven, eight or nine.

Now four means much more to me

than to most folks, I assume,

I think about them night and day,

Rosie, Winnie, Lulu, June.

Quarterly Cinema Scan - Volume XXIX

You no doubt recall from my Quarterly Cinema Scan - Volume XXI posted on October 10, 2015, that I labeled The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance as the greatest western of all time.  But that 1962 masterpiece was not included among the movies scanned in that post because, even though I'd viewed it several times pre-blog, I had not watched it during the relevant calendar quarter.

A few weeks ago the opportunity to watch it as a blogger presented itself on TCM, so of course I simply had to view it so I could include it in this post.  It remains my favorite western, ever!

The film was directed by John Ford, who was famous for filming westerns in cinemascope, using beautiful deserts, mountains and other landscape features for a backdrop.  By contrast, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance was actually shot on a Hollywood soundstage, but this change of procedure does not detract from the wild west atmosphere which pervades the story.

The movie opens with a gray-haired U.S. Senator Ranse Stoddard (Jimmy Stewart) stepping off a passenger train in a whistle stop town called Shinbone. His wife Hallie (Vera Miles) is with him.  When a young journalist from the local newspaper, the Shinbone Star, learns that a U.S. senator is making a rare visit, he and his editor talk Stoddard into granting an interview.  They are particularly curious as to why he and his wife made the cross-country trip from D.C. to the Rockies.  Stoddard's initial explanation is that they are in Shinbone to pay their respects to one Tom Doniphon, who died there recently.  The newspapermen have never heard of Doniphon, so they insist, almost rudely, that the senator provide a detailed background.  Stoddard puts up a mild protest, then proceeds to tell them about his long ago relationship with Doniphon.  Stoddard's recollections are revealed in a flashback, which comprises 95% of the remaining movie.

In the flashback, probably going back about forty years, Doniphon (John Wayne) is the most respected man in Shinbone.  Although he is not the town marshal, a role assumed by the worthless and cowardly Link Appleyard (the incomparable Andy Devine), Doniphon's presence alone is enough to keep Shinbone's problems to a minimum.  It doesn't hurt that Doniphon has a quick draw and a deadly aim with a six shooter.  He's putting an addition on his ranch house outside of town in preparation for the day when he will make Hallie, the pretty waitress at Peter's Place, his wife.

Lee Marvin plays Liberty Valance, a gun slinger who spreads fear far and wide with impunity.  His trademark is a silver-handled whip with which he administers ruthless beatings to his victims.  When Ranse first appears in the flashback, he is brutally assaulted by Valance during a stage coach robbery, and left for dead.  After Doniphon carts his near-lifeless body into town, Ranse is slowly nursed back to health by Halle.  Ranse is a brand new attorney with dreams of using the law as a means to bringing peace and order to this western outpost.  That directly contradicts Valance's violent modus operandi, thus putting the two men on a collision course.

Most westerns have one, at the most two, big name stars on their cast list.  This film has an abundance of riches, including an all-star lineup.  Liberty Valance was the first of three movies, all westerns, in which Stewart and Wayne co-starred.  By 1962, both were established veteran actors, with Wayne having appeared in over twenty films which Ford directed.  Marvin, who would win a Best Actor Oscar three years later portraying another cowboy in the western comedy Cat Ballou, was also a star on television.  M Squad, a police show my family faithfully watched every week because it was set in Chicago, displayed Marvin's serious acting talents.  Miles doesn't have much to do in Liberty Valance, but one year later starred in Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho, a chilling tale.

The secondary players as well are uniformly terrific.  Besides the aforementioned Devine, Edmond O' Brien steals every scene he's in with his portrayal of the town drunkard who also happens to be the Shinbone Star's editor.  Character actor Strother Martin plays one of Liberty's sidemen.  Martin's career is mostly known for uttering one of the most famous lines in cinematic history: "What we've got here is a failure to communicate" (from 1967's Cool Hand Luke).  Liberty's other evil sidekick is played by Lee Van Cleef, who rose to stardom, along with Clint Eastwood, in the mid-sixties via the so-called Spaghetti Westerns, including The Good, The Bad And The Ugly.  

