Mank, Women and Context

After viewing the new David Fincher film Mank last weekend, I texted this to my buddy:

“The thing that bothered me was the drastic age differential between the men and the women.  I didn’t believe for one second that Mank was in his forties or even in his thirties in the flashbacks.  And his wife looked like she was about 22 years old, so when she talked about them having been married for 20 years, I almost chuckled.”

I may have almost chuckled, but it’s no laughing matter, as highlighted in the Andrea Towers article for The Wrap.  To take nothing away from the fine acting performances of Tuppence Middleton, Lily Collins or Amanda Seyfried, there is a legitimate complaint against Hollywood casting younger women in roles that would be more appropriately acted by older women.  Gary Oldman is thirty years older than Middleton, despite their characters having been the same age in real life.  Why not have Sara Mankowitz played by a 40-something actress?  It harkens back to 1950s Hollywood, when Audrey Hepburn was cast as a love interest alongside actors like Cary Cooper and Humphrey Bogart (ew!), what I imagine was the result of older male casting directors projecting their own desires.  Hollywood may have taken a few steps toward a more egalitarian industry, but it still has a long way to go.

Mank also inspired a discussion with my adult children, and we took opposite sides of the argument.  I argued that while I enjoyed Mank, it was the very helpful to have the context of having seen Citizen Kane and knowing some of the background of the players involved.  My son argued that if you need context to enjoy and understand a movie, then it’s not a good movie; that it fails in its essential role of being a stand-alone piece of art.  Yes, context may enhance a film’s enjoyment and understanding, but it shouldn’t be required.

But I wonder about this.  After all, could one really understand a Civil War drama like Glory without having some knowledge of American history and the role that slavery has played in shaping it?  Or more recently, I wonder how Once Upon a Time in Hollywood played to young people who knew nothing of the Manson murders.  They must have been moderately baffled when the film focused so long on Margot Robbie’s Sharon Tate, only to have it lead absolutely nowhere.  For me, knowing the real life tragedy had my stomach knotting up at the film’s climax.  For others, it must have seemed like a trifle, a comic thriller.  This perhaps strengthens my son’s argument, because context may have helped the film, but it wasn’t required.  But I have to believe that Tarantino made the film fully expecting his audience to be informed about the Manson murders.

Even non-historical movies benefit from some measure of context, and it’s why cross-dressing comedies like Tootsie or Some Like it Hot might not play as well today as they did at the time.  Or why today John Wayne’s character in The Searchers seems outrageously cruel, though at the time his treatment of an American Indian woman was treated as comedy.  Or circling back to women and how they’ve been portrayed in Hollywood, many comedies of yesterday fall flat today unless you have some acceptance of the more subservient role women played in decades past.

As for Mank, it gets off on its name-dropping moments, and I think without some knowledge of the past the film must be a rather laborious affair. Some of the name-drops are offered more as a wink to a knowing audience than as necessary ingredients to the film’s storytelling, but they tend to unnecessarily muddy the waters. This is in contract to, say, the way music references enhance character in High Fidelity rather than bogging the film down.  Mank falls short for this reason.  It’s a good film.  It is not a great film.

Music Geek-Out Moments

Goodness gracious, it’s been a heck of a long time since my last entry.  The longest in fact since I started this nonsense over a decade ago.  I keep mentally writing the beginnings of blogs, but for reasons that probably have something to do with the exhaustion of living through a pandemic and an election simultaneously, I haven’t been able to pull the trigger.  That ends today.  I’ve got a bunch of things to write about, but since it’s been a while I’ve decided to ease back in with a bit of music-nerd nostalgia.

If you’re really into music you can probably identify a few times in your life when you connected with a fellow music lover on a visceral or intellectual level.  You met someone who “gets you” or “gets it.”  In my museum of recollection, I could probably find dozens of worthy events to exhibit, but allow me to share just two with you today.  They’re nothing earth-shattering, but they’ve stayed with me all these years and I get a kick out of them.

