Southern Bookman

New York Times' A.O. Scott blends film, book criticism

New York Times film critic A.O. Scott on Wednesday explained his recent move to literary criticism.

In an "Inside the Times" essay, Scott points out that he was a book critic before his hiring as the Times' movie reviewer. His series for the Sunday Book Review on forgotten American writers returns him to literary criticism.

Scott in the article supports the universality of cultural criticism over specialization. He quotes the late Los Angles Times food critic Jonathan Gold, who started out as a music critic. "Criticism is criticism," Gold said, as cited by Scott.  "An aria is like a well-cooked potato."

Following Gold, Scott claims that "any product of human creativity, however humble or highfalutin', exists to be appreciated, interpreted and judged. Whenever we take the time to listen, taste, watch or read, criticism is what comes naturally."

Cultural purists would argue that distinctions are vital, that a Beethoven symphony differs from a gourmet meal. Those traditional elitist views have been challenged by the rise of film and other popular arts. That a jazz composition by Duke Ellington displays artistic refinement comparable with a Mozart concerto is no longer disputed.

In supporting the primacy of criticism, Scott makes an appealing call for an aesthetic approach to life. Following Robert M. Pirsig's philosophy of quality in "The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," I've sought to bring such an appreciation to daily life. An Arby's can satisfy while a fine restaurant falls short. Yet, sometimes a potato is just a potato.

Scott began his series, which will appear in the Sunday Book Review, with an appreciation of the Western writer Wallace Stegner. While I found Scott's defense of Stegner's work unconvincing, I will look forward to his subsequent installments.

As Scott points out in his Inside the Times article, books and film are perceived differently yet share affinities. His broader focus is a gift to Times readers.

 

 

 

Returning to "The Godfather"

Children excited about "Sonic the Hedgehog" screamed and ran through the movie theater lobby as a handful of old folks arrived for a screening of "The Godfather."

Dazed parents lined up at the concessions stand for popcorn and candy, as a couple of older people sat at the snack bar eating sandwiches and drinking beer.

Among choices ranging from "Parasite" and "1917" to "Sonic," "Downhill," "The Call of the Wild" and "The Photograph," Francis Ford Coppola's 1972 Mafia saga was an anachronistic artifact. Art film lovers could see the Tulugu romantic comedy "Bheeshma" or "A Portrait of a Lady on Fire."

But I and a few other aging movie fans had come to the Springs Cinema and Taphouse on a partly sunny Sunday afternoon to see "The Godfather." Like lovers of Shakespeare monologues, we knew the famous lines and operatic scenes. But seeing the film on the big screen offered a rare experience.

For years owned by Atlanta cinematiste George Lefont, the theater located behind a suburban strip mall had grown shabby until purchased by local entrepreneur Brandt Gully. While keeping the feel of a vintage neighborhood theater, Gully added new screens, an enhanced sound system, luxury reclining seats and a full service bar in a $2.5 million renovation finished in 2019.

Along with a full selection of commercial, foreign and independent movies, the Springs Taphouse shows a film classic each week through the national "Flashback Cinema" series. After years of seeing "The Godfather" in fragments on cable TV, I was thrilled at the chance to watch the movie from start to finish in the theater.

Unlike other movies from the 1960s and '70s that feel dated, "The Godfather" remains fresh. The postwar automobiles, clothes, hairstyles, business settings and interiors reveal a lost era of beauty that serves as a counterpoint to the film's misogyny and violence.

Taken from Mario Puzo's best-selling novel, the Corleone family saga unfolds in emotional extremes of loyalty, betrayal, ritual and power struggles. In a darkened theater,  the stunning operatic grace of the brutal murders and beatings rises to a higher pitch. 

Gordon Willis' cinematography of light and shadow and muted colors dazzles on the big screen, magnifying the power of visual images: Vito Corleone's dance with his daughter after her wedding, the canopy of the vegetable garden fluttering in the wind after Don Corleone's death, the Sicilian landscape.

I mourned my youth watching the young Diane Keaton, Al Pacino, Robert Duvall, James Caan, Talia Shire and John Cazale. Marlon Brando's portrayal of the murderous Don Corleone and the loss of his powers raised conflicting emotions of revulsion and sympathy. The familiar lines, special code for the film's acolytes, kept their force.