The movie star cast is only part of the reason Liberty Valance is a tremendous film.  You have the violent Valance opposing two disparate men, the peaceful Stoddard and the he-man Doniphon.  One of the subplots is the fragile relationships Halle has with Doniphon, her presumed future spouse, and the newcomer Stoddard.  And we witness Doniphon's anguished state of mind; just how far can he and should he go in protecting his rival, Stoddard, from annihilation at the hands of Valance?  The next time you hear Gene Pitney's hit title song on your favorite oldies radio station, pay attention to the lyrics.  The song tells the story without spoiling the ending.  Speaking of which, the final scene of the story, which takes place after the long flashback has finished, is one of the cleverest and most memorable endings of any genre, western or otherwise.

***

Here are the movies I watched at the QE during the third quarter of 2017:

1. An Affair To Remember (1957 romance; Playboy Cary Grant and charming red head Deborah Kerr, both engaged to others, think they've fallen in love with each other aboard a trans-Atlantic voyage, but to be sure they make plans to meet six months hence on top of the Empire State Building.) A-

2. Cinderella Liberty (1973 drama; James Caan is a sailor on leave in Seattle who falls in love with Marsha Mason, a single mom who makes her meager living as a pool shark and prostitute.) B+

3. Experiment In Terror (1962 detective drama; Glenn Ford is a federal G-man attempting to nab psychopath Ross Martin without getting bank employee Lee Remick killed.)  C+

4. Harold And Maude (1971 comedy; Bud Cort is an eccentric young man who fixates on suicide, mutilation and funerals, then finds a kindred spirit in seventy-nine year old Ruth Gordon, an offbeat lover of life.) A- 

5. Having A Wild Weekend (1965 adventure; The Dave Clark Five are stunt men who, with model Barbara Ferris, skip out on their London employer and head for the English west coast while eluding their pursuers.)  C-

6. Kissin' Cousins (1964 musical; Air Force Lieutenant Elvis Pressly is charged with the task of obtaining permission from his hillbilly mountain kinfolk, led by Arthur O'Connell, to build a missile base nearby on Porcupine Flats.)  C+

7. The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962 western; Young lawyer Jimmy Stewart arrives in Shinbone gunless and clueless, but is coached by tough guy John Wayne when Jimmy's life is threatened by gunslinger Lee Marvin.)  A

8. Notorious (1946 spy drama; CIA agent Cary Grant helps arrange for Ingrid Bergman's infiltration of a post-war Nazi operation headed by Claude Rains in Rio.)  B+

9. Separate Tables (1958 drama; a disparate group of characters who live in a residential hotel on the English coast have their own lives' little dramas to work out verbally.)  A-

10. Taxi Driver (1976 drama; Robert DiNiro is a psychotic ex-marine suffering from insomnia, causing him to work through the night as a cabbie who's disgusted with the degenerates and filth he encounters on the streets of New York City.)  A-

11. Vertigo (1958 drama; Former San Francisco detective Jimmy Stewart, forced to retire due to acrophobia, falls in love with Kim Novak, a woman he's been hired to surveil.)  B+

Movie Review: "American Assassin"

"American Assassin": B+.  Since 2005 Momma Cuandito and I have been on the beaches of Bandol, France, Tulum, Mexico and Noto, Italy.  If I had seen American Assassin prior to visiting those foreign sands, we might have stayed home instead.  After you witness the opening sequence you'll know why. 

American Assassin is the first film rendering of any novel by Vince Flynn, a St. Paul native who passed away four years ago from prostate cancer at the age of forty-seven.  Although counter-terrorism/action stories are not my favorite genre of either books or films, I always enjoyed listening to Flynn's interviews with local radio host Dan Barreiro, who invited Flynn as a semi-regular guest on his show.  Flynn always came across as a down-to-earth regular guy who was smart, humble and conversant, complemented with a knack for great story telling.  Coincidentally, what prompted me to see American Assassin was another recent Barreiro interview with Dylan O'Brien who stars as Mitch Rapp, the heroic secret agent in thirteen of Flynn's thrillers, not including Mitch Rapp books written by Kyle Mills after Flynn's passing.

