Chasing the Blues

"The Killing" a Guilty Pleasure

"The Killing," another little watched, much discussed AMC show, might be the gloomiest and moodiest TV production ever. Every one of the characters possess such psychic pain that I half expect a mass suicide will be the final episode. Still the show, in which life-challenged Seattle detectives attempt to solve the murder of a young woman, holds a film-noirish appeal.

In keeping with the downer mood, the main character detective Sarah Linden, played by Mirelle Enos, is the least glamorous female lead that I can remember, although Enos somehow scored a picture spread in Esquire that sports a bare-butt shot. Joel Kinnaman, who plays her in-drug-recovery kooky partner, transcends the gloom and doom with crazy screen charisma that already is bringing him movie offers. Another pleasure of the show is that it's brought back the great creepy character actor Mark Moses, last seen as the alcoholic ad exec and Peggy Olson paramour "Duck" Phillips in "Mad Men," a much more interesting character than Peggy's current lover, the hazy counterculture journalist.

The dark, elliptical writing and a number of good performances make the show. I'm surprised that the negative depiction of the Indians who own the murder-scene casino hasn't drawn a protest from the Native-American Anti-Defamation League. But, the female tribal chief and her Braves, the subject of snide anti-Indian epithets from Kinnaman's character, make for pleasantly evil villains. With the rain, the harbor, and a few space neele shots, Seattle looms as a main character, although the show is shot in Vancouver.

 

Monday Morning March

Jamie Dimon sounds like the Wizard of Oz after the curtain was pulled away.  Discussions of credit default swaps and derivatives, as with explanations of the theory of relativity, I can follow for a while, but then they sound like Professor Irwin Corey's old routines. ...Too bad that Kevin Na endured such heckling at the Players' Championship and its notoriously rowdy fans, but his endless waggles had me yelling at the TV to just hit the ball. ...Good to see Matt Kuchar overcome his rep as a big money winner who cannot win championships...NBC kept hyping the 17th island hole, claiming that it's constantly on the players' minds. The goofy-golf hole has to be the most overrated in the game....If "Mad Men" is supposed to be so authentic, why haven't the men and women's hairstyles and clothing changed? I assume the show is supposed to have moved to about 1966, when the Beatles-style natural look came in for men, and women moved toward less restrictive clothing. All of the Mad Men still have their hair slicked back, and the women seem to be stuck in 1961. ...Jon Hamm's wooden acting seems more annoying this year. ...Please end the fat Betty storyline.

Farewell, Nicholas Katzenbach

In my morning perusal of The New York Times the other day, I saw an image indelibly etched in my memory bank, from 1962 or so, of Kennedy-era Assistant Attorney General Nicholas Katzenbach confronting Alabama Gov. George Wallace at the University of Alabama's entrance.

As absurd as it may seem to today's young people, Katzenbach had arrived in Tuscaloosa to enforce the entry of black students to the state university, and Wallace vowed to keep them out. Katzenbach prevailed,and Wallace backed down, a major development in the eventual victory of civil rights.

Back in those days, the events of the civil rights movement and other historical occurrences played out in black and white television, which I watched when I came home from school. Long before CNN and Fox News, the then three networks NBC, CBS and ABC covered the news, breaking into daily programming to give live reports of history in the making. So, I have a vivid memory of the situation captured in the Times photograph, having watched it at home, no doubt hoping for the quick broadcast of one of the local shows that took up the afternoon, my favorite being Count Macabre, who showed old horror movies such as Frankenstein and Dracula.

The photograph illustrated the Times' obituary of Katzenbach, frequently dispatched by the Kennedy administration to hot spots in the deep South. I remembered well the tall, avuncular and well-tailored Katzenbach from TV news that brought the civil rights struggles into our den. Until reading the obituary for Katzenbach, I'd forgotten that he'd gone on to be attorney general under Lyndon Johnson. Katzenbach is also a leading supporting actor in documentaries I've seen about the Kennedy era. I remember one in which he and Bobby Kennedy talk on the phone, chatting about their children and so forth, until Katzenbach tells of efforts to get James Meredith into Ole Miss or some such event.

The obituary gives a complete picture of Katzenbach's extraordinary life, from his days at Princeton then Yale Law, to his service during World War II and for the U.S. government, before a distinguished career as a lawyer in later life. Katzenbach was not one of the major characters of the '60s, but even secondary figures from the time are imbued with greatness.