As if waking from a strange dream, I returned to the antic lobby, still hearing "The Godfather" theme.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival shows city's resilience

I once more knew what it means to miss New Orleans when I read Jay Pareles' New York Times article Thursday about the 50th Jazz and Heritage Festival, which begins this weekend in the Crescent City.

While New Orleans is known for its dysfunctional local government, high murder rate and economic distress, the Jazz and Heritage Festival is an overwhelming success.

As Pareles reports, the festival each year raises $3 million for the nonprofit foundation that puts on the event, which covers two weekends. The foundation uses the money for a range of educational programs and support for local musicians.

Perhaps the Jazzfest owes its popularity to being a daytime event. Going against New Orleans' reputation as a city that never sleeps, the Jazzfest closes each day at 7 p.m., as Pareles reported. That puts the focus on the music, rather than high-tech light shows and such.

Purists have criticized the festival for booking big names like this year's Katy Perry, but out of 688 performers, 600 are New Orleans and south Louisiana acts with mainly local followings, according to Pareles.

This year, a heralded appearance by the Rolling Stones stirred excitement, but the venerable group had to drop out because of Mick Jagger's heart surgery. Then replacement Fleetwood Mac canceled because of some mysterious illness suffered by Stevie Nicks. Now, Widespread Panic will perform.

The event began in 1970 at Beauregard Square, later known as Congo Square, a slave market where jazz originated with the slaves' chanting and dances. Growing success after a few struggling years led to the event moving to the New Orleans Fairgrounds. Jesus, I also remember betting on horse races there as a young man. I attended several of the early festivals at the fairgrounds, but didn't go to another until years later, when the event resumed after Hurricane Katrina.

Along with the music, the festival offers a great selection of Cajun, Creole and other varieties of New Orleans food. Sometimes I think of going just to get another helping of jambalaya.

You can have the Stones, Fleetwood Mac and Widespread Panic. I'm homesick to see New Orleans performers Irma Thomas, the Meters, the Neville Brothers and so on. I'd especially love to see master pianist Ellis Marsalis perform April 28 with his sons Wynnton, Branford, Delfeayo and Jason. Now in his 80s, Ellis played a big part in the festival's early success.

Every year when the Jazzfest rolls around, I think of my late friend Loftin, who had a complete collection of Jazz Festival posters. Hard to imagine that this will be the fifth Jazzfest he'll miss.

This year's poster shows the family of performers who have appeared at Jazz Fest, including those no longer with us like Professor Longhair and Fats Domino.

Many believe New Orleans won't survive. Old and new generations of Jazzfest musicians say otherwise.

Dave Robicheaux rides, and talks, again in James Lee Burke's "New Iberia Blues"

James Lee Burke's Cajun detective Dave Robicheaux finds the cure for aging in Burke's new Louisiana crime caper "New Iberia Blues" - a beautiful young partner named Bailey Ribbons.

Beset by age and creeping toward death in recent novels, Ol' Dave rejuvenates himself in Burke's 22nd book with an ethically dubious affair with his seductive partner, young enough to be his granddaughter.

As with many of Burke's plot developments, the affair serves no real narrative purpose. In this case, there's little more other than the prurient interest of an old man rediscovering intergalactic sex with a young woman who has an uncanny resemblance to the actress in John Ford's "My Darling Clementine." Robicheaux succeeds where Henry Fonda failed, at least for a while.

Rather ineptly trying to put together clues to a series of gruesome murders, Robicheaux embarks upon a tour of the Cajun culture's dark side: blues bars, cheap hotels and rough cabins.

In short, Burke's latest novel is another gumbo of outlandish cartoon characters, gratuitous violence and illogical plot twists. Robicheaux's pet racoon and cat get along fine while humans can't stop maiming and shooting each other.

Robicheaux's indestructible sidekick Clete Purcell returns for comic relief, and the gallery of villains comes from a Hollywood crew shooting a film in the Cajun parishes. Guess Burke carries a grudge over that Robicheaux film starring Tommy Lee Jones.