Alpine Valley Music Center parking lot (i.e., a big grass field), East Troy, Wisconsin, probably in 1989 or thereabouts. 

I walked with my friends from the field packed with cars where people had spent the previous hour tailgating to the gate entrance to see Elvis Costello or Rush or Billy Joel.  (Or maybe Jimmy Buffet?  I didn’t have many Alpine Valley concerts left in me – my last time there was in 1991.)  For some reason I was explaining to my friend that although I was excited to see whomever we were there to see, that I would love, just LOVE, to see Yes on stage and have them announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, ’The Gates of Delirium.’”  Well, you would  have thought I’d just announced that Jon Anderson himself was walking behind me, because some nutjob (as in, fellow music-nerd nutjob) in cutoff jeans and a t-shirt turned toward me and shouted “Oh my God!  Yes!”  He ran toward me and literally – I’m not making this up – knelt down in front of me and prostrated himself in mock adulation.  “I bow to the altar of Yes.”  When he righted himself, his right knee was badly bloodied – he’d knelt down on broken glass!  A little remnant from someone’s tailgating a little too hard with glass bottles.  The bloodied fan looked down to examine his knee and said, “Ah well, Yes is worth it.”  We spent the next five minutes or so avoiding going to our seats and instead exchanging our thoughts on Yes, who at the time were either on hiatus or completely defunct.  I shared my opinion of the non-Jon Anderson album Drama, and we both agreed that it was good but that it shouldn’t have been called Yes.  (I’ve since changed my mind about that.  I believe that not only is it Yes, but it’s among the band’s best six albums).  We wished each other a good evening, but I’m sure we also wished that we were seeing a different band, like being stuck on a date when the woman you really want is on the dance floor with another guy. 

Fortunately, I got to see Yes five more times after this interaction, and they played “Gates of Delirium” at two of those concerts.  They even brought out “Machine Messiah” and “Tempus Fugit” from Drama on one of those tours.  I imagine that my bloody-kneed Yes friend was at some of these shows front and center.

A gas station in western Wisconsin off of Highway 94, en route from Milwaukee to Minneapolis, probably in 1992 or 1993. 

Minnesota may border Wisconsin, but going back and forth between Milwaukee, where my family lived, and the University of Minnesota, where I was in grad school, was getting mighty old.   I found that I’d regularly have to pull over at a rest stop north of Wisconsin Dells and take a 20-minute snooze just to stay awake.  It didn’t help that I couldn’t make it all the way on one tank of gas in my Toyota Tercel, so more time was wasted having to fill up along the journey.  On one such stop, I filled up my tank and walked in to pay the cashier (automated pumps weren’t a thing yet, or at least not at this station), a young guy with dark, long curly hair and a black t-shirt.  While I was waiting for the transaction to be completed, I noticed a song playing on the radio playing next to him, and the music bounced around in my brain for a bit, jump-starting old synapses in need of a good lube job.  I titled my head, nonplussed, certain that I was about to make a fool of myself, but I tentatively proceeded.  “That isn’t…is that Michael Schenker?”  The cashier froze, looked at me in eye with no emotion whatsoever, and then in one fluid motion, opened the till, took out a bill and slapped it down on the counter in front of me, as if he were jubilantly showing his winning straight-flush over an opponent’s full house.  “That, my friend, deserves a dollar!”

I’d gotten it right.  I wasn’t a fan of Michael Schenker.  I wasn’t even aware of him, really, but I remembered a song that had gotten a bit of radio play on WQFM back in 1981, and since my older brother had purchased it (the vinyl record is now in my possession), the album cover and name were somehow stamped on my brain.  Why I was able to remember this, and not, say, the name of a woman seconds after introducing herself to me, was a question better left to that great DJ up in the sky.

But damn, I was proud of that one.