My first impressions of O'Brien were that he looks too young, fresh-faced and lanky to be cast as an assassin of any kind, let alone one who goes after Middle East terrorists.  Second and third impressions?  Yeah, his character can do it all: martial arts, boxing, marksmanship with all makes and models of guns, smarts, drive, hand-to-hand combat skills, strength, bravery and determination. Rapp's biggest weakness is his difficulty obeying orders from his superiors, including orders to abort a mission because of a change in circumstances which makes continuation almost suicidal.  He is bound and determined to right a terrible wrong personally suffered by him at the hands of the terrorists.  If Mitch can do so in conjunction with the CIA, fine; if he has to go it alone, that's okay too.  He's willing to play by the CIA's rules as long as it suits his purposes.  His field superior, Stan Hurley (Michael Keaton), thinks he can keep the reins on Rapp, but that's wishful thinking.

Keaton is excellent playing Hurley, a middle-aged tough guy and a former Navy SEAL whose method of training agent candidates is one step short of attempted murder.  Hurley initially does not want to accept Rapp into his group because of (legitimate) concerns over Rapp's reputation for blowing off orders.  But Hurley's superior, CIA Deputy Director Irene Kennedy, skillfully played by the usually understated Sanaa Lathan, has studied Rapp's behavior and background to the point where she feels confident insisting Hurley take him on.

Of course when you have a good looking macho man like Rapp, it's only natural to cast a female counterpart.  Enter Annika (Shiva Negar), who is described by Deputy Director Kennedy as a CIA spy who's been working undercover in Istanbul for the last five years.  She and Mitch are often paired together in dangerous situations.  For most of the story the two of them, along with Hurley and others, are trying to intercept a supply of plutonium which has been stolen from a decommissioned nuclear facility in Russia.  The Americans fear it will end up in the hands of Iranian hardliners who have big nuclear bomb aspirations.  Following one lead after another, the search takes them to several European cities such as Warsaw, Bucharest and Rome.  No matter where they find themselves, there is danger lurking nearby.

The best way to enjoy this film is not to overthink it.  There are enough plot holes to demand a rewrite.  But this isn't a documentary; it's meant to be pure entertainment.  So, if Mitch is strapped to a chair behind enemy lines in a room full of baddies, and the CIA to that point has never been able to pinpoint exactly where that room is located, don't be surprised if a shootout occurs anyway and Mitch survives.  Director Michael Cuesta is not about to knock him off in the second act.  Each of the action scenes is staged and choreographed splendidly.  Some parts are hard to watch, such as uses of a blowtorch, pliers as a manicure tool, and waterboarding without a board.  Still, it is generally not over the top a la Quentin Tarantino films.

I read that one reason the producers chose twenty-six year old O'Brien for the lead role was that his youth would enable him to play the same character in future Rapp films.  There is an almost endless supply of material, not only because Flynn was a prolific author but also because the franchise is being continued by Mills.  The most famous film agent/double agent of all time was James Bond, a character made famous by Sean Connery who starred in seven Bond capers from 1962 to 1983.  When the first Bond movie, Dr. No, was shot in 1962, Connery was thirty-one years old.  One can imagine the young O'Brien following a similar path.  In fact, the final scene in American Assassin strongly suggests that is the plan.  

Let's Be Honest, Lynx Got Hosed

When it's crunch time, athletes aren't the only parties who are responsible for coming through in the clutch.  The officials, too, have an obligation to perform at their peak.  And just as is the case with players in the field or on the court, the game situation can get too big for some officials resulting in a call or non-call which arguably costs the aggrieved team the game.  Whether you are an athlete or merely a fan, you realize this and accept it.  Some balls are going to be called strikes, some defensive pass interference penalties should have gone against the receiver, some basketball fouls are ticky-tack.  Human imperfections come with the territory.

