KQED aired this today. Thank you for the listen.
Anna and I are losers.
And we don’t want to be losers.
We want to be winners.
And you can’t be a winner if you don’t play the game.
So last night we took up Safeway Monopoly.
We bought 24 cans of Friskies cat food for our dying cat.
And we got 48 Safeway Monopoly tickets. Safeway tells me that if I just buy enough Friskies and Poptarts, we’re going to be winners. We’re going to win a million dollars. And a big TV. And lots of other stuff.
Last night we spent one hour tearing and sorting and pasting. Now the Lewis family is running the table.
Because in the end we won 6 more tickets. And so we’re going back to Safeway to buy some more stuff and get even more tickets. And it’s just going to get better.
We’re going to be winners. And you can be a winner, too. You and all of our country will no longer be losers and the rest of the world will stop laughing at us.
In a few more days, I’m nailing Park Place. And I’ll have my Dawn Dishwashing Soap.
And you just wait and watch as I build me my Trump Towers.
85 years ago, they were a silly and disregarded minority. People chuckled at the circus antics, the self-infatuation, narcissism, and obscenely transparent self-glorification.
The beset people who first joined on to the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei (NSDAP) believed in a united country, promotion of nativist values, and the expulsion of minority populations who posed a perceived threat.
But for years, the vast majority of the country paid little attention. Initially these small crowds of cheering admirers were nobodies. Routinely arrested for civic disturbances, laughed at for their absurd fanaticism, they would amount to nothing. And then Goebbels discovered that spectacles and calls to violence brought them attention. And the attention brought them more crowds. And the crowds brought them power.
And then one day, that silly minority became a grudging, then an accepting, and then an excited plurality. More respectable ones joined because it would help them get what they wanted. And it would help them retain power. They couldn’t stop it. And so they joined it.
And then no one was laughing any more.
In my imagined heaven (unlike the fundamentalist heaven muddled in moral condemnation) van Gogh, along with Rothko and Francis Bacon, while away the mornings appreciating and talking about color.
But for now you’re not yet in heaven.
Instead it’s a warm September evening in 1888. You still sit on a stool in the Place to Forum glancing to the south down the Rue de Palais in the town of Arles. Your paint brush dips all over that lead and chromium palette. The constellations of Perseus and Andromeda shimmer in the sky wedged above the narrow alley: although you capture them imperfectly, some life forms long extinct once unknowingly cast their own eyes toward your future visage that would receive them.
As for us, you remain anchored in a world of substance while I hover in the immaterial world that has not yet come to be. The street is filled with ghosts, future and past and present, and perhaps you find our presence claustrophobic. The film between us remains impermeable. We will never touch.
A blue cloaked waiter ferries glasses of Lillet. A woman cloaked in a thin coat crosses the street with her husband. None of them pay any heed to you. You’re nearly as invisible as I. But if not for you, their even now scant mark on history would be lost forever. If they’d known, they might have interceded or perhaps offered corrections.
But the crowd thins until it is just you and I. You are tired. You will be dead within a year. And people will champion you and fight over you for a very very long time. You will ignite passion and fury much like the first wandering preacher. But if the truth be, I wouldn’t even be here with you on this night but for that odd portal you created with a bit of oil and pigment brushed on to a tightly stretched piece of fabric. Tired yet exultant, you pack up your oils in a wooden box and set to walk home. You carry a canvas, the paint still sticky and wet. I follow. You can’t see me and you never will.
All the same, I would just like you to know.
Here’s the great irony.
The puzzle really only exists in the moment of puzzling; once you place the piece with that satisfying click, the puzzle ceases to exist.
We generate joy more from the act of figuring out, than from the solution itself.
The mind of God must indeed be a desultory place where the unknown unknown does not at all exist.
By definition, serendipity cannot exist in a world without surprises.
I imagined this area to be a thick strap of black dotted with specks of canvas.
Instead, why look what shone from the walls that night.
And for better or worse, once the world becomes known, it’s very very hard to regain the bliss of ignorance and innocence.
Now about that yellow.
It turns out that it wasn’t really yellow at all. It was anything but yellow. Canary, mustard, gold, fire orange, caramel, honey. All the hues were in there. But when broken apart, all the eye really detected was yellow. And only with close observations could you parse out the discrete shades, and only with reassembly did it make sense.
Van Gogh obsessed over color. He was drawn to it emotionally and as a line of inquiry that he explored in his bountiful letters to his brother Theo and sister Wilhemena. What color, really, is the night? How do colors give rise to emotion and thought? What effect do complementary and countervailing colors have on one another?
You can sense in Van Gogh’s writing how even his bold application of paint fell far short of what he saw. Describing the night sky above the Mediterranean, he wrote of how it was “flicked with clouds of a blue deeper than the fundamental blue and others of a clearer blue, like the blue whiteness of the Milky Way. On the blue depths, the stars were sparkling, greenish, yellow, white, rose, brighter, flashing more like jewels than they do even in Paris.”
Despite his struggle to accurately render that perceived world, his emerging fields of yellow and blue also reveal how Van Gogh prefigured the pure abstract expressionism that in 80 years would follow.
Van Gogh, however, still clung to object, both as representational object (this is this) and as signifier (this means that). We still have our stars, our sowers, our reapers, our ravens, our sunflowers. But you can sense him wanting to break free from object bound so that he could freely exist in jet black, flax, dandelion, and citron, or in the physicality of brush strokes and the thick globs of paint itself.
