Christmas 2014

Kicked off my winter stay-cation yesterday afternoon with a brisk hike up to the top of Mount Tabor.  A cool, gray Wednesday in the Rose City, just a few days into winter. I pushed at a pretty good pace to get the blood pumping, but it was full dark by the time I got back.

I'm through with work for the rest of the calendar year. I hope to close out 2014 doing the things I love best: reading, writing, going to the movies, playing games, and hanging with my African honey bee. Life is good.

Twenty-fourteen hasn't been a peaceful year. Neither for the world, nor for me, personally. Maty and I changed residence last summer, as told, and the stresses of that endeavor were compounded by stress and anxiety at our various workplaces, by health issues, by wars and rumors of wars. I try not to be troubled. All these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet.
 
Maty is working this Christmas morning: caring for sick and elderly people. She'll be home this afternoon, and we'll have our Christmas dinner and exchange gifts. Just the two of us, Muslim and  agnostic, celebrating Christmas.

Pumpkin pie ready for the oven

But I want to wish all of you --everyone out there whom I've had the honor of befriending, every cherished cousin, every good-hearted stranger who might stumble on this pronouncement --peace.

I wish you peace.

Pie's cooked! Merry Christmas, all! Peace and love!

Book review: The Bone Clocks

David Mitchell's sixth novel, The Bone Clocks, was an inevitable pick for my book club. We'd already read three of his previous novels (The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, Cloud Atlas, and Ghostwritten) all of which were unanimously and thoroughly enjoyed. So Mitchell's latest seemed like a sure thing.

Well, although the novel is certainly an entertaining read, it failed to meet my expectations in some ways. And, among the members of my book club, I'm not alone. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The Bone Clocks is the story of (among other things) an Irish woman named Holly Sykes. Rather than try to summarize the plot myself, I'll rely on Sceptre, David Mitchell's publisher:

In 1984, teenager Holly Sykes runs away from home, a Gravesend pub. Sixty years later, she is to be found in the far west of Ireland, raising a granddaughter as the world's climate collapses. In between, Holly is encountered as a barmaid in a Swiss resort by an undergraduate sociopath in 1991; has a child with a foreign correspondent covering the Iraq War in 2003; and, widowed, becomes the confidante of a self-obsessed author of fading powers and reputation during the present decade. Yet these changing personae are only part of the story, as Holly’s life is repeatedly intersected by a slow-motion war between a cult of predatory soul-decanters and a band of vigilantes led by one Doctor Marinus. Holly begins as an unwitting pawn in this war – but may prove to be its decisive weapon.

A much better synopsis than I could provide, with the added benefit that I can now proceed to what it is I like about the novel, and what I found lacking.

What I liked about the novel, first and foremost I suppose, is that it is David Mitchell. The man has a sublime talent for writing engaging, vivid prose. His dialog is so sharp it could slice sponge cake. The worlds he creates are not only mind-blowing but, more importantly, consistent and true to their own laws.

Which brings up another aspect of the novel that I particularly enjoyed: the continued unveiling of the David Mitchell universe. The Bone Clocks makes reference (in subtle ways) to all of the other David Mitchell novels published to date. The book is chock full of these "Easter eggs." I won't mention any specifics (wouldn't want to reveal any spoilers), but suffice it to say, I was regularly delighted, as I read this book, to discover that various characters were the very same that appeared in Black Swan Green or number9dream or Ghostwritten. Scenes that occurred in other novels are referenced in The Bone Clocks. I noticed many such references while reading this book, and I'm quite sure there are many I missed.

Also, The Bone Clocks is a contemporary novel in every sense of the word. Holly, the protagonist, is a teenager in 1984, which makes her a few years younger than me. At the end of the novel, she's in her sunset years living in a world that seems all too inevitable. Well, God willing, I'll live to see the accuracy of David Mitchell's future and I hope he's wrong!

What I didn't like about the novel: I found the long expository conversations about the nature of the two supernatural factions, the soul-decanters and the reincarnating vigilantes, to be tedious and a bit confusing. I'm sure David Mitchell has it all sorted in his head, and he relates the information through dialog rather than taking the easy way out (the way Margaret Atwood did with Oryx and Crake). Nonetheless, once the idea is fully exposed, it loses some of its intrigue. I found it much more tantalizing in Mitchell's other novels, when readers could only guess at the nature of the strange beings that appear from time to time.