 

Farewell to Angelo Dundee, Ben Gazzara

I've reached the age where death takes on more significance. Someone's passing can unexpectedly reveal a passage into my past. Such was the case with two deaths this week: Angelo Dundee and Ben Gazzara.

The death of Dundee, trainer of Muhammad Ali and Sugar Ray Leonard, recalled the era of 1960s television, when I watched ABC Sports boxing telecasts and heard the loved/hated Howard Cosell pronounce his name with his affected Brooklyn accent, Angelo Dun-Dee. Dundee was the Italian American mentor behind Ali, a strong rebuttal to the anti-white claims of Ali's Black Muslim cohorts. He was part of the reason I adored Ali, unlike most people in Baton Rouge.

After Ali was stripped of his heavyweight title for refusing to Vietnam, I defended Ali in a debate with one of our neighbors, a very nice man with a gravelly voice who ran the biggest funeral home in the city and later buried my father. He's gone now, of course; on a visit back to our neighborhood, his wife confided to me that he "wasn't well." We stood in his carport, I defending Ali, and he, a very large man, calling Ali a traitor. The death of Dundee brings it all back. 

I loved all of the iconoclasts of the time: Ali, Joe Namath. They gave me hope of escaping Baton Rouge, although I also had a deep love for it, especially the crazy countercultural world of LSU that I entered into. I believed in Joe Namath, the quarterback who repeatedly carried Bear Bryant's Crimson Tide to wins over our Tigers, and so took him at his word when he guaranted a New York Jets win over the Baltimore Colts in the 1969 Superbowl, and I bet on the Jets against my friend Ray, the greatest athlete I ever knew and the most tragic character as well. How triumphant I was to collect my meagre winnings from Ray the Monday after Namath had engineered his famous upset.

And then there was Gazarra, whom I loved on the TV show "Run for Your Life." Again, that show was a glimmer of hope, a vision of a wider world, beyond Baton Rouge. His character was hip, cool, "existential," although I didn't know what the hell it meant. I'd read it somewhere in one of the magazines I picked up every week at the newsstand in downtown Baton Rouge where I used to go when I began playing hooky from Sunday school at First Presbyterian.  Existenialism: It sounded good to say. The show came on in the loved Thursday night lineup of NBC: Dean Martin's variety show also sticks out, a weekly smashup of Hollywood and Vegas show  biz, that also tantalized my muddled adolescence (Ah, Joey Heatherton, you live in my dreams.)

Later, I loved Gazzara in the John Cassavetes movies we caught at Baton Rouge's Varsity, an art cinema house now a very good restuarant. Ah, the Varsity, where I saw Visconti movies, porn flicks (The Wicked Die Slow) and Zappa's "200 Motels" (horrible). 

Dundee, Gazzara. They loom in my memory and esteem. 

August, the Dog Days, or is that old man wolf howling at the door?

Another long assumed certainty crumbles: the U.S. no longer has a AAA credit rating. Chatterers on CNN say don't worry, it really means nothing. The Wizard of Oz scenario once more; pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.

Nothing better to do while waiting for the Apocalypse and or the start of college football season than to deeply engage with the Braves. Now they are playing at the Mets' Citi field. Although the Mets are severely diminished, another victim of the financial crash except for the splendid Reyes, the Braves playing there always seems more like real baseball than when they're playing against a team like the Arizona Diamondbacks, which could disappear tomorrow and I wouldn't care. New York among other things means baseball to me. 

Of course, watching the Braves on TV pushes my tolerance for the cornball announcer Chip Caray, who shows little of the talent for low-rent humor of his dad, Skip, or his grandad, Harry. Recently, I escaped Chip by listening to the Braves on the radio with Don Sutton and whoever his partner is. Sutton and pal give more insightful analysis and a more pointed, adult humor. But, I like to watch on TV. Perhaps I'll turn down the sound and listen to the radio.

Last night, the Braves at last bested the Mets behind Dan Uggla's amazing revival. The Braves broke through when the Mets removed their young knuckleballer R.A. Dickey, one of the traditionalists who wears his uniform trousers above his stockings. Watching Dickey's knuckleballs, I wanted the pitch to be banned, like the spitball. Although I loved Phil Niekro, and even Hoyt Wilhelm, the knuckleball seems bogus, based on trickery more than skill. Dickey appears to be an OK guy, a bit nervous, but I say throw the slider, the fastball, the curve or get out of the game. Ban the knuckleball!