I imagine the Dutchman would have had quite animated and affirming conversations with the Latvian Mark Rothko.
I picture Vincent and Mark huddled in the chapel in Houston, their conversation tugging back and forth on the charcoal and gray and metallic black, Van Gogh calling for an interjection of violet and olive. And can you maintain the emotional content without referencing a physical form (the flash of a bird wing, the grimace of teeth, the wind bent sheaf)?
And the conversations with Piet Mondrian might have summoned frustration.
For the tempermental Van Gogh, color wedded with object could be a conduit for emotion. Rothko decoupled color from object to achieve the same effect. And Mondrian did so with the opposite intent, allowing color to exist in some cerebral platonic form.
The painter of the future, Van Gogh once wrote to Theo, will be such a colourist as has yet ever been. I wonder if he would have found further ecstasy, and perhaps even peace and rest, within Turrell: pure color at last untethered from the brush stroke and form itself.
Yesterday our friend Carrie sent over some photos of her puzzles inside her puzzle room.
A couple of observations:
- She has a puzzle room.
- She has lots of cool puzzles.
Clearly Carrie is one of the one percenters of Puzzledom.
Those vying to become our leader agree on few things. And in these strange and fearful times, they present even fewer options.
- I can vote for Donny and then I will become a winner so that one day I can have a puzzle room and lots of cool puzzles of my own.
- I can vote for Bernie in which case we will seize Carrie’s puzzle room and puzzles and redistribute them to all the other citizens in the land of Puzzledom. (BTW, if this happens, I call dibs on the 4D puzzle of San Francisco.)
- I can vote for Teddy, but then only God knows what will happen (and I mean his own particular God which doesn’t include all the other Gods floating around out there.)
- I can vote for Hilary which will result in Carrie keeping her puzzle room and puzzles and me keeping mine and Puzzledom will muddle along much as it always has.
There is, of course, the option presented by another friend, Mary Anne, who sent over an image of her recently completed puzzle of the door to Francis Bacon’s Reece Mews studio in Kensington.
Mary Anne presently lives in Scotland. In her world they will one day declare independence and establish their own self-governing Puzzledom in which they will drink Scotch, do drunken imitations of Scotty from Star Trek and while away the long dark evenings puzzling wistfully at Bacon’s door.
It doesn’t sound too bad at all.
Friday night all hell broke loose.
The chaos began when Mazie lay down on the puzzle field.
Later that night she and Anna staged an insurrection and suspended all rules. They fumbled around with pieces. They tried to place pieces that lay outside the border. They worked all helter skelter on one little area and then another little area and then another without any rhyme or reason.
Yesterday morning I instituted martial law. All rules reinstated plus an additional 5th: You were allowed to place three pieces and then had to walk away.
Last night we happily listened to the Republican debate as the cafe slowly came into focus. I learned last night that a civil society can only prevail in these fearful times through strength and waterboarding and things far worse.
The Jehovah Witnesses just came to my door.
Which is not all that remarkable. I was nice to them once and so they now come pretty regularly.
And since that first time, it always seems to be at the wrong moment: I’m under deadline, preoccupied, sad, dealing with the catastrophe of the moment. Today I happened to be sick and coughing and in no mood to have a conversation.
Some days I hastily answer the door and shoo them away. Other times I cower in a back room, peeking out the window until I see t
hem drive off.
What gets me though is how they just keep showing up.
I page through this month’s edition of “Awake!”. There’s a delightful three paragraph article about Liechtenstein where perhaps one day I might visit. I see a picture of Käsknöpfle, a dish that Liechtensteinians apparently like to eat. The photo of the cheesy onion pasta makes me feel hungry.
I take a quiz on what Jehovah Witnesses believe and get half the answers wrong. There’s an article about staying positive. And another on how to make real friends. Looking at the photographs I feel safe and happy.
Once while teaching Sunday School my Uncle Eriks asked the young children to define faith.
“Faith,” answered one young boy, “is believing in something that you know not to be true.”
Do these adherents believe that one day I shall invite them in and we will discuss God over tea? True faith, indeed.
Or do they believe that even if I never answer their call, the Lord’s will shall be wrought simply by knocking on the door, that the knock itself is the instrument of God?
Now that is a different order of Faith entirely.
Tonight I invite you all to make Käsknöpfle.
It’s hard to make sense of them big masses of color. When you’re in a sea of yellow, there is only yellow. And if you exist in a sea of blue, only blue.
It helps to course the boundary between the two. And certainly the painter himself was drawn to these areas. As you reassemble the disaggregated color, you become more aware of all the vertical and diagonal lines he dashed out cutting between light and dark.
And once you’ve spent enough time exploring these areas, it’s easier to dive into the small blotches of color that previously warranted no attention.
Take the green for example. Easy enough to pick out the few laurel pieces.
And Wa-la! A small part of the world has been made whole again.
I should confess at this point that I’m a bit of a puzzle Nazi. Here are the rules:
- Once pieces are on the table, no looking at the box. Ever. Life is much more fun when it’s a mystery and you have little idea where you’re heading.
- Don’t touch a piece unless you know exactly where it will fit. This leads to lots of slow pondering and a lot less fumbling. Plus you get the satisfying click when you seize a piece and snap it neatly into place.
- If you’re wrong, session ends. You walk away. Allows you to retrieve yourself from lost afternoons and lost lives fixating on the wrong thing. (I have to admit, I don’t always abide by this). Sometimes it’s superseded by rule #4.