But mostly, what I found disappointing about the novel was this: running throughout, there is a whiff (and just a whiff, mind you) of self-satisfaction. David Mitchell is widely acknowledged as one of the day's gifted novelists and I'm one of his biggest fans. But success is heady stuff. Or maybe it is that, when a writer attains a certain level of success, his editors become a bit more reluctant to use their red pens. In any case, The Bone Clocks seemed less "tight," less perfected than Mitchell's previous books.

That's the problem with being a virtuoso, I suppose. When you set the bar that high, people come to expect so much.

Grieving in the aftermath of the CIA torture report

The report released by the Senate Intelligence Committee this week, the so-called "torture report," confirms a suspicion that many have had all along: the extent of the abuses perpetrated by CIA operatives was greater than previously known, and included techniques much more heinous than the (heinous enough) water-boarding.

I'm sick at heart, not only by the contents of the report, but also and more so by the reaction to it from many of my fellow citizens. Some random quotes from people with whom I've engaged on the topic:

• "I feel no compassion for those animals."
  
• "I will NEVER second guess or criticize those who put their lives on the line to keep all of us safe."
• "When it comes to terrorists there are NO Christian values for them. We don't use Christian values on Muslim terrorists who want to kill all our people in the name of Ala [sic]." 

How easily cast aside, those little angels we've created to comfort ourselves! Matthew 5:39, the Geneva Convention, the Golden Rule --meaningless platitudes, one and all. People! Can't you see that torture debases not only the victims, but the perpetrators? It dehumanizes them. It makes them beasts.

Fear does ugly things to people. And people have been justifying atrocities in the name of God for thousands of years. There's nothing new in it. But to see it unfold before my own eyes... oh, America! I grieve!

Foolishly I'd hoped that at this point in life I might have endured most of my disillusionment. This report, and the reaction to it, exposes that sentiment as naive.

So I'll say this: for my part, I advocate prosecution of all perpetrators of torture, regardless of their nationality or faith and no matter the justifications they put forth. But the apologist voices (most of them, the very people who regularly complain that the United States has strayed from its "Christian values") ensure that that will never happen.

And I'll still allow myself one hope: the hope that I will never condone torture. To do otherwise would be to relinquish my humanity and I won't do it!

I pray I have the strength to live up to that conviction.

Post-Thanksgiving brooding

The Dade of today

In the days before Thanksgiving, Mom and I had a conversation. We wondered how it would be to try to explain the world as it is today to departed loved ones. She mentioned Grandma Metzger and I was thinking about Dad.

The Dade that Dad would remember

Dad --Ross Cariaga, Junior --passed away in the spring of the Year of Our Lord, 2001. I remember how the world was in that time. I remember the world Dad knew. Two and a half months after Dad's passing, on September 11th, 2001, that world passed away as well.

Historical events shape our collective human perception of the world. On some fundamental level, Dad would not understand the world today.

That is a sad and strange thing to think about. Dad, whom I always believed to have unclouded perceptions, to be savvy and worldly-wise, would be rendered naive in today's world by an event that occurred just a few weeks after he passed.

The Dade that Grandma would remember

"Well, think of me and my mother," said Mom. "I'd have to start by explaining to her that there was no more Soviet Union!"

Indeed.  Gertrude Metzger passed in 1987. A very different world.

Certainly, Dad and Grandma would have marveled at the wonders of today's world. How strange would it seem to them to have a face-to-face conversation with someone a thousand miles away while sitting in a coffee shop? How difficult would it be for them to believe that the entire catalog of human knowledge was at their fingertips? Accessible from anywhere at any time?

And, while they would likely recognize today's horrors --they are, after all, the same four horsemen that have always beset mankind --they might be startled by the strange, new vestments in which Plague, War, Famine and Death appear. I don't believe Grandma ever heard anything about global warming. And Dad might find the ever-increasing magnitude of hurricanes and typhoons in the days since his passing to be unsettling.