Along with beauty and intelligence, Bailey slowly reveals criminal traits that make her a possible suspect in the deaths. But her troubled past is just a feint, and in the end, after the real killer is revealed to no real surprise, she goes off to live happily ever after with a film genius who's a Louisiana native.

The brilliant film director, the half-Indian, half-Cajun Desmond Cormier, is also positioned as the possible mass murderer. No worries, he's just a moody guy who likes to hang around with another strange Hollywood type, Antoine Butterworth. Desmond gets the girl in the end, but how he holds off criminal movie financiers threatening him is never resolved.

Robicheaux's meditations on Louisiana's natural beauty and its environmental devastation overcome the preposterous plot and video game violence. Burke's language, underworld slang-peppered dialogue and cinematic scenes lull the reader into accepting his outlandish tricks.

As in past books in the series, Robicheaux comes off as a brilliant backwoods philosopher pondering deep questions of humanity's good and evil, not to mention the best breakfast place in New Iberia.

Once again, Robicheaux, his daughter, Alafair, and sidekick Purcell survive loony hit men, gun battles and a lot of Cajun food. Burke says that Robicheaux and company will return again soon to work their magic. The man can't stop writing, and we, his helpless fans, can't stop reading.

 

 

Tragedy showdows Mardi Gras joy in New Orleans

New Orleans always breaks our hearts.

As Mardi Gras rolled toward its grand finale, a drunk driver plowed into bicyclists heading toward what they thought would be happy evenings after the end of the Endymion parade Saturday night.

Two people were killed and seven injured as the driver struck groups of bike riders on Esplanade Avenue, one of the city's signature streets, according to the Times-Picayune's NOLA web site.

The tragedy showed the joy and despair of New Orleans. Both of those killed were Penn grads who'd come to New Orleans in the rebuilding after Katrina and come to love the city.

Sharee Walls, 27, had embarked upon a successful philanthropic career in New Orleans, showing the civic consciousness not often associated with the city. Away from her nonprofit work, she served on the board of the Red Beans Crewe, displaying the love for the city's customs that often glows in transplants.

David Hymes, 31, was a Seattle lawyer, a Tulane law school alum who had recently joined the great professional migration from New Orleans. While seeking career fulfillment elsewhere, he was still captivated by New Orleans' sense of fun.

The man charged with vehicular homicide in their deaths told police he has a drinking problem, according to the Times Picayune. That's the flip side of New Orleans' joie de vivre. The city has a drinking problem, a violence problem, a poverty problem.

Those of us who left Louisiana still celebrate Mardi Gras. We play our Professor Longhair classics, buy gumbo at one of the restaurants catering to the Louisiana diaspora, bring home a king cake.

As "My Darling New Orleans" plays, our joy is tinged with sadness.

 

 

 

 

Welcome South, Brother and Sister

Super Bowl week is under way in Atlanta, which means that national media are spooking local boosters with stories about our self-conscious town.

New York Times food writer Kim Severson Wednesday morning gave a fair overview of the city's restaurant scene.

Assessing that Atlanta never receives recognition as a premier food city, Severson credits Atlanta for its diverse ethnic restaurants, flourishing in neighborhoods outside of downtown. The exotic Buford Highway corridor, the Ponce City Market and the Beltline receive notice.

Still, I winced when Severson concludes the roundup with Atlanta's love for breakfast and wings. I don't think breakfast and wings will challenge New Orleans or San Francisco anytime soon.

Rating good food towns is subjective. New York and Boston have fine restaurants, but I've had some of the worst meals of my life in each.

I find many of Atlanta's most lauded restaurants pretentious and over-priced. But what do I know? One of my favorite places is the Buckhead Arby's at Wieuca and Roswell roads. And my favorite meal in New York City is a street pretzel, or a sleeve of hot nuts.

Meanwhile, the Boston Globe's Dan Shaughnessy seems to have warmed to Atlanta. In his typical recycled condescending column, old Dan salutes our "Southern hospitality," while slyly bringing up the Falcons' Super Bowl collapse against the Patriots.

Once again, Shaughnessy smugly rips Atlanta as a college sports town rather than rabidly supporting pro sports. Dan apparently hasn't heard about Atlanta's intense love for Atlanta United, and its MLS championship.