- Well, if you insist. If a piece doesn’t fit, you have to hold onto it and within a reasonable amount of time find it’s rightful home. If you don’t, you’re out. If you do, you get a pass.
And then this kicker that I just made up:
5. Only use the pieces within the frame. Few of us start with a full deck. So we make do with what we got. In this case a third of the pieces are outside the puzzle frame. But I’ll soldier on, using only what I have at my disposal.
As you can imagine, these rules may well explain why I don’t have many friends.
I like the process because it affords that chance so rarely available in a gallery or museum or even in every day life.
You end up sitting with a masterwork for a very long time and you’re given that rare opportunity to puzzle over the individual brushstrokes and minuscule bits of paint and broad swatches of color disaggregated from any image at all. You sit with those brushstrokes (or at least the shadow of their facsimile) for days and days and days.
In doing so the obvious becomes, well, obvious. As does the genius.
First, of course, we seek the boundary.
Many of us begin by finding the edge pieces. They’re easy to locate. But they also transform an infinite sprawling mess into something finite and perhaps apprehensible.
We want to declare order and somehow bound the chaos.
Secondly the sandstorm of color is not really that chaotic at all.
We detect clear patterns.
Most magnetic and appealing of all burns that mass of of complexly layered yellow and mustard.
As well the eye and fingers are drawn to the countervailing mass of blue and darkness.
These two palettes beyond all else seem to dominate.
But there’s that third muddled mess of pastel reflections of the light and darkness, more muted and intertwined.
And then perhaps you notice that the darkness is not black. It’s violet and blue and umber and pitchy turquoise if there were such a thing. And scintillating pulsing points of light, more bright and piercing than the warm ochre and mustard and tangerine, punctuate the darkness.
The darkness is not dark at all, I tell my wife.
But it was, she countered. For him it was.
I differ. I still don’t believe it was the darkness that did him in. Instead, perhaps, it was his perceived inability to render that darkness, to make it as manifest and material and dimensional as he himself saw it.
In his case the brushstrokes themselves mattered most of all. Perhaps he no longer believed in those brushstrokes. Or perhaps the loneliness inherent in their execution were too much to bear.
I sit here in the bistro with Danny, on January 3, 2016. He’s had a henhouse beer. And I’ve had a gimlet. We ran in the rain. We were cold, and we found sustenance.
It was one of my first shows (Irvine Amphitheatre, Bill Graham Presents), and the parking lot was emptying out some time past midnight. I was not yet finished high school, just turned 18, largely alone in this world, with a world of mine to make. The long lines of cars idled out of the parking lot and the choice was to turn north toward the next show at the Warfield or to turn south toward home. The choice was ours to make. And that night as in so many, many nights, a whole lot of us, like moths alit turned north toward a strange magnetic pole.
A half century. If you’re lucky, half a lifetime. And for a few, the loved and unfortunate and much missed, a lifetime in full.
For those who were not in Levi Stadium Saturday night, let it be known:
It was not just the end to end rainbow that embraced the stadium at sunset at the end of the first Set, the Rainbow Flag flying true and proud adjacent Old Glory on the very heels of our Supreme Court ruling.
Nor was it the growing recognition that the 20 years of relative silence were perhaps needed for the band to arrive at this place of cohesion and solid footing. Loss and time steep and forge as yet we bear.
We came knowing it wouldn’t be the Dead. But we didn’t quite expect that the spirit of the Dead after all these years could be rendered so full and incarnate.
And it wasn’t just the ever withering sadness of Scalia’s vexing dissent, cajoling the nation to “ask the nearest hippie.” As if even he privately recognized that his day was near done. The jig was up. The hippie was asked. And the Hippie has spoken. The challenge was to imagine a new world. And that world in all of it’s problematic glory, presents itself as manna and bread as we fumble toward a truth still as yet emergent.
And it wasn’t that in that powerful metamorphosis from caterpillar to butterfly, that the butterfly is rendered into complete and inchoate goo, just a wash of cells stripped of all being save pure animus,and yet (get this…) despite it all, memory and learning become instantiated and can in fact transit death and resurrection.
And it wasn’t just that for a stunning 30 minutes we were immersed in Mickey Hart’s Brain on Music (which is to say a brain on fire), but that Mickey unveiled the product of a lifetime of work, a magnum opus of four, no count at least five, dimensions of unparalleled sound, a soundscape so lush, so rich, so uncompressed and encompassing that it resonated in unheard of ways within every cell of the body.
And it wasn’t just for the ones who were missed. For that sweet and enduringly sad voice that we felt to be all heart.
And for Bill who for all of his failings and strange and tremendous and fantastical life, could provide the control necessary for controlled chaos. I’d like to imagine that under his guidance, ticket sales would not have devolved into the cluster that they became. And, like, the color coded lots, might actually have had colors. Or even that there probably should have been a real parking lot.
It was really, I guess, that it actually felt important. Important in the way that the idea of America is important.
Important because if in one way or another we’re casualties of this world, then it reminds us that through the company and communion with one another it can get better.
We are, after all, an imperfect union. We must, and we will, strive to make it better.
It was important because somewhere and for always there should persist a place (in this world and of the mind), that allows in fits and starts for the expansion of liberty, perhaps one day a liberty so broad that it can encompass all, independent of color or gender or species. And that there should be a place premised on the very idea that there is and always will be something glorious beyond the horizon.
Something even further.
A couple days ago I ran from Burlington (almost) to Huntington (almost). I’d hoped to make it all the way to the Fielder place, but such as it was.