I guess that's just the way of it, though. I don't suppose the world I know will long outlive me. But the human chronicle will continue to unfold.

For a time.

Movie review: Interstellar

Having seen ("endured" is probably a better word) Christopher Nolan's new film, Interstellar, I'm befuddled by the favorable, even exuberant, reviews it has received.

Did I somehow wander into the wrong theater?

Interstellar is a film about near-future Earth, where environmental degradation is slowly rendering the planet uninhabitable. Cooper (Matthew McConaughey) is an honest farmer and former astronaut raising two children with the help of his father, Donald (John Lithgow). Cooper has been disrespected and unrecognized throughout his life: his wife died years earlier, the all-powerful school board has determined that his son cannot attend college, and the prospects for his daughter seem bleak. Cooper's future stretches before him like the dusty horizon. Nonetheless, he doesn't complain. Doggedly, heroically, he resigns himself to growing corn to feed the unseen masses that rely on his efforts. (He's holding up the world, don't you know?)

What a surprise, then, when Cooper is recruited by NASA to pilot a space craft through a recently-discovered wormhole to locate an alternate home for humanity. It's a risk that Cooper is reluctant to take. It would mean leaving his family. But the brains at NASA, Professor Brand (Michael Caine) and his biologist daughter, Amelia (Anne Hathaway), prevail upon Cooper's inner martyr, convincing him that the risks he must take are worth it. It's for the sake of all of humanity, after all!

There were so many things wrong with this film that I don't really know where to start. But I guess I'll start with the acting. It was exceedingly poor. The child actors and the entire supporting cast were embarrassingly bad. Anne Hathaway was adequate. Acting heavyweights, Michael Caine and John Lithgow delivered mailed-in performances that really disappointed. (Mr. Caine, if this is all we can expect from you henceforth, just go ahead and retire already!)

But the biggest tragedy of this movie is the damage done to Matthew McConaughey's credibility as an actor. His performance seemed like a half-hearted encore of his role as Detective Rust Cohle from the HBO series, True Detective. His delivery was mumbled and terse, perhaps meant to sound profound, but coming across as lackluster.

All that said, I can understand if the actors didn't put their hearts into their performances. Lithgow and Caine certainly have enough savvy to recognize a shitty script when they read one. And boy did they get one in this film! Director Nolan and his brother, Jonathon, co-wrote the script, which is probably the flick's biggest failing.

The dialog is appalling: stock, stale, uninspired. It's full of "gems" like these:

Cooper: You're ruling out college for my son now? He's fifteen.
Principal: Tom's score simply isn't high enough.
Cooper: What's your waist line? What 32, 33 inseam?
Principal: I'm not sure I see what you're getting at.
Cooper: You're telling me it takes two numbers to measure your own ass but only one to measure my son's future? 
(Har, har, har!)

Cooper: Mankind was born on Earth. It was never meant to die here.
(Real head-scratcher, that one!)

Brand: Love is the one thing we're capable of perceiving that transcends time and space.
(This one defies further commentary.)  

The characters lack any kind of complexity. There's an R2D2-like robot that lacked even enough depth to be annoying. There are a couple extraneous crewmen that are more robot-like than the robot. The most developed relationship in the flick is the creepy relationship between Cooper and his 10-year-old daughter Murph. In one particularly unsettling scene, Cooper clings to his daughter as she lays in bed, her back to him. Tears stream down his face as he begs the young girl for forgiveness. Uncomfortable!

Although this is billed as a science fiction film, the science of it is inane. Much of it is explained in wooden, expository dialog that kills whatever momentum the film might hope to develop. (This seems to be a habit with Nolan. Remember Inception?) The script uses all the right keywords ("event horizon," "quantum entanglement," and so on) but none of it makes any real sense.

And then, in the ultimate failure, the script relies on a cheap deux et machina enigma to close the loop. I read a review that compared this film's unexplained ending to that of Stanley Kubrik's 2001: A Space Odyssey. It's an offensive comparison and an insult to a master like Kubrik.

Hans Zimmer's score was overbearing and cheap and at times it overpowered the dialog. Worst of all, Nolan used it to cue viewers. "You see? This music is suspenseful! This is a scary part!" God knows, without the score, the audience would often have had no clue how they should feel.