Like all Boston sportswriters, Shaughnessy must have a reference to all of Beantown's sports championships on a laptop save key.

No doubt the Patriots will win again, following the Red Sox' World Series title. And Shaughnessy will recycle the same column about Brady, Gronk and Bill.

Give up plastics for Lent

My vow for Lent will be to give up, or reduce, the use of plastics. 

Britain's Anglican Church began the Lenten campaign against plastics, according to a New York Times story. The church is offering a Lenten calendar, not plastic I assume, suggesting a plastic product to give up each day.

The world's oceans are polluted with huge plastics islands because of the imperishable material's widespread use. The Church of England's popular campaign targets plastics used in floss containers, supermarket bags, straws, knifes, forks, plates, coffee cups, bottled water, grocery packages, garbage bags, and so on. 

The popularity of the BBC's Blue Planet show has driven the campaign, the story said.  The effort has gained support of a number of Conservative politicians, according to another news article.

I hope the Lenten anti-plastics campaign spreads to the United States, and plan to do my part. Some steps will be easy, like bringing reusable bags to the supermarket more often. We already recycle plastic water bottles by filling them with tapwater and placing them in the refrigerator. 

Other steps will be more difficult, such as finding floss not held in plastic containers. The neighborhood Publix only has plastic bags for fresh produce, and most other food products come in plastic packages. I've grown fond of Pellegrino fizzy water, and never refill its distinctive green bottles, although I do toss them into the city recycling bin. My three daily newspapers come in plastic bags, although I've noticed the carrier now often places them together in one bag. The deli at the Fresh Market also uses plastic containers. 

I'm sure there are many other uses of plastic I can target. Perhaps the easiest step will be giving up products that come in plastic jars or containers.

While challenging, giving up plastics for Lent offers a way to make a difference through personal action.

 

 

 

 

 

Lucian Truscott IV enhances Salon's writing

Lucian Truscott IV's reflections on the political scene and his recollections about his personal history represent a strong upgrade for Salon, the online news site.

Truscott, the descendant of a distinguished military family, in his latest Salon post draws on childhood memories to illuminate the revelations regarding Trump son-in-law Jared Kushner's Russian connections. 

When Truscott was a young teen, he spent summers with his grandfather, Lucian Truscott Jr., the noted World War II general whom President Eisenhower tapped to keep an eye on CIA director Allen Dulles. Truscott calls his grandfather Eisenhower's spy on the master spy Dulles.

In his article, Truscott recalls Friday afternoon gatherings at his grandfather's Washington home, sessions attended by high-ranking CIA, military and State Department officials. The young boy was given the task of keeping the martini pitchers coming. Dulles sometimes showed up for the drinking/discussion events. The piece opens a window on a sunny period when the United States dominated world affairs, despite its Cold War with the Soviet Union.

Truscott, himself an Army officer during the Vietnam era, receiving a dishonorable discharge for seeking help for addicted soldiers, cites Dulles' spy manual and its outlining of action similar to that the Russians reportedly took in reaching out to Kushner and former Trump national security chief Michael Flynn.

A best-selling novelist and trenchant journalist, Truscott brings a deeper level of sophistication to the shallow and inconsistent Salon. Truscott's work is among the best at making sense of Trump's America.

Times' Dwight Garner Takes a Spin in Eve Babitz's 'Hollywood'

The New York Times no longer runs a book review on Friday, the day it publishes a two-part arts section crammed with film, theater, art and music reviews.

Instead of reviewing a new book, the newspaper offers critic Dwight Garner's American Beauties column, in which he looks back at a forgotten American classic. World literature lovers will claim provinciality in the U.S. focus, and Garner would perform a worthwhile service giving attention to authors from other countries.

But in concentrating on American literature, Garner can explore a multitude of voices, reflecting the country's vibrant mix of cultures, ethnic backgrounds and literary genres. Combining critical depth and a witty, readable style, the column gives Garner the chance to roam outside of the book-review format.