Along the way I reencountered some wonderful things about Vermont, not the least of which was this: Of the perhaps five hundred oncoming cars that passed me that day, 95% of them dropped their speed by at least 20 mph. Many didn’t just straddle the yellow line, they swung way left of center. And everyone waved.
We call that a civil society. I have a lot of metal around me and am driving fast. You’re just in your shorts and t-shirt and are plodding along on the side of the road. Don’t worry. I’m going to watch your back. And we’re going to connect as human beings. And even though we’ll never see each other again in our lives, the world will be richer for that moment.
Which brings me to another great thing about Vermont. Call it Bernie Sanders.
On Saturday we swung by 131 Church Street. We got some bumper stickers and a t-shirt. And we wrote our small check, making a small pre-election tithe to the democratic process.
Nearly every pundit qualifies with “he has no chance of winning” as if to say honesty sports a zero chance in hell.
But that’s what a lot of people still don’t get about Vermont. This place is about the unlikely and the fiercely independent prevailing over all. Just wait. Bernie’s going to show some legs and I have little doubt a lot of folks will be left eating dust.
Why do I support him?
1. Someone needs to dope slap the Clinton campaign. Hilary will never ever listen to me. Not in a million years. I’m just a citizen. But there’s a very slight chance she might need to respond to Bernie.
2. In this country leaders are not supposed to be anointed. We elect them. Let’s put Hilary through an election.
3. I don’t know if he would make a good President. But I have no doubt he will make an outstanding candidate. He’ll broaden the debate. He’ll say the uncommon. He will speak. And to the best of his ability he will speak the truth.
4. I long for a candidate who will not descend into the gutter of negative campaigning.
5. I want someone who will stand for something and very clearly tell us what that thing is.
6. In this state, even Fred Tuttle counts for something. And like it or not, he wins.
In Vermont, come Town Meeting Day, a lot of things fly. And sometimes even the unlikely prevails, no matter how humble or homely or off beat the speaker. As long as the idea is voiced with respect. And it honors thy neighbor. And it’s truthful. And it makes sense.
This election season we all may be surprised at how many hunger for this.
Four weeks ago I sent off my set of envelopes, 3×5 cards enclosed, ticket requests numbered on the outside of the envelope, multiple postal money orders (no others accepted) enclosed within to the Grateful Dead Ticket Office in Stinson Beach. I wasn’t alone. That morning in Sebastopol four other people were doing the exact same thing in the few minutes I was there. The lines at the Chicago post offices stretched out the door.
And that was just the beginning. Within a few days, 350,000 ticket requests were received in the tiny Stinson Beach post office (which in a typical day might receive a couple thousand letters). The total number of tickets available for the three 4th of July shows is probably around 180,000.
In the course of two to three days, nearly $70 million dollars in cash flooded into that PO Box. Needless to say, I and my pack of friends received nada. Online presales were cancelled as they struggled to figure out how to accommodate more people. And the package tickets going on sale later in the month are creeping up in price.
That’s cool. It tickles to be part of the zeitgeist. It was nice to have one last opportunity to tuck a 3×5 card and a prayer into an envelope and hope for the best. And just the thought of a Wonka ticket was enough (I still remember when our tickets to the 1991 New Year’s shows, all beautiful in their large purple sparkly glory, arrived in the mail).
And now comes the looming fore and aftermath.
Are you going for the Sunshine Daydream Hotel Package ($2200) or Steal Your Face ($4600)? Renaissance Hotel or the Hyatt? I actually don’t mind the prices – the Stones were running a lot more – and at this stage there’s little room to complain about staying in a fancy hotel. I’m sure Mickey Hart isn’t sleeping in a van. Besides, a lot of the boomers are in the process of cashing in what remains of their 401(k)s. And lastly, it’s not like we’re actually going to see the Dead. If we do see actually get into Soldier’s Field, what we will hopefully kind of get is the memory of the Dead and a last hurrah before an ever growing number of us actually become Dead.
Which kind of makes the comments on the ticket site a little funny. Folks are talking as if they’ll just mosey onto Ticketmaster sometime on the morning of February 27th, submit their orders and call it a day.
Let’s just say, that probably won’t happen. Picture several hundred thousand (perhaps over a million) individuals (and lets not even count the bots) trying to simultaneously score one of 50,000 $59 seats.
I can’t see it.
And the bottom rack hotel package deals ($1600)? Count those as already gone. And the $6000 VIP packages that come with catered food and a private tent? Let’s just say that there’s a lot of money being minted in the Bay Area right now. For enough folks it’s chump change. Just count the Teslas while you’re driving around shopping for an affordable apartment.
The best comments are from the folks exuberantly announcing they’re not even going to mess with hotels. They’re camping.
Yep. And I understand it. Whenever I get the urge to pitch a tent and rough it for a few days, I ponder for a few moments and then think, “Hey! How ’bout downtown Chicago!”
I know, I know. There’s the parking lot. But if anyone has a moment, take a look at the footprint. And then note the 8 story parking garage adjacent. Yeah. That’s where the bulk of the people park at Soldier’s Field.
Which doesn’t mean we shouldn’t all head to Chicago. The Field Museum has a lot to offer. Chicago dogs by the dozen. The fireworks over the lake will be spectacular. The parking lot scene will always be the parking lot.
And we’re doing it not for just a spot of music. We’re doing it because we loved them. And we loved what they came to mean for us. And because a half million of tie dye strong, young and old, freaks every one, will be wandering the Loop marveling over how wild the Trip really has been.
