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"Dalton [Trumbo] wrote one good novel and that's it." [Schulberg told Victor Navasky for the latter's book Naming Names.] Most of these people never tried to write any social realism. I think maybe [they had some] guilt about making two thousand dollars a week and doing nothing. You could make it up by paying ten percent dues [to the Party], and maybe that made you feel better about being a hack. Most of them settled for being hacks.
These people, if they had it in them, could have written books and plays. There was not a blacklist in publishing. There was not a blacklist in the theater. They could have written about the forces that drove them into the Communist Party. There was practically nothing written."So according to Schulberg, even though his testimony led to the loss of his former friends' ability to earn a living, it was their own damn fault because they either weren't as prolific as he was or weren't able to shift to stage plays and books, thus avoiding the Hollywood blacklist? That's a level of ego bordering on narcissism. Of course Schulberg was also wrong about Trumbo's output. Please, save your "but he was a fantastic writer and deserves the accolades" responses. Of course he was a great writer and yes, deserves to be lauded as such. That said, when one does bad deeds, when one betrays long-standing friendships, when one does irreparable damage to the lives of that many people and their families, it must be included in any wrap up of your life. You don't get to skate in death, just because you were a great artist in life.]]>
Today, July 2nd would have been my father's 98th birthday and not a day goes by that I don't miss him. Every day, something flashes through my mind, across the computer screen or on TV that makes me, just for an instant, think I should call dad. But I can't. He's been gone a little over a year and a half and it doesn't yet seem real. How can someone so huge in life, so forceful, so robust, so devoted to the betterment of the world no longer be around, fighting the good fight? It's not fair. The world is a poorer place.
That said, his progeny and grand progeny are carrying on his legacy as best we can. We're not a large family by most standards but what there is of us is pretty special in that there are really no "black sheep" in the family, politically speaking. You hear about apples falling far from the tree but we're all clustered around the trunk.
Dad was an amazing man by almost any measure. He stuck to his principles even when doing so cost him his place at the law firm he had built for 40 odd years. He was a defense attorney who specialized in civil rights, labor and international law and counted Dr. Benjamin Spock, Dashiell Hammett (dad referred to him as "Dash"), Jimmy Hoffa as clients and friends and was a frequent chess partner of Che Guevara. He represented the government of Cuba, Papandreou's Greece, Angola and the Nicaraguan mission to the United States under Ortega, among others. He defended countless nameless teachers, union workers and anti-war demonstrators though the McCathy 50's, the 60's and the anti-Vietnam War 70's with courage and conviction, although many were pro bono and none brought him fame or fortune. He was truly an inspiration.
He and mom dragged me around the world as a kid and as such, gave me my wanderlust but I think he was happiest digging in the garden of our house in East Hampton. Summer, winter, hot or cold, you could find dad in East Hampton every weekend and most holidays. If it was too hot or too cold to work in the garden he just sat on the couch and read or on the deck and watched the squirrels try and get at the bird feeders. I think he would be very happy that I've moved out here. I don't have my feeders up yet, but I will. There will be seed in the summer and suet in the winter and if I can help it, the neighbor's cat won't get any of my birds or rabbits. Dad protected his birds, too.
Happy birthday, dad. I miss you.
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No, I didn't eat the bunny. I love my local bunny.
My Faux Po' Boy: Local bread, local fried dayboat fluke, fried smoked oysters, local tomatoes, cornichons and tartar sause from Round Swamp Farm. For my first time frying fish, it was goddamn good:
Local Littleneck clams with shrimp, chorizo, onions, garlic and tomatoes in a white wine & vermouth broth:
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Thanks to @NathanFillion for clueing me in to the car/bike/toy of the future, the Persu Hybrid. Close your eyes and picture this: A three wheeled, enclosed vehicle that seats 2, gets 75-100 MPG, goes 0-60 in 6 seconds, goes at least 20 miles all-electric and goes at least 400 miles on each 6 gallon tank of gas and is projected to cost less than $25,000.
Now open your eyes and click the above link (yes, I do know that your eyes weren't really closed).
Also, if you think $25,000 is expensive, look at it this way:
If you drive your regular car 12,000 miles per year and get 30 MPG, that's $960/year in gas at $2.40/gallon. With the Persu, that cost drops to $384/year, a savings of $576. In five years you've saved $2,880. Add in cost of oil changes and other car maintenance and you're saving even more. Yes, I know this isn't a car for a family and is more like a 2nd vehicle, but for single people or for a 2nd car, it's rather amazing. Also, according to Top Gear's Jeremy Clarkson (click on the "video" tab on the left), it's really, REALLY fun. In fact, he says it's the most fun you can have and coming from a thrill seeker, that's high praise, indeed!
Watch all the videos, read the specs and then tell me you don't want one!
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Boarding Gate, Summer Hours explores people coming to terms with aging, mortality and close relationships. In other words, it was made in the great tradition of French filmmaking. But the film feels more Chekhovian than one plucked from the catalog of Eric Roemer and other forbears. The first few sequences feel almost staged like a play only better as they are so cinematically resonant. Like his Gallic colleague, Arnaud Desplechin, Assayas is interested in family and its inherent legacies. As good as A Christmas Tale was, this film feels more restrained and frankly more honest. Without providing any big moments, the success of Summer Hours is in its collection of smaller moments.
When appraisers come to the house prior to its sale, Frédéric gives the family's elderly housekeeper, the one who helped raise him, a vase that belonged to Hélène. He gives it to her without mentioning its value; a counterpart to another piece which ends up in Musee D'Orsay along with a great deal of the home's collection. But the housekeeper believes she was given something small. She tells her nephew who drives her away from the house for the last time that she would have been embarrassed to take anything important. Her tie to the object is an emotional one, one that has memories from years of putting flowers in it. In this day and age where homes are referred to as investments, Assayas captures how we use monitary means to emotionally distance ourselves from pain. Its understandable -who likes pain after all? But pain is part of life and has the role of reminding us that without pain and loss there is no love to begin with.
