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Beethoven’s Seventh

Beethoven’s Seventh

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An open door, a world of light — and a piano. Scarcely a day passes that I don’t play it, or wish I had. To touch the keys and realize, I own this thing, I can walk over here and pound out a Brahms Intermezzo or a Bach Prelude whenever I want — well it’s been months since I bought this piano but it still thrills me. 

Writing about the playing is something else entirely, though. That’s because music is the other, the part that can’t be pinned down by precision. It flows where the words won’t go. 

A few nights ago, I found a book of music I’d forgotten I had, transcriptions of orchestral works, including the second movement of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, which I took out and played. 

This was a piece popularized by an impressive scene from “The King’s Speech,” but whenever I hear it I will always remember the University of Kentucky’s Piano Institute the summer before my junior year of high school. There was a young assistant professor there who taught music theory, and for one class he had us sit in a dingy room in basement of the Performing Arts building with big clunky earphones on our ears and our heads down on our arms listening to this music. 

I can’t remember now what lesson we were to take away from that experience. All I know is that in the darkness and with the earphones, the soft dirge of the opening chords built slowly to the crescendo at the piece’s midpoint in a way that made my heart fill near to bursting. And somehow, the other night, I was able to capture a bit of that feeling again … on the new piano. 

Small is Beautiful?

Small is Beautiful?

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It was a different kind of Academy Awards ceremony last night, but I still watched the whole thing. Set in L.A.’s Union Station, the nominees and their guests sat around little tables, as if at a supper club. All of which made the event seem warmer and more intimate, though admittedly strange, without the usual glitter and fuss.

With no host and no big song-and-dance numbers, the event focused our attention on what matters most: the awards themselves and the people who receive them. Though a few recipients went on too long and there were the usual political diatribes, I enjoyed the relatively unscripted moments. You could tell people were speaking to a small audience (only 170) from the way they talked. 

By now most of us are ready for a return to normalcy, watching movies on the big screen — something Frances McDormand urged us to do when she accepted her Best Actress award — and maybe even the four-hour-long extravaganza every year that honors those films. But the performances at this year’s Oscars make a case for small over large. 

(Info booth at Union Station, pre-transformation. Photo: Wikipedia Peetlesnumber1 

Seeing Mom

Seeing Mom

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I find it interesting that to me the most fascinating character in Ken Burns’ new documentary “Hemingway” is not Papa H himself (though I realize I’ve not read many of his short stories and most of his nonfiction), but Edna O’Brien, an Irish novelist who shines as one of the talking heads Burns uses so beautifully.

O’Brien is calm but intense, and her comments cut to the quick of Hemingway’s novels. In one of her earlier appearances, she takes on detractors who say that Hemingway hated women and wrote adversely about them. 

To answer these criticisms, she reads a passage from Hemingway’s short story “Up in Michigan,” considered scandalous when it was published. The passage occurs near the end of the story, after a sexual encounter that the female character did not want, and O’Brien reads it slowly, the camera panning down to her hands, which gesture slightly as she reads the words with that Irish lilt in her voice. 

I don’t see O’Brien then but my mother, who was roughly O’Brien’s age when she died. I see the same set of the jaw, the same hair, full and of a color not found in nature. The same unbridled truthfulness. 

Mom was a writer, too — though most of her stories were never told. 

(In honor of O’Brien and Mom, a photo of the green fields of County Clare.) 

New Normal

New Normal

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Over the weekend, a taste of normalcy: dinner out — in a restaurant — with friends who are also vaccinated.  The restaurant was empty save for one table of three seated 20 feet away. The server was properly masked. In that sense, it was not business as usual. 

But what a thrill to see actual human faces, not squares on a screen; to enjoy full human expressions, not the crinkle of eyes above an oblong of cloth. There were appetizers and stir-fries and shrimp with vermicelli. There was much catching up. And afterward, there was a stroll through the narrow streets of a small, quaint downtown.

It was not the kind of dining experience I might have sought 14 months ago, folks crammed together talking and laughing, the clink of glasses, the buzz of alcohol and laughter. It was the new normal. And it was absolutely wonderful. 

Cold Training

Cold Training

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As a chill rain falls and I curl up on the couch, swaddled in three layers, I wonder if my cold training project is working as I hoped it would. Since early fall I’ve been on a mission to be less of a ninny about winter weather, to work outside in temperatures I wouldn’t have dared to before and thus train myself, little by little, to be more comfortable in brisker breezes. 

The premise is simple. In these Covid days, to be outside is to be free. But to be outside in winter requires a tougher skin that the one I was born with. Cold training to the rescue. 

My model in this is the filmmaker Craig Foster, who began free driving without a wet suit in cold South African waters in order to win the confidence of an octopus. In the film “My Octopus Teacher,” Foster describes how he gradually acclimates himself to the water and, as a result, is able to share the life of this shy creature in a way that wouldn’t have been possible had he been more fully clad. The message: Discomfort in service to a higher ideal is not only bearable, it is noble. 

I’m nowhere near this point, of course. The most I can hope is to keep the heat set at 65 instead of 68. But, I tell myself, every little bit helps. 

The Raven’s Debut

The Raven’s Debut

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Last night I caught most of “You Can’t Take it With You,” Frank Capra’s 1938 film staring James Stewart, Jean Arthur, Basil Rathbone and … Jimmy the raven. It was first of many appearances for Jimmy in Capra films, most notably (at least for me) in It’s a Wonderful Life. 