Around the world we see the placards “Je Suis Charlie”.
And also another viral message: “Je suis Ahmed” honoring Ahmed Merabet, the Muslim police officer gunned down while standing guard at the Charlie Hegbo offices.
Consider it a first step in honoring the larger community of victims in this week’s tragedy. But do these events demand an even more encompassing empathy?
The two initial perpetrators Cherif and Said Kouachi have been described as radical islamists. And yet clerics have also come out against the two assassins, condemning their acts as contrary to Islam.
In the case of the Kouachi brothers, another fact stands out.
Abandoned by their parents at an early age, they grew up as orphans in foster care.
And as with so many orphaned children, it may not be so much that they hated, but that they never learned to love.
Foster children and those raised without parents often exhibit a complex set of behaviors. They harbor distrust and disassociation from a world that has abandoned them. With little connection to a larger community, they are sometimes drawn toward criminal activity and the margins of society. The most severely orphaned lack emotional connection and empathy. In the case of the Kouachi’s adrift on the boundaries of Parisian society, they grew into petty criminals and became the perfect target for jihadists. The abandoned are often left to replicate the wound which may never be healed. Wanting for a higher purpose, they only needed to be activated.
Victims often beget other victims.
Extremism may be a crisis of the heart. In this way perhaps Descarte derailed us. It may not be so accurate to say “Je pense, donc je suis” – I think, therefore I am. More fitting, perhaps, “I feel, therefore I am.”
It’s easy to categorize some men as monsters. But to what extent are we all complicit even in the smallest way in creating the conditions that breed horror? And when will we be ready to assume the even greater burden? Not just of “Je suis” – I am – but of “Nous Sommes”.
A week ago we hunkered down in a standing room crowd in the Public House, the bar holding up the bleachers just behind home plate at AT&T Park. The Giants were still battling it out with the Kansas City Royals and at that moment the Royals had just scored 4 runs at the top of the third inning. The crowd had grown somber and quiet, folks clenching glasses of beer as we watched the wall to wall screens.
It’s not like I’ve ever followed baseball. I shouldn’t have cared less, except for there was one person who cared a whole awful lot.
Howie Usher, our friend river guide, had suffered a stroke two years earlier. He was defined by the river – he’s probably been down the Colorado and in the Grand Canyon over a hundred times in the last thirty years. And he was defined by the San Francisco Giants. Despite having grown up in Southern California, he’s been a religious Giants fan for close to fifty years. He suffered through the 56 year drought when the Giants had gone without winning the championship. He reveled in 2010 when they at last won the World Series. And he sat at home post-stroke, his left side mostly frozen when they won again in 2012.
At that time, he told everyone that he was going to get back on the river, not just get back on, but actually row, taking trips down through those daunting rapids. It was not a likely prospect. That kind of work is mostly for younger men and requires both parts of your body to be working at full capacity.
But for two years he counted and arranged stacks of pennies for hours to build his fine motor skills. He swam to rebuild his mobility. His friends took him out on a boat on a lake so his muscles could relearn how to row again. Mazie returned his lucky penny to him because it seemed that he needed it most. He took long hikes every Monday to rebuild his stamina.
At the end of this summer, a small envelope arrived postmarked from Phantom Ranch at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. It came from Howie and the envelope contained his lucky penny. Earlier that summer he had rowed on two trips and once more had guided his boat through Lava.
A few days later, Howie emerged from the Canyon and on the long drive up from Diamond Creek to Seligman and on to Flag, he was able to hear fragments of the epic post-season game between the Giants and the Nationals. He listened inning after inning all the way home to Clarkdale and walked in the door just in time to see Brandon Belt score the winning run in the 18 inning game, the longest in post season history.
And on this night of Game 4 in San Francisco, Howie had a chance to watch his first World Series game in AT&T Park. He and his friend sat up high, just to the left of home plate, and cheered as the Giants crawled back from the third inning, scoring run by run by run until they upset the apple cart with an 11-4 lead.
In Game 5, Madison Bumgarner pitched a 5-0 shutout. A few nights later the Giants were trounced in Kansas City. And in the final moment of Game 7, Pablo Sandoval caught the foul ball at the bottom of the ninth and the Giants brought it home in a nail biter.
As Howie is always wont to remind: beware of calling the game too early. The World Series is nine innings in each of seven games. You can be way down and there’s always up. There will always be a lot more baseball yet to play.
And one more equivalency for the river guide. If it’s true that you’re always above Lava, then it’s converse must be equally true: you’re forever below it as well.
All I had to do was one thing, the right thing, and this post may not exist. But instead something else is gone. And in it’s place we have this.
Last night my friend Johnny Meyering took his life. Before he did so, he changed his Facebook profile picture to an image of the ocean and a warm beach. A line of footprints traces the line of the surf. I would like to think that he wanted to find peace. And that he cared enough that he wanted people to know that.
Twelve of his friends liked the picture. Two posted comments. One said, “Beautiful!” The other asked if he was alright.
The problem is that he’s no longer there to receive it. The line is now disconnected. And no one will be there ever again to pick up.
Every thing in Johnny’s life up until last night could have possibly been fixed. And for some reason he couldn’t see that. And so he did the one thing that in fact could not be taken back.
This morning I looked at his Facebook page, that strange 21st century totem that is all about memory and memorial.
I wanted to Message him to tell him to please stop, to please not do it.
I wanted to Poke him to let him know, hey, someone is out there and cares.