So there you are.  Two geek-out moments.  I hope there are many, many more, but of course these types of interactions that make life richer aren’t possible in 2020.  Here’s hoping in 2021.  In the meantime, I’m going to get cracking at writing another blog entry.  Stay well out there!

The Dreaded Crossword Puzzle

Wordplay is not my bag.  While I can construct a decent sentence and write a compelling story, anything involving cleverness bewilders me.  I find riddles and puns baffling.  Asking me to finish a complex limerick is like asking a dog to play the piano.  Hell, even vocabulary is a challenge for me.  It’s okay.  I’m not complaining or being hard on myself.  I’m just providing some background for my next illogical pursuit. 

The dreaded crossword puzzle.

At least five different times in my life I’ve delved into crossword puzzles and tried to understand them.  It’s a skill I want to have.  I see people who are no smarter that I – my mother, for instance – filling out the New York Times puzzle each day, and I want what they have.  I want to be clever, to be given a clue with a question mark and see right away that when I’m asked, “Chicago balloonists’ needs?” that I should consider “ill winds” as the answer.  I want to discern that the clue “Ghostbusters and The Police” is asking for “trios.”  I want to understand that “Lucky strikes” is a clue for the word “ores.” 

This stuff kills me.  I like facts.  I like names and dates.  And even though I find vocabulary daunting, I’m okay if a crossword puzzle gives me a clue of, say, “hostile” for a synonym of, say, “truculent.”  I may not get it right away.  Hell, I may not get it at all.  But at least I know what they’re asking for and what’s expected of me.   There have been times when I’ve looked up the answer to a crossword clue and I’ll have no idea what it means.  Others are just infuriating to me.  One puzzle I tried to complete had the clue, “bum.”  The initial “just the facts, ma’am” side of me thought, “hobo.”  Ah, but then my newly-discovered clever side of me thought, “borrow,” as in, “Can I bum a cigarette?”  But before I could pat myself on the back, I – after struggling mightily and getting nowhere – discovered that the answer was “no good.”  So the clue wasn’t a noun and it wasn’t a verb.  It was a fricking ADJECTIVE!  As in, “You got a bum deal.” 

Son of a…!

Last October I ordered a book of Monday New York Times puzzles.  As a new puzzler, I was just learning the rules, so even Mondays were a challenge.  I had to learn the consistency in tenses between clue and answer, that Sp. can mean Spanish, that an abbreviation in the clue means an abbreviation in the answer, and that “with, to Maurice” is asking for the French word for “with” (which I do not know, but at least I now know what’s being asked!).  It took a little time.  I also learned to spot various themes of the puzzles, such as shaded grey areas that contain anagrams of the same letters, or circled letters that spell a phrase (such as a diagonal patter going up that spells “what goes up” followed by a diagonal pattern going down that spells “must come down.”).  That sort of thing.

After getting through a bunch of Monday puzzles, I visited my daughter in California, who, after spending some of her winter holiday filling out crossword puzzles with me, decided to purchase her own book of two-hundred puzzles.  But this one was a book of Tuesday puzzles, and she regretted her purchase instantly, laboring just to get half a puzzle completed.  I, having gotten through a chunk of my Monday puzzles, traded my half-finished book of Mondays for her book of Tuesdays, as I thought I was ready to graduate to the next level.

Not so fast.

It’s now September and I’m on puzzle 196.  I didn’t achieve my first perfect puzzle until 166 and I’ve only completed one since then!  So yeah, to date I have completed two – THAT’S TWO!! – puzzles that were 100 percent correct.  On many, many others I was just one or two letters off, sometimes due to carelessness, sometimes because I had to guess about things like the first name of Spiner of “Star Trek T.N.G.”  Is it Brett or Brent?  I guessed Brett, which was wrong.  That stuff I can live with.  Either you know it or you don’t, unless you manage to work your way to the correct answer through another clue/answer.