As in the beginning, Summer Hours ends with young people running around the old family house. Only a few years may have passed since those teenagers were merely babes in the woods. While they are still able to enjoy the freedom that childhood bears they are also just on the cusp of adulthood and all that that implies.
William Shatner poses after receiving the Nashville Film Festival's 2009 President's Impact Award, a specially designed Gibson guitar hand-painted by artist Mandy Lawson. This year's fest saw the world premiere of "Willian Shatner's Gonzo Ballet" from director Pat Buckley. Shatner was playful during the pre-screening presentation, remarking that in the 1950's, he used to travel around with a fretboard, always intending to learn how to play. He never did, but at the screening he promised....himself, he'd learn. Alas, a rumored performance of Shatner and Ben Folds at the screening's after party at the Gibson Guitar HQ never unfolded, as Folds was a no-show and Shatner only stuck around for 15 minutes. That said, word had it he was due back in LA at 10am the next morning, so I was disappointed but can't be pissed at Bill! That said, I really would have liked to meet the legend, as his CD "Has Been" was in my top ten albums of 2004. More on the film in my indieWIRE Nashville Film Festival round up!]]>
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Imagine hanging out in hell's antechamber, but instead of waiting to see which demon tortures you, you're waiting to see how much succulent fatty brisket, snapping hot rings and ribs your party of 9 can reasonably eat before heath officials are called in. Meat at Smitty's is ordered by the pound, so it's best to go with a regular, otherwise you run the risk of either having to go back and order more (not the worst result, of course) or of having leftovers. Again, not so bad. Then the show starts. Once you choose your meat one of the helpful and, erm, seasoned men behind the counter chops, slices, weighs out your bounty of bovine, your superfluity of swine, your mound of meat, basically:
Then you pay and the whole thing is wrapped up in butcher paper and the counter man hands you your bread (white) and crackers (saltines... For the sausage, dummy!) and you move into the more brightly lit, less "ring of fire"-like dining area. The "drop it and you're a dead man" meat mover:
There you spread out your bounty on long tables and chow down. Sides and drinks are ordered in the dining room. Shiner for some and the orange soda got raves. Oh yeah. No forks. Seriously. It's hands and plastic knives, just like our ancestors.
It's safe to say that soup to nuts, this was one of the top 10 eating experiences of my life. It scored high on the "uniqueness" scale (see pix. Duh.) and as far as the actual food goes, well, I am on record as preferring pork to beef in general, but this was an astonishing meal. Fatty brisket, sausage, ribs and some prime rig to top it off. The meat is served dry, as is tradition in this part of Texas, but there are options for saucing your mean if you must but really, it doesn't need it. The meat was all so favorful that all one needs do it slap some briket on a slice of white bread and chowdown. I wish I had some of that sausage right now, too....
And for dessert? Blue Bell ice cream, often called the best in the country. As someone who doesn't eat a lot of ice cream, I can't say, but it was damn tasty mint chip and at 2 scoops on a waffle or sugar cone for $1, what's not to like?
Clearly, dinner was warm water and a leaf of lettuce, but as for lunch...well, it's an extraordinary experience and if you ever find yourself within 120 miles of Lockhart, TX do yourself and your taste buds a favor and head for Smitty's Market.
MOre pix can be found on my Flickr stream, here.]]>
Long time friends Jon Voight and Burt Young share a moment during the often moving tribute to the late, great director Hal Ashby (Coming Home, Harold and Maude) at the 2009 Sarasota Film Festival. Voight and Young co-starred in Ashby's 1982 film Lookin' to Get Out, the director's cut of which was recently discovered in the UCLA Film Archives and world premiered in Sarasota the night before the tribute. Ashby's daughter Leigh MacManus was on hand to accept the SFF's Master of Cinema award on her father's behalf and gave a stirring thank you speech wherein she spoke of never knowing her father and how much the closing moments of Lookin' to Get Out meant to her. I won't spoil the film for you (director's cut out soon on Warner Home Video!), but suffice to say, there wasn't a dry eye in the house and both MacManus and Voight were brought to tears during the evening.]]>
Today, March 30th would have been my mother's 79th birthday, had she not passed away on January 9th, 2005 so I thought maybe I'd post a few pix and say Happy Birthday, mom! This first one is from her trip to India in the early 1960s. One of my regrets regarding my parents is he lack of conversations I had with them about their lives. At least with dad I have his book to read and re-read (will be doing so later on this trip, actually) but with mom, all I have are fragments of her memoirs, which she was working on before she died. I would have loved to talk to her more about India and the Movement, but I can't. So I make due with her writings and stories from her friends and pictures.
In 1960 mom was working for the National Guardian and it was for this newspaper that she would cover the Civil Rights movement. While packing up the apartment, I came across her official press ID card, signed by the notable and much revered journalist, James Aronson, for whom the James Aronson Award for Social Justice is named.
In 1957 mom traveled to "Red" China, in violation of a US State Department ban. (Not the first or last time she'd do something "against the rules,' BTW!) She was already at a world youth conference in Moscow, so what the hell, right? She went with 40 others, some of whom would become lifelong family friends, including my godmother Faye Goodman, the reverend Warren McKenna and his wife Elizabeth and the late Sally Belfrage, one of the finest people I ever knew. Below is a picture of mom (2nd left), Warren and Faye. Not sure who the young Chinese woman is. I suspect a translator.
Below is the New York Times article from August 15th, 1957 about the trip to China:
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