What I can't stand, however, are the apologists telling the media, "One official's call didn't cost us the win.  We had our chances."  As sure as the sun rises in the east, you can count on some pollyanna making such a statement.  It happens every time.  To those tree huggers my reply is often, "Poppycock!"  Sometimes a bad call does determine the outcome of a close contest.  When coaches or players deny it in a post-game interview, I have to think the fear of being fined or suspended by the league office forces them to fib.  What they really would like to declare is that the bad call(s) did indeed cost them the game.    

There is a frequently aired television commercial for Continental Tire in which ESPN sports show host Dan Patrick is standing on a basketball court, ball in hand, back turned toward the hoop.  Facing the camera outside the arc he asserts, "We're led to believe each individual point is worth the same amount, regardless of when it's scored.  Layups are always worth two points, theoretically.  But fans know that's not the case because here, in the last minute, everything counts for just a little bit more.  Under thirty seconds, three pointers tend to feel like five.  As for buzzer beaters [here Dan flips the ball over his shoulder toward the hoop...swish!] they're worth the whole shebang."

I'm not sure what that shot or his message has to do with a tire company, but I love that TV spot just the same.  When a game is on the line, everything gets magnified.  The difference between a hero and a goat is almost always established when the outcome is in doubt.  Why was the  A's and Yankees' Hall Of Famer Reggie Jackson called Mr. October?  Because in the playoffs, particularly World Series play, he rose to the occasion.

Several years ago in women's college basketball, the two best teams in the country were unanimously considered to be UConn and Notre Dame.  On paper, there was a severe drop off in talent between those two teams and the rest of the field.  The Huskies and the Irish easily won their respective region championships, thus advancing to the Women's Final Four.  But due to a quirk in the tournament brackets, those two teams had to face each other in one of the national semi-finals.  The NCAA, realizing that the UConn-ND tilt was going to be a de facto national championship, assigned its best three-person officiating crew to work that semi-final game, instead of giving that trio the honor of being assigned to the title game.  One of those three refs was Dee Kantner, generally and annually considered the best ref in the women's college game.  (She is also one of only two women ever to be employed as a referee in the National Basketball Association.)  The rationale for the assignment was obvious: The big game demands referees who are the best.

This Sunday the WNBA Championship series begins, featuring a rematch of Minnesota's only professional sports team to win a championship in over twenty-five years, the dynastic Minnesota Lynx, versus the defending WNBA champs, the LA Sparks.  One hopes that the WNBA, which some claim is on life support as evidenced by its financial dependence on the NBA and the extinction of six WNBA teams over recent years, is smart enough assign competent and qualified referees to its showcase series.  They failed to do that in last year's finals when the Lynx attempted to win their fourth WNBA championship in six years.

***

Here is what happened in game # 5 in the best-of-five series.  The winner would be crowned WNBA Champions.

With three minutes to play in the final quarter, the Sparks led 71-63, the largest lead of the game for either team.  A minute and twelve seconds later, a Lindsay Whalen steal of an in-bounds pass followed by her layup knotted the score at 71.  The Target Center capacity crowd was beside themselves with glee.  At the 1:12 mark Sparks all-star power forward Nneka Ogwumike, who would later be selected by the Associated Press as the WNBA's Player Of The Year, sank a two-footer as the Sparks reclaimed the lead.  Her shot came almost simultaneously with the expiration of the shot clock, and the referee closest to the scorer's table made a hand signal above his head to indicate he wanted to review it at the next stoppage of play.  Did Ogwumike get her shot off in time?

That stoppage did not occur until Minnesota called time out with just 35.8 seconds left.  It wasn't until then that the three-person officiating crew found out that the WNBA rules do not permit a review of any play in the last two minutes of the game unless there is a whistle immediately after the play in question.  In other words, the referees either did not know the rule or did not apply the rule!  To add salt to the Lynx wound, television replays clearly showed Ogwumike did not release the ball until after the shot clock had expired.  Her two points should have been disallowed.