Garner in his May 5 column gives an appreciation of  the wonderful Los Angeles writer Eve Babitz, concentrating on her racy, fluent memoir, "Eve's Hollywood." Babitz's style is like Nora Ephron by way of Joan Didion, with "more lust and drugs and tequila," Garner says. 

A Hollywood native who ran in LA rock and young film auteur circles - she designed album covers for Buffalo Springfield and Linda Ronstadt and dated Jim Morrison - Babitz with all of her flippancy and satirical flair also brings an underlying wistfulness to her writing, along with a deep fondness for her hometown. She understands the city's shallowness and facile worship of glamour and fame, while defending its creative spirit. Her work replicates the city's freeway style and social flash.

As Garner points out, Babitz was also a pioneer food writer, one of the first to appreciate the city's ethnic street dishes. She also vividly portrays the city's restaurant milieu, in which lunch and dinner dates blend business, gossip and pleasure. 

Babitz's book, along with other writings including the impressionistic "Slow Days, Fast Company: The World, the Flesh and L.A.," was republished by the New York Review Book Classics series, which gives new life to significant books fallen out of print. The series includes foreign and American titles. Garner en route to his appreciation of Babitz's work salutes the New York Review's book publishing venture for bringing forgotten classics to a new generation.

 

 

 

Freedom and the artistic imagination

The literary world is astir over the revelation that Italian novelist Elena Ferrante is really Roman translator Anita Raja, according to an investigative article by reporter Claudio Gatti.

Many Ferrante fans are upset that the author's identity apparently has been exposed. They wanted her to remain a mysterious, magical author whose shadowy existence allowed them to imagine her, increasing the allure of her work.

Ferrante, who will publish a new book this month, is known for her wonderful series of novels depicting the friendship of two Neapolitan women from childhood through middle age. One remains mired in near poverty, while the other finds success.

Poet/critic Adam Kirsch in a New York Times op-ed article this week said that if Raja really is Ferrante, her novels are a worthy example of "cultural appropriation." Kirsch believes that because Raja is upper class and mostly grew up in Rome after her birth in Naples, she's imaginatively appropriated the lower-middle-class culture of Ferrante's books.

This is unconvincing; Raja is an Italian woman writing about Italian women of a similar cultural background. When members of an ethnic group complain about "cultural appropriation," they are talking about something different, a writer imagining a character from a separate culture, race or gender.

Author Lionel Shriver recently stirred up another controversy in a speech at a writers conference in which she criticized opponents of cultural appropriateness. She wore a sombrero during the speech, referencing an incident at an American university in which Latino students were offended by white students wearing Mexican costumes to a Halloween party.

While I agree with Shriver's support of artistic freedom, she errs in equating the wearing of costumes to a party with the creation of an artistic work. University parties and other events have different contexts and standards than a book, painting or play.

A person who reads a book might expect to have his or her sensitivities challenged, while a person going to a party might not be prepared for someone wearing an offensive costume. What if a black person shows up to find  someone in a Klan outfit or a native American a partygoer in an Indian costume? The feeling of shock would be on a more immediately personal level than that experienced through reading a book.

An artist should be allowed the maximum freedom of the imagination. Shakespeare's Othello and Shylock challenge sensitivities, but Western culture would be poorer without them. The playwright also created a gallery of wonderful women characters. Some women would deny his authority in creating them.

Faulkner's Dilsey and other black characters reveal the depths of our humanity. William Styron received  intense criticism from black intellectuals for his "Confessions of Nat Turner," considered by others a monumental achievement. (Curious, they are all named Bill).

Writing about the Los Angeles food critic Jonathan Gold, I wondered  if complaints about "cultural appropriation" extend to his work. Gold gained fame writing about exotic dishes in obscure corners of LA. His work inspired middle class whites to explore other parts of the city and try strange ethnic cuisine. 

Should Gold, a white Jewish intellectual, have not written about Korean barbecue, Mexican tacos, and Thai dishes? 

I understand ethnic groups' fears and sensitivities over stereotypes and inauthentic portrayals. The critical framework for examining such distortion might be frayed, as Cynthia Ozick discusses in a recent book, but the Internet and remaining print culture provide a variety of discussion forums.

The evidence of many great cross-cultural works shows that no limits can be placed on the human imagination.