As for the wordplay stuff, I’m getting better.  Slowly.  Just last night I was given the clue, “It’s taken by witnesses” and was able to come up with “stand.”  I know.  It’s not earth-shattering.  It’s not even clever.  But this was a big accomplishment for me.  More impressive was my solving a bunch of clues in a puzzle a few days ago:

Thesis topic for sex ed?   “Quickie study”
Cameras taking pictures of permanent markets?”  “Sharpie shooters”
Pompom on a skullcap?  “Beanie sprout”

Pretty good, eh?  I mean, this was HUGE for me!  I’m slowly learning to think just a bit outside the box.  I’m not always able to open it, but I’ve at least cut through the twine and packing tape.

One of the answers to last night’s puzzle was the ubiquitous “ewes.”  What on earth did puzzle makers do before this word, OR before Oprah Winfrey, Sammy Sosa, Nora Ephron, Yoko Ono and Uma Thurman were celebrities?  Not a puzzle goes by when I’m not filling in one of those names.  I’ve also learned that an eagle’s nest is called an aerie, that the river in Florence, Italy is the Arno, that the volcano in Sicily is Mount Etna, and that the Greek letter for H is Eta.  Also, that the Concorde was an SST and that a common camera lens is an SLR.

So yeah, I’ve absorbed a little bit of trivia that may come in handy in no particular place in my life except crossword puzzles. 

I’m getting better, but I’m not ready for Wednesdays just yet.  I may never be.  For my Tuesday puzzles I think I’m at a 20/60/20 breakdown.  Twenty percent I get close to solving or maybe actually solve.  60 percent I need to look up a word or two to solve.  And twenty percent I have no fricking clue what the puzzle maker was smoking when he came up with this sadistic game, perhaps as a way of taking out all of his worldly anger and frustration on pathetic puzzle-solver wannabes by having the nerve to categorize his puzzle as a “Tuesday” and not a “Thursday.”  To him, I say, you win.  You’ve proven that I’m a dunce.  Nicely done.

In the meantime, I – a glutton for punishment – have purchased another book of two hundred Tuesday puzzles.  Wish me and my self-esteem luck.

Enter Empty-Nesterdom

I’ve recently joked with some friends of mine: “I’ll be an empty-nester in September.  When you see a flare, come with a few beers and rescue me.”

This Friday my wife and I enter Empty-Nesterdom.  For the first time since December of 1996, when a bout of nausea prompted us to stop by CVS for a quick pregnancy test, we will no longer devote a large percentage of thought and energy to our children.  At least not all the time.  Granted, our son’s increasingly independent lifestyle over the last number of years has gradually given my wife and me more time on our own, and we’ve slowly grown accustomed to what life might look like on the other side, but I’d be lying if I said that I don’t have a degree of trepidation about the future.  None of our kids will be an easy drive away, and one isn’t even an easy flight away.  We won’t be able to plan a spontaneous lunch or walk with our kids.  Every visit will have to be crosschecked against multiple calendars and planned in advance.  When our twin girls left for school five years ago, we ended up seeing one of them once a semester (Kentucky) and the other once a year (California).  Cincinnati will similarly limit our visits, and we may go for long periods of time without seeing any of them.

Although my three kids are doing pretty well, I’ve found that having adult children leads to a different sort of parental anxiety, because adult children have adult problems.  Gone are the days when their spirits could be lifted merely by me picking them up and jumping up and down.  God, I loved those days.  I love these days too for sure.  It’s just more uncertain, and I of course have little to no control of the situation.  Last week I looked over a 401k rollover procedure for my daughter, and I was happy to actually contribute something of value.   I love it when there’s a right answer to a problem. 