But, there is more... With 23.4 seconds left and the score tied at 73, Lynx center Rebekkah Brunson was fouled while rebounding a missed shot under her own basket.  The referee who was standing a mere five feet away along the base line, with an unobstructed view, called the foul on Sparks guard Essence Carson, even though the replays indisputably indicate that it was Ogwumike who grabbed Brunson's wrist; Carson was at least a giant step away.  If Ogwumike would have been whistled for the foul, it would have been her sixth, thus disqualifying her from the game.  As many people know, it was Ogwumike who won the game, and thus the championship, for the Sparks when she put in a desperation three-footer on an offensive rebound with 5 seconds left.  That was the sixth and last lead change to occur in the games' frenzied final three minutes.  Final score: Sparks 77, Lynx 76.

To recap, the three person officiating crew made a horrible call with less than thirty seconds to go (begrudgingly, possibly forgivable) and did not know a basic league rule which should have been employed with under ninety seconds to go (unforgivable!).

***

To the league's credit, Rene Brown, its Chief Of Basketball Operations, admitted the next day that the refs blew the call when they allowed Ogwumike's basket to count.  (She did not address the phantom foul called on Carson.)  But, as Lynx superstar Maya Moore stated after being told of the admission, "That doesn't make me feel any better."

The WNBA is a league with ardent followers who, unfortunately, comprise a small fan base.  Many sports fans who are not necessarily male chauvinists do not take the league seriously.  There are more than a couple of reasons:  Teams wear jerseys branded with huge font indicating a corporate sponsor -- for the Lynx it is Mayo Clinic, for the Sparks it's Equi Trust Life Insurance.  (Are the city or team names even on there?  How do they sell any swag?)  There are only twelve teams in the league.  The Lynx, by virtue of their regular season best record, were granted a double bye straight into the semi-finals.  If it's that easy to reach the semis, is it a legit tourney?  The WNBA's pay scale is much less than what the women earn in overseas leagues during the winter.

In short, the WNBA can't afford another championship series where it entrusts the officiating to a trio which should instead be working Monsignor Coates League sixth grade games.  The WNBA, even though thirty-one years old, is still searching for authenticity.  If it hands over the series' officiating duties to a group of amateurs as it did last year, that could be tantamount to a death wish.  To do so would be a disservice to the players, coaches and fans, and would give the sporting public a legitimate reason to ignore women's professional basketball going forward.  In this post-Title IX era in which women's sports are more popular than ever, that would be a shame.  The WNBA's best-of-five championship series should set a gold standard for women's basketball.  Let's hope we don't have a repeat of last year.  

Taking Stock

On the morning of June 14, 2007, I sent the following e-mail to my boss, Marci, two time zones away in San Francisco.  The subject line read, "September 14, 2007": 

Good morning, Marci, 

September 14, 2017 is: 

- Three months from today. 

- Exactly twenty-four years and two days from my hire date. 

- The day I'm going to hang it up. 

John  

Up until that moment, the only Wells Fargo colleague ("teammate" in corporate speak) who knew of my retirement plans was my secretary ("administrative assistant," if you will) of fifteen years, Pam, whom I'd told the day before.  To the extent I may have "looked good" in my job performance during those years, Pam was a big factor and I felt she deserved the heads-up.

Things went more or less as planned during those final three months.  I turned down the offer of a fancy schmantzie Windows On The World retirement party in the IDS tower during my final week and instead opted for a beer bash at Glueks.  Good decision!  The party was on the company dime, and was well attended at least in part because it was also on company time.

The reason I wrote "or less" above is that, on my last day, I ended up working until 6:10 p.m.  (The traditional last day exit time is roughly 10:30 a.m.)  I was trying to iron out the last minute details on an ag lending deal for one of my Des Moines banker-clients.  The lawyer who was scheduled to take over my office started moving his stuff in about 4:00 p.m.  We were tripping over each other's boxes.  What a circus!  It wasn't until a gathering at Bunny's later that Friday evening with family and friends that I felt truly relieved and retired.

So, if you've connected the dots to this point you now know that today is the ten year anniversary of my retirement.  If I were more eloquent, poetic or contemplative, I would be able to craft a post which would do justice to the thoughts swimming around in my little noggin.  But, as the saying goes, you've got to play the hand you're dealt, so I am going to keep my epistle limited to two general thoughts which have occupied my consciousness lately.