Ten minutes into the flick, I was ready to walk out. It was apparent to me that the film was specifically-targeted to middle-aged men with low self-esteem who feel they've been cheated by life. "You see?" Nolan says, "Even though your daughter hates you and your boss thinks you're an idiot, you're really a hero."

I spent most of the interminable 3 hours and 9 minutes of this film cringing and slapping my forehead. I felt like I should have been wearing a bag over my head when I left. 

Mr. Nolan, two strikes is all you get. Never again, by God!

The sins of Bill Cosby: I'd rather stay ignorant

By now, we've all heard of the allegations against Bill Cosby. Although it's not a new story (apparently, the first accusations came to light back in 2006), public attention has only lately become focused. The charges are that Bill Cosby drugged and sexually assaulted multiple women throughout his career.

In response, NBC has cancelled a planned sitcom featuring the 77-year-old comedian, and Netflix has put on hold a comedy special, originally planned to air on Thanksgiving Day. Cosby hasn't helped himself at all. He's refused any comment and just yesterday, tried to intimidate a reporter into scuttling any mention of the issue in an interview.

The whole thing sickens me. If the allegations are true (and, given the number of women coming forward, and the consistency of their stories, it seems likely) Bill Cosby would not be the first hero to fall. But unlike Joe Paterno, a football coach (I know a thing or two about football coaches), or Michael Jackson, who was out-of-touch crazy, Bill Cosby, or rather the myth of Bill Cosby, was so beloved and unstained and such an integral part of my childhood that these allegations wound me to my core.

Sexual assault is a heinous crime. Perpetrators deserve reprobation, at the very least; criminal prosecution, ideally. If the allegations against Bill Cosby are true, he must pay with his reputation, his career, and whatever justice our legal system can mete out.

But I don't want to know the details. I know too much already. Let it play out as it must. I don't want to know any more about it.

Mine is not a courageous stand. In fact, it's cowardly and hypocritical. I admit it.

But I just can't bring myself to take part in the destruction of the beloved myth. The myth of Bill Cosby.

I'd rather stay ignorant.

Movie review: Whiplash

Yesterday, I took advantage of the bright, crisp weather (a rarity in November, Portland's rainiest month) to walk the ~four miles from condo to Fox Tower Cinema, there to view a matinee showing of Damien Chazelle's Whiplash. The film received much praise from critics and the preview intrigued.

The film stars Miles Teller as Andrew Neyman, a first year student at the prestigious Shaffer Music Conservatory in New York. Andrew comes from humble beginnings, being the son of a failed writer, Jim (Paul Reiser), and is determined to achieve greatness. Specifically, he hopes to become a great jazz drummer in the mold of Buddy Rich. His playing catches the eye of a virtuoso jazz instructor, Terence Fletcher (JK Simmons), who brings him into Shaffer's elite jazz ensemble. Fletcher is a demanding instructor. His tools include emotional manipulation, intimidation, physical and verbal abuse, and sabotage. Andrew, suffering under the demands placed on him by Fletcher, finds some comfort in the company of Nicole (Melissa Benoist), whom he sees working the concession counter at a movie theater. As the story progresses, Andrew discovers the price demanded by greatness, and must decide if he is willing to pay it.

This is a very good flick.

The writing is good. There are some great exchanges, in particular the dinner scene in which Andrew explains his aspirations to his bewildered family. But the writing is secondary. What really makes this film work is the acting.

The two headliners, Teller and Simmons, are especially good. I've liked JK Simmons since his days on Law & Order, and his role as Fletcher seems like a breakthrough performance. Miles Teller used to play drums for a church youth group and that real life experience seems requisite for his role in this movie. 

The music, by the way, is infectious. I was tapping my foot throughout the 107 minute run time. On the bus ride home, I added Buddy Rich and Charlie Parker to my Pandora play list.

I came away from the flick with a new appreciation of jazz, certainly. But more than that, Whiplash (and Birdman, which I saw a while back) provided fresh insight into the toll that creation exacts on the artist. 

Everything comes at a price. And you get what you pay for.