I’m not a Capra expert, but I certainly picked up on themes I’ve known from his other films — the little people against the big people, the importance of friendship, the corrupting influence of money, and the dearness of animals. 

In this film Jimmy the raven helps make fireworks (don’t ask) and a small kitten sits charmingly atop a sheaf of papers that one of the characters is typing up for a book. She decided to become a writer when a typewriter was accidentally delivered to their house. Perhaps as good a reason as any to take up the profession.

Whether it was the writing, the raven or the sheer zaniness of the plot, the film left me light-hearted. Not a bad way to end the day.  

The Late Show

The Late Show

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Like many people these days, I’m not skimping on the indoor entertainment budget. I’ve splurged recently and signed up for two online streaming services. Add to that the DVD rentals to which I still subscribe, plus cable television, which has its own delights, chiefly the movie channels.

I’ve been watching one of those the last couple of evenings. Strangely enough, though I could choose from a wide variety of streaming programs, it’s the more limited menu of old black-and-white films that’s holding my attention most these days. 

This probably says something about the limits of choice, but what it’s doing most is reminding me fondly of those old-fashioned late shows. Back when television had a sign-off time and binge-watching wasn’t yet possible, I would stumble upon “The Blackboard Jungle” or “The Philadelphia Story” when I was babysitting or after returning from my 3-11 p.m. shift at Jerry’s Restaurant. 

I was the only one awake in the house. It was just me and the movie — be it comedy or drama or romance. It was then, I think, that I learned to love film. And watching these old movies now, sometimes once again the only one awake in the house, reminds me of those early discoveries. How good they were then; how good they are still.

(Photo of “The Philadelphia Story” courtesy IMBD)

Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

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Entertainment in a time of coronavirus: We need it, though we may be a bit reluctant to speak of it when the death numbers keep rising and the photo above the fold of today’s Washington Post is of a stack of caskets in Italy.

Nevertheless, entertainment is helping many of us make it through. The Netflix servers (if they have servers) must be groaning from the load these days. And the same for Amazon Prime and Hulu and of course all the cable news stations, especially the news and movie ones.

I began to watch a show called “Pandemic,” a Netflix documentary. It was made last year but is so spot-on in its depiction of what’s happening now that it’s worth watching for that alone. But I decided last night to try something different, and watched “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” a movie about Mr. Rogers and his relationship with a cynical journalist.

Turns out, there really was a cynical journalist. He really did write a long article about Mr. Rogers in Esquire magazine, and he and the journalist really did become friends.

Interested in how true-to-life the movie was, I read an article on its accuracy. It pointed out the differences, and also said that we don’t see enough of Mr. Rogers, that we don’t learn enough about his life. I saw the documentary about Mr. Rogers and found it boring, as I found Mr. Rogers (though my kids did not, and that’s what mattered).

But the movie’s story about Mr. Roger’s effect on others touched and inspired me. We see Mr. Rogers stooping to talk with a boy with cancer and assure him that he’s strong on the inside. We see Mr. Rogers swimming and Mr. Rogers praying for the people in his life, saying their names one by one. 

I took from it a simple truth: that there is always hope and that we must help each other. Not a bad message in a time of coronavirus.

(Photo: Screenshot of the Esquire cover from the 1998 article by Tom Junod. The film also contains a great scene of magazines being printed that I loved, being an ink-on-paper journalist at heart!) 

The Theater Downstairs

The Theater Downstairs

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One of my hobbies is watching movies, especially ones that are nominated for Oscars. This year, that task has been made infinitely easier because many of the films are available streaming or on DVD. Some, like “The Irishman” or “Marriage Story,” both vying for best picture, were released only on Netflix. Others, like “Joker” or “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, ” are already available on DVDs.

As a result, I’ve been doing more “Oscar prep” in my basement than ever before. This creates some interesting situations. For instance, I fall asleep more easily on the couch in the basement, so that means I’m having to watch a few films twice in order to get their full effect. I watch some of them while exercising, too, which also strains my attention span (and lengthens my workout time).

However, the last movie I watched in a theater, “Little Women,” put me in a seat that reclined so far back that I might as well have been lying on the worn blue couch in the basement.

So there you have it, as basements become more theater-like … theaters are becoming more basement-like.  Sometimes I just love the modern world.

(Photo: Wikipedia — my basement looks nothing like this!)

Little Women

Little Women

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We were at least 20 or 30 minutes into the new film version of “Little Women” before Jo uttered the famous first line: “Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents.” But the disjointed telling of Louisa May Alcott’s tale is one of my few quibbles with this lovely new movie.

What a moral world Louisa May Alcott has created for us in Little Women, and what a fulsome rendition of it director Greta Gerwig has brought to life in this new adaptation. Seeing it with one of my own “little women,” I thought about the world it evokes and the world she and her sisters inhabit — a world where personal sacrifices seem as out of place as dance cards and turned collars.

I devoured Alcott books as a girl and took their lessons to heart. They are simple and old-fashioned — be kind, work hard, think of others and not just yourself — but as difficult to follow now as they were then. It’s not as if the modern world doesn’t celebrate these virtues too, but the concept of self-improvement, that we are pilgrims on a moral journey, often seems lost in bits and bytes and likes.

Being immersed in an earlier time for two hours, albeit glamorized and spit-polished, made me realize what we have lost. It is much indeed.


(Photo: “Little Women,” Sony Pictures)