I want to Post on his Wall and tell him to come up and stay with us for a while. I know some kids who are struggling to stay in school. If you just go and sit with them for a little while and help them a little bit with their writing and math, you will immeasurably change the world. And you alone can do it.
But he’s no longer there to receive any of it.
I look at his Friends. I see faces from Seattle and from Japan and San Diego and Chicago. I know a few, but by no means all. But the person who is friends with every one of those people? The one person who bound all those people together into a circle of friends has made himself gone.
I look at his Likes. The movie Gerry, and the movie Samsara, Jazz, and The New Yorker. The Wire, Raymond Chandler, David Sedaris, Art Spiegelman, Taberna 1931, The Bill Evans Trio, Langston Hughes, Paolo Coelho, Huruki Murukami, The Urban Land Army. And more.
This is the filagree that composes a person. There is no one in the world who liked exactly the same things as Johnny. And there never will be.
When the person becomes gone, the Likes and the Friends lose their life as well. The thing that gave rise to the Likes and the Friends has gone away and in turn they have become a dry and intractable husk.
I remember decades ago a crazy Thanksgiving dinner we held in a small walkup apartment in Golden Hills in San Diego. Anna and I weren’t married yet and a good handful of Meyerings were there and Johnny was too. Anna’s high school English teacher came and left and got a DUI. All the rest of us probably could have been in the same boat. And Johnny was there, he had been studying Japanese. He was looking youthful and handsome – he always, for as long as I knew him, looked youthful and handsome. And his manner was funny and dry and he was as gentle and brilliant a person as I’ve ever known.
And that’s the weird part. Even now, on this Memorial Day morning, I can feel him. Which is to say that he had a feeling, a presence that was unique unto him. No one else in this world ever has, nor ever will, feel like Johnny Meyering. The feeling was so special. And so precious. And such a great gift to the world.
But we never recognize it in ourselves. And we fail to understand that it will actually matter when it’s gone.
It’s so wrong. And now nothing will ever bring him back.
That’s what I would tell him.
The strange thing about the South African revolution, I explain to my daughter this morning, was that it didn’t just occur in South Africa. Millions of people around the world, many of whom will never in their lives see Pretoria were part of the fall of apartheid. Who in the world of our generation was in some small way not part of Mandela?
Or so we like to believe.
I was part of the college class who, during our junior and senior year, saw the mushrooming of shanty towns in university plazas in 1986 and 1987.
I remember one particular moment (which my friend Patrick insists is apocryphal) in which a parade of students demanding that the university divest from South Africa, followed the tweedy university dean on his walk home. In loud unison they chanted, “You can’t run, you can’t hide! You’re responsible for genocide!”
Which in hindsight presents some interesting ironies. The dean was actually a super decent guy. A white man from the Northeast, as a young college student he had actively participated in the civil rights movement. His moral compass was dead on. He, like most people it seems, was trying to find his way through a difficult situation.
Beneath the long light of history, it turns out that we all may have been on the same side – students and university administrators, imprisoned ANC leaders and white Afrikaners . The time of apartheid was coming to an end. It was crumbling under the weight of it’s own injustice. And everyone was trying to find their way out of it given the cultural context in which they existed.
As the students erected wooden shacks, unbeknownst to them, the ANC and even Mandela himself was in secret negotiation with the Afrikaner National Party. As described in the wonderful New Yorker article, the Secret Revolution, his captors even escorted him out of prison on field trips so he could become reacquainted with South African society. Afrikaaner and ANC leaders went on covert outdoor retreats to become familiar with one another and lay a human foundation for the change that they all knew was to become.
As college students we understood the story. But we didn’t understand the whole story.
And on the other side, Fareed Zakaria, the head of the Yale Political Union (and now media pundit) consistently dismissed the protests. We have abandoned the politics of debate, he said repeatedly, for the politics of dance. He scoffed at the theatre of mock shanty towns and the riot of chants. Singing songs cannot replace informed debate, he argued.
He was right, of course. But not absolutely right.
The divestment movement, the protests, the refusal of the Oakland longshoremen to unload cargo ships arriving from South Africa, and yes, the anthology of songs and the dance – all contributed to the fall of apartheid.
If you are not included in the conversation, then you are forced to change the conversation. And if the very nature and arena for discourse excludes you, then you must change the arena. Government exercises power through courts and laws enshrined in civil and economic institutions, and racism and injustice can become encoded in those very laws and institutions. The conversation of the disenfranchised by definition must occur outside those civic channels. When you are frozen out of the conversation in the legislative chambers, then the conversation will continue outside in the language of the streets.
Listening to the news coverage of Mandela’s life, I’m struck by the volume of songs that were written about him. And its safe to say that change founded in joyful song stands a better chance than that founded in shouts of rage. In hindsight, it turns out the songs and the cascading melodies were part of the informed debate. People rallied to and around those songs. And thoose throngs placed unbearable moral pressure on those in power.
And lastly a story that is almost certainly apocryphal. After he was released from prison, Mandela had his study remodeled to the dimensions of his prison cell. He had lived there for decades and he apparently knew how to function in that environment. And ironically, outside of prison as he entered his elder years, he felt a loneliness that he perhaps had evaded in prison. Once you come to incarceration you learn that there’s only one true release. And a few nights ago it was granted to him.
This gallery contains 3 photos.