Even my TV viewing's lost, after the end of "Treme." I watched the three episodes of a strange little show on PBS, "Zen," which starred Rufus Sewell as a detective in Rome. I liked the depiction of the ancient, corrupt Italian city, and a luscious Italian actress who after making it as a Bond girl to Daniel Craig now does three-episode Masterpiece series shows. I'm unable to get back to "Curb Your Enthusiasm" and "Entourage," both of which I've already buried. 

So, after long days of eyeball-searing work, I ruin the old orbs even further with reading. Faulkner's "The Hamlet," a long tome on World War I, books on Huey Long, Jonathan Yardley, the New Yorker, Commonweal, the Kenyon Review, the New York Review of Books, The New York Times. At times, I'll sit down and play the piano, lately I've been practicing on "Rally Round the Flag Boys."

 

Now Steve Earle Won't Sing Anymore on "Treme?"

I was half-shocked at the end of "Treme" last week at the apparent murder of Harley, the genial, wise street musician played by Steve Earle. Guess I won't ever call a kid who's packing "son."  Too bad the sweet Annie had to witness the punk shooting her pal. ... I always wondered if Wendell Pierce's Antoine Batiste would be the one killed. ....Kermit Ruffins looked ready to do the trick last week, when Batiste pied-piper fashion stole his crowd to an adjoining Frenchman Street bar, an implausible scene. Would jazz musicians really do so things to each other? ...I was thrown off by the endless "True Blood" promos and the lack of previews into thinking that last week's "Treme" was the final one of the season. Turns out it runs a few more weeks, with "True Blood as its lead-in. Looks like the badly limping "Entourage," mercifully in its last season, will take "Treme's" slot. ... No, I'm still not tempted to try to catch up with "True Blood." Any attraction vampires had for me died with Bela Lugosi. ..

...Now Congressional Country Club leaders are turning defensive at how easy their course played at U.S. Open. Not only did Rory McIlroy take the place apart, a bunch of guys shot under par, including the second place 8 under score. ...When the graphic showed all-time great scores, Ben Hogan's 8 under at Riviera in 1948 still made the list. I think Rory's legitimately good, but think of the inferior clubs and deader ball Hogan played with, along with the fact he was still recovering from his horrific auto accident and had to play 36 holes in one day. ...I'd love for the U.S.G.A. to bring back the 36-hole final, last played at Congressional the day of Ken Venturi's near death march to the title....Call me golf lesson geek, but I've noticed Rory has something in common with Tiger Woods and Jack Nicklaus: the interlocking grip, instead of the conventional Vardon overlapping like most players, including Hogan. Golf lesson fanatic that I am, I looked at Rory's hands on the club, intrigued at observing his pinkies intertwined, not one overlapping the other in the missionary position, as it were. The interlocking is usually for players with small hands, as I've heard Nicklaus has. If Rory goes on to win enough majors to enter the Nicklaus/Woods realm, that'll be quite a testimony for the interlocking...Rory''s embrace of his Irish "Da" was touching enough, but his  adolescent behavior strikingly contrasted with that of Nicklaus when he beat Arnold Palmer in a 1962 playoff to win the Open at Oakmont. Nicklaus was the same age, 22, but his dad, Charlie, while still alive, was nowhere to be seen on TV. Jack, who appeared more middle aged as a young man than later, when he grew his blond locks fashionably long, was already married at age 22, and might already have been a father.  While Rory certainly showed steely maturity on the course, his behavior when finished shows how long adolescence now lasts in young men. 

"Treme" Explores Relationships

"Treme" gets stronger, with the backbone of the show our relationships: Father and son, mother and daughter, husband and wife. It's also getting a surer handle on New Orleans, especially the Indian culture. The shows last year on the subject were strained, but this year the Indian tradition is explored naturally, without forced insistence on how "vital" and "interesting" and "authentic" it all is.

...When I was in Baton Rouge recently, I bought "Earl Long in Purgatory," a play by Jason Berry. It's a one-man show about Huey Long's younger brother and just as much a political legend. "Uncle Earl" stories are part of the education of Louisiana political junkies. The play's language is stilted and artificial on the page; not all like Uncle Earl's,, but his truly unique verbal genius would be difficult to match. Perhaps it plays better on stage; the plot is also difficult to accept. Berry's introductory essay, "The Madness of Earl Long," is well-done though, and the cover painting by George Rodrique is wonderful.