Believe it or not, the first has to do with a hockey coach, a peculiar notion given the fact that I have never played the sport -- unless you count broom hockey.  I think of retirement as having a lot in common with graduation.  Starting a new chapter, turning the page, and so on.  As a former student, parent and veteran teacher, I have attended many graduation ceremonies.  I could count on a couple of fingers the number of times I have thought about any one commencement speech more than twenty-four hours after its delivery.  The big exception was a speech given at a Benilde-St. Margaret's High School commencement exercise, circa 1996, the year of Gina's graduation.  Varsity boys' hockey coach Ken Pauly was chosen to speak.  A lot of what he said was standard, something like "the world is your oyster," "go forth and do great things," "you can accomplish almost anything if you set your mind to it," etc.

But here is where Ken's talk rose above the usual message.  He said that when a kid graduates from high school, she tends to envision her future in a known world with her then-present family and circle of friends.  He said he felt the same way when he was eighteen.  What opened his eyes is that two of the most important people in his life, his future wife and his best friend, he did not even meet until he was in his twenties or thirties.  His message was something like this: Cherish the people you currently know, but be open to meeting, befriending and possibly caring deeply for new people who just might become key players in your adult life.

His words certainly ring true for me.  As of the date of my retirement I was fifty-nine years old.  Although I had known Luke ever since he and Michael became classmates and buddies in sixth grade, I never would have guessed that he would marry Jill eight years after I left Wells.  Also as of September 2007, I had never met either Gina's future husband, John, or Michael's future bride, Lindsey.  In many ways my three kids are like Mary, but in at least one important category they followed their father's lead by marrying a wonderful person.

The icing on the cake are our four beautiful granddaughters, Rosie, Winnie, Lulu and June.  When June was born two months ago I sent a boastful e-mail to three of my Domer friends.  Referring to the little girls I wrote, "They are always on my mind. It's hard for me NOT to think about them -- a good problem to have."   Ken Pauly's prognostication is proven correct.  I am gaga over those four little peanuts who obviously were not around in 2007.

The second general thought can probably be reduced to one word: luck.  There is an old bromide that one makes his own luck.  I'm not sure I buy into that, at least not totally.  Sure, it starts with Mary.  If it were not for the Viet Nam war I would have never found her; different topic for, maybe, a different future post.  Suffice it to say that we have been married for forty-one years, and I know I am a very lucky man.

Connecting the concept of luck to my retirement goes beyond what I wrote above.  There were five or six Wells Fargo lawyers who were a couple of years older than I and who retired during the two year period immediately preceding my exit.  When they'd return to the office for a visit, their evaluation of retirement was unanimous: "I'm so busy I don't know how I managed to perform a full time job."  They were clearly loving it.

But there was another Wells lawyer, Margaret, who was several years younger and retired in the spring of '07.  (She and I both started working for Norwest in 1983, when there were only six attorneys in the Law Department.)  She was single, the only child of New England college professors who owned a quaint cottage on a small lake in New Hampshire.  Carlton College had drawn her to Minnesota for her undergraduate studies, and she remained here for her career.  Peg kept a picture of that cottage, her next home, on her desk, and was known to say many times to people who entered her office, "If you're looking for me in the future, this is where I'll be."  No one talked about and anticipated life in retirement more than she.  Yet, less than a year into her retirement, she was stricken with cancer and passed away shortly thereafter.

Although Peg was not a close friend of mine, her passing was shocking to me.  Why was she denied that for which she had worked so hard to achieve?  Why have I been lucky enough to still be around a decade later?  Not only that, but Mary and I have enjoyed relatively good health, all of our kids live close by, and to coin a phrase, life is good.  As I wrote above, this is one of the things I have been thinking about lately.  I especially think about it when I go to church.  I don't go for the music -- there is none -- the scripture readings, the homilies or any of the folderol.  I go there to pray.  I have a lot to be thankful for.