Benjamin Mermelstein had married Dora Mirowski. The Mirowski’s left their village of Bedzin in Poland near about 1880. There were at least a handful of Mirowskis who stayed behind. In 1939, many of them were photographed, their names inventoried and … Continue reading
Before the Wall fell, Anna and I once took a train across East Germany and Poland from Berlin to Moscow. But to get on that train, we needed first to get past a Dutch-German Intourist agent, Hendrik Grave who, it seemed, was the only one who could book us a berth, but in Berlin something went terribly wrong, the reservations were not complete, the seats unavailable. We would have to delay. But no problem. We would stay with Hendrik, he said. But instead he put us up in a friend’s flat, but that friend stole our luggage and so we were forced to remain with Hendrik day after day, waiting for something to happen.
And always the patter of Hendrik, telling us about Die Mauer, about the twisted psychology of Berliners, of the unfolding of life and of self-understanding. Driving through the streets of Berlin, Hendrik would proclaim apropos of nothing and everything, “All ist gut, All ist klaar.” And always referring to himself in third person, Hendrik, he said, would take care of everything.
Over the days his story unwound. How his father had been part of the SS and had been a Reich officer. Of how as a boy during the war, he was told that his mother had died and he was sent off to live with a relative. He grew up without mother and father. Nazi exultation. The Reich’s collapse. Loneliness. And then as an older boy, a woman appears. She holds him carefully outside his home. People tell him that this is his mother.
But how could this be his mother? She is dead. She died during the war. This is not his mother. He pushes away and runs. The strange horrid woman was a ghost. And if not a ghost, then the adults around him were monsters for telling such a lie.
How had a war neutered a generation from it’s past? Who was Hendrik’s family and what deeds and lies had they all perpetrated, he would ask.
One afternoon sitting in Hendrik’s flat, the golden midsummer’s light casts his sharp features and white mane of hair in profile. He listens to Mozart’s Requiem. Turning the volume to full, he drains a glass of white wine, head tilted back. All ist gut, Hendrik says, eyes shut. All ist klaar.
At times people have confused us as brothers which has sometimes made us wonder how far apart we really were. Before family emigrations, how many days afoot separated our ancestral villages? It couldn’t have been much. Enough of my family came from Poland and Russia and enough of his as well. Lives and families cast vast to the winds. People move across the oceans. Children are born and people die. One hundred years later, the son of one family and the son of another ascend the stairs to the third floor suites in Silliman College to begin their freshmen year at Yale. They set down their bags, they catch sight of one another. They sense a vague recognition.
Now, twenty five years later, I tell Danny about my ancestry experience and he provides the names of his paternal and maternal grandparents. That night I go online and enter names and birth dates. Family trees and homes and turn of the century censuses coalesce and link to family trees compiled by other people. Danny’s maternal grandfather, Benjamin Mermelstein emerges out of the fog. Years in Baltimore. Naturalization, emigration. Poland. The Ukraine.
It’s two in the morning in California on an autumn night. It hurts to stir the waters and have this debris surface. I sense these people welling up out of Poland and the Ukraine and the Belorus in the 1880’s. Something ungood was afoot and by some miracle, Danny’s kin and my kin sensed it. They registered a tidal pull and one way or another they decided that now, in this moment, it was time to go.
Documents appear that identify Danny’s ancestral home. And here I feel a pit in my stomach.
Benjamin Mermelstein came from the village of Trochenbrod.
Last week my daughter busted on me, saying that we had no right to celebrate Thanksgivingkuh. We’re not even Jewish, she said. She’s technically correct since my mom’s family hailed from the Baltics. And as for my dad’s side, it’s a mystery.
After my dad died, my paternal line was largely lost to me. I have vague memories of information that my grandmother had once shared. A Max Lewis, the last name Barsh. Time spent in Camden. They amounted to the barest shreds of a long disintegrated family fabric.
Last week, during a bout of sleeplessness I paid a visit to Ancestry.com. It makes sense. What else should one do during a dark night of the soul? Isn’t it all about uncovering who you are?
Lying there in the darkness I entered a few bits of information: my name and birth date, that of my parents. Within minutes little “hint” leaves began popping up left and right on the tree that was self assembling. My dad’s birth certificate led to the names of his parents. His parents’ birth and death records auto populated and led to 1910 and 1920 census records in Philadelphia and Camden, New Jersey. These led to names of cousins and great grandparents and possible countries of origin.
In the dim illumination of my computer screen, I stared at images of reports handwritten by census workers in 1910 as they trudged up and down soiled tenement stairs, inventorying the names and occupations of my ancestors. I saw the names Isaac and of his brother Max and of their father and mother, Solomon and Rachel, bearers of ancient biblical names, but recently hailed from Poland and Russia. What did they know of their great grandson of the future who would use 21st century magic and technology to pull back the veil of the past to reveal some distant home?
On that day in 1910, they sat impatiently in some squalid and small flat, answering a stranger’s questions in broken English. We left that place, they may have said to themselves. It was done and over. And of this, what good would ever come of it?
For all you Gravity fans out there, here is the accompanying Cuaron short that aired at Telluride. As Sandra Bullock curls up in a Soyuz, turns down the oxygen and prepares for her own death, she sends out a distress call to Houston that never arrives.
She reaches a terrestrial stranger. This is what happens on the other end. As lovely and gripping a counterpoint as there could ever be.
But I have to hold off on this one.
And I wish deeply that Herb Caen was still alive so he could have shared in today. I have no doubt that it would have made him proud of the city that he so loved.
What is it about Batkid (or #SFBatKid to be more accurate) that’s so captivating?