...Watching the U.S. Open at Congressional on HD TV, with its vivid colors and every slope finely delineated, leads me to compare the first tournament I remember watching; Ken Venturi's victory at Congressional in 1964. I recall seeing Vernturi's win in black-and-white, he wearing gray pants, white shirt and Ben Hogan cap, staggering home across a gray landscape. And, back then, they probably only showed about four holes. Actually, I remember watching an earlier Open, when Jack Nicklaus won his first tournament, beating my hero Arnold Palmer in a playoff at Oakmont. The then beefy Jack was probably about the same age as Rory Mcllroy is today. I hope the Irish lad can hang on, but I still will be pulling for an unlikely charge from Phil Michelson. 

...I still love the New Yorker under David Remnick, but I miss the old in-depth golf pieces by Herbert Warren Wind. We still have the baseball pieces by Roger Angell from time to time, but the New Yorker has never tried to replace Wind, or even cover golf, or many other sports for that matter. Yet the magazine pays homage to its sports tradition by putting out an anthology of its classic sports pieces. Perhaps there's too much sports coverage elsewhere for the New Yorker to bother with it, but well-considered, well-written sports pieces would stand out against the ESPN and sports-talk radio bombast.

 

"Treme" Finds Its Voice

I had doubts about whether a second season of "Treme" could be sustained, but after a slow start, the series is reaching the same levels of artistic understanding of New Orleans culture as series creator David Simon and colleagues did with their "The Wire" about Baltimore.

With the shocking beating and rape of LaDonna, the rich depictions of music lore, the corruption of police and politicians and deep family and neighborhood connections, the series goes deep into the wounded city's heart. Musician Lucia Micarelli grows with each episode as an actress, and Wendell Pierce's trombonist shows himself the noble essence of the city. The father-son relationship between the Indian chief and his jazz musician son is beautifully wrought. Clarke Peters, a mainstay of "The Wire," appeared limited in his performance last year as Antoine Baptiste, but this season he's showing depth and subtlety. Khandi Alexander, as the brutalized LaDonna, reveals the devastating effects of crime on a person and her loved ones. Steve Earle as the street musician and mentor of Lucia's Annie shows the same depth he did playing a similar role in "The Wire." 

After a few bumpy patches the first season and the first couple of shows of the second, "Treme" is taking its place among HBO's best shows.

Virginia Thomas' Spelling Skills Have Passed

In reading the bizarre story about Clarence Thomas' wife, Virginia, seeking Anita Hill to recant her sexual harassment charges against Thomas, I was struck for some reason by Virginia's lack of spelling command. In her written statement as quoted in the New York Times and by the AP, she said she wanted Hill to "get passed," not "get past," the allegations. What strange subconscious meanings could be tied up in her misspelling? The whole story is strange, why now would she want to dredge up that traumatic hearing from years ago?

Meanwhile, NPR reporter and Fox News pundit Juan Williams is fired from NPR for saying Muslims make him uneasy. With his appearances on Fox, Williams has been weakening his journalistic objectivity for sometime. NPR has been nervous about its reporters appearing on Fox, so maybe NPR saw this as a good opportunity to part ways with Williams. He'll probably remain at Fox, where he's liked as the stock liberal punching bag for Fox's right wing pundits.

Call Me a Shakespeare Traditionalist

After watching a recent Shakespeare performance with tradtional Elizabethan-era costumes, I've decided I like my Shakespeare straight, without the often misguided attempts to make his plays "relevant" by cloaking characters in contemporary clothes, etc. I've seen good productions along these lines, but often the contemporary costumes detract from the play's language and action. Whatever "statement" is being made by the director is often muddled and difficult to discern.

I attended the Shakespeare play on Sunday night, forgetting all about "Mad Men" when I came home. That marks me as officially off the "Mad Men" bandwagon, although I'm sure I'll catch up with the latest episode on "on demand." Speaking of "Mad Men," has a show ever received so much hype for such low ratings?

My daughter sent me a link to a 1970 video clip of The Band doing "King Harvest Has Surely Come" in their "Big Pink" home in Woodstock, N.Y. That was one of their best songs from a period when Robbie Robertson especially was at a writing high point. Haunting to see the young Levon Helm and Robertson, along with Richard Manuel and Rick Danko, two members of the tragically hip dead. Along with Helm and Robertson, Garth Hudson is still going strong. Not to mix bands, or metaphors, but clips like this remind me of the Paul Simon lyric, from "Bookends":

Time it was and what a time it was it was,
A time of innocence, a time of confidences.
Long ago it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you