Mostly, though, it’s not so simple.  A while back, the psychotherapist and author Lori Gottlieb wrote a great article in The Atlantic called “How to Land Your Kid in Therapy.”  It’s nearly a decade old now, but the revelations still ring true: that as parents we’ve overprotected our children to the extent that they experience difficulty in their twenties and thirties, so unable are they to handle challenges, to be resilient in the face of difficulties.  The article is well-summarized by the following sentence: “…many parents will do anything to avoid having their kids experience even mild discomfort, anxiety, or disappointment, with the result that when, as adults, they experience the normal frustrations of life, they think something must be terribly wrong.”

This was written in 2011 when the worries of much of the world paled in comparison to what young people face today.  We’re asking an awful lot of young adults to handle the adversities of COVID-19, a sinking economy, isolation, cancelled school, melting icecaps, political divisiveness, mean-spirited leaders, hateful mob mentality gone rampant online, and a whole host of other concerns, when we as adults set them up for failure to overcome life’s great challenges.

I’d like to think that my wife and I didn’t fall into the overprotective parenting trap, but I’m sure I’m fooling myself.  I’m sure I sent one to many emails to their teachers over the years and had my kids check in too often when they were out.  Ultimately, we probably did okay, but I believe that my children are up to the task of weathering life’s great challenges likely in spite of their upbringing rather than because of it.  It’s not going to be easy, but I believe that they’ll be among those who navigate these treacherous times, not with perfection, but with perseverance.

But a larger question looms: will my wife and I be up to the task?  Will we find balance, meaning and determination absent the diversion of active parenting? 

Stay tuned.

Baseball Begins

Just prior to the beginning of the pandemic-shortened MLB season, I happened to start watching the baseball-themed comedy series Brockmire, and was taken with this quote from the third episode:

“So let’s not make baseball out to be any more important than it really is.  It’s just a diversion that keeps us from pondering our own personal hells.”

I love this, and while I’d never admit that I when I watch a ballgame I’m avoiding my own personal demons, I must confess that I’ve missed the diversion of baseball.  I’ve missed having that little no-think something to look forward to at the end of the day, or – lately - in the middle of a frightfully unscheduled weekend.  A little light that says, “Hey, even if you’ve got nothing else going on, baseball starts at 1:20,” as it did yesterday. 

I grabbed a Pabst from the refrigerator (because it’s $7.99 for a 12-pack and it’s good on a hot summer’s day, that’s why), lay down on the couch, petted my pooch, and listened to Bob Uecker call the game for his fiftieth-straight season.  Perfect. The diversion and it’s accompanying mid-day nap were lovely pastimes indeed right until Peralta gave up four runs in fourth and basically ensured that the Cubs would take two of three from the Brewers to start the season.  At that moment it was baseball frustration as usual.  I turned the TV off and went back to work.

Ah, but there’s another game tonight, another diversion, another glimmer of hope.  And that’s one of the beauties of baseball.

And while I don’t exactly hold out a lot of hope for the Brewers during this season like no other, or for the baseball season in general in light of the horrific number of COVID-19 cases reported each day, I can imagine the following scenario:  after a lifetime of making a silent prayer (okay, sometimes not so silent) to let my Brewers win a World Series title (just one – I’m not being greedy), I can imagine the All-Powerful Creator up in the sky saying, “You want a World Series Title; I’ll give you one,” and THIS will be the year I’m granted my request.  This asterisk-marred joke of a season.  THIS will be the year the Milwaukee Brewers win a championship.  Craig Counsell and his crew will come home to Milwaukee for a parade down Wisconsin Avenue on a chilly November afternoon, and fans will come out in droves to celebrate the stunning achievement of the city’s first title since the erstwhile Braves in 1957, and I will be one of those delusional fans. But I and all of my cheesehead brethren will know…we’ll know that none of it counts.  Nothing counts in what is basically a 60-game exhibition.  And God will say, “Hey, what do you want?  I gave you a World Series.”

Because never once in all my years of praying did I specify, “Please God, let the Brewers win a World Series in my lifetime, but only if it’s a legitimate 162-game regular season.”

Dummy me: I forgot to include the proviso.