Like many others, I tuned it by chance late Friday morning. My wife said there was a picture of Batkid on the internet and when she saw him she began to cry. As did millions of others. Within hours the Twitter and Facebook and international news feeds were lit up with coverage of Batkid as he raced about the streets of San Francisco foiling one caper after another. Workplaces ground to a halt as folks tuned in to the boy’s activities.
The chance to dress up in a bat cape and bound through San Francisco in a Lamborghini cum Batmobile dealing with the likes of The Riddler and the Penguin? I’d do it in a heartbeat. The reality is that little Batkid’s day is the day we all wish for. We all want to be battling the bad guys and saving Gotham, but typically it takes the form of correcting an expense report, or dealing with a call from the school, or recovering from a fight with a parent or child or sibling. Wasn’t there once a simpler time?
In this world, we got enough bad guys. Or maybe just sad guys. The ones who shoot up schools, or overcome by their own prejudices light other teenagers on fire. Or terrorize the city of Boston with mayhem and murder. Or engineer government shutdowns and hold our debt ceiling hostage.
It’s such a relief to have bad guys of the old fashioned stripe. The ones who tie up a Damsel on the Trolley Tracks or try to Rob a Bank or Kidnap Lou Seal the SF Giant mascot. The old timey kind of stuff. The kind of stuff that can be taken out by a 5 year old kid in a bat suit who believes.
Some may ask what 12,000 people could do if they applied themselves to other perhaps greater causes. But it’s not an either/or proposition. As my friend Al Azhderian once said, It’s a Big Tent. One good deed does not preclude another. Our world and our selves can accommodate as many good deeds as we can dream up. In fact, each act creates the space or possibility for even more.
And the thousands who turned out today didn’t do it for the kid. In the end, it’s not so much about Batkid, but about that thing people have been hungering for. It’s about what Batkid gave us. In this sour season, he and Make a Wish reminded us, if only for a moment, of our ability to believe. To believe in the power of caring and love. And in the power of a body of people who for many competing reasons all felt it important to come together. And in our ability to transform reality simply by choosing to make it so.
Is San Francisco really Gotham? Did Police Chief Greg Suhr really go on TV and plea for Batkid to save the city? Did the Giants and the Raiders cheer Batkid on? Did the District Attorney really indict the evil doers? Does Batkid actually have his own parking space? Is it truly Batkid Day for now and forever? And did the President of the most powerful nation on earth (along with competing members of Congress) really give Batkid shouts of encouragement?
Of course not. We all know such things could never really happen. It’s impossible. Isn’t it?
It made me appreciate even more the brilliance of the coaches. What better way to infuse young teenagers with a gratitude and love for their strength and beauty than to present them with a meditation on the mortality of their own bodies?
I grew up under the shadow of Harold and Maude which means I take a certain pleasure in cemeteries.
With a little help from Apple Maps I end up in the Santa Rosa Memorial Park. I like the name. It’s almost as good as the antiquarian graveyard, but with the sense that we go there to recreate and remember.
Today I do both.
My first circuit takes me through the new area of the park, utilitarian and efficient like everything else of the 21st century: neat rows of flat plaques are set into tightly trimmed grass and adorned with plastic flowers, revealing the restrictions again any sort of plantings. Clearly only one thing is intended to be planted here.
Which gives pleasure when I catch the click and whir of the sprinkler systems.
The dead have no shortage of wisdom. And I like them for that.
And there’s no shortage of loss in this place. And probably no shortage of entreaties. Please help. Someone. Please. Just help.
On the periphery of the yard, I catch sight of a memorial bench. The fellow was only 51 when he went on. But a good guy he was. He promises me, a complete stranger, that in exchange for my visit, he’ll forever look after me. It’s quite a commitment if you stop to think about it. It’s far greater than any of us can offer to one another. This guy is actually out there. Gosh knows what powers he has.
And he reminds me that it’s okay. I’m on my run. And runs are all about one step at a time. I’m there. I’m with him. And that gives me a strange strength.
His name was Parker.
John Lowe Parker.
It would heed all of us to remember.
I eventually find my way to the old part of the cemetery. And there’s the gem. The whole hilly range has been turned over to a native oak restoration area. Unmaintained, the headstones tilt and fall akilter; the trails settle under deep swaths of fallen leaves. I run through here and absorb the life and the loss and the longing.
Grave, where is thy victory?
There is no death here. Instead, the abundance of autumn and the wealth of these glorious trees.
This one is from my friend Mary Fillmore who lives in Burlington Vermont.
It fits the moment I’m in right now. Perhaps also for others.
Cutting off is not disentangling,
and even disentangling is not
Letting go is what the dandelion does
when it gives its seeds to the wind,
lighter than any feather –
letting go is allowing ashes
to slip through your hands
into the earth
where they belong.
Cutting off is not disentangling,
and even disentangling is not
Some reflections on a subset of this year’s slate. Telluride once again flexes it’s high altitude muscle. With 27 features films as opposed to Toronto’s 400, it’s much easier for the cream to rise to the top.
The Past (Le Passe). Even a cursory plot summary of this movie would amount to a spoiler – the story is not just about what unfolds, but what you feel in the unfolding. By Iranian Director Asgar Farhadi (A Separation), it begins as a story of an Iranian man who returns to Paris to finalize a divorce from his ex-wife. As the narrative steps forward, new details are revealed such that moment to moment it becomes a different movie from the one you thought you were watching. The protagonist who initially appears to be callous and irritable, discloses maturity and prescience as a disrupted family situation and blistering reality comes into focus. Don’t be surprised to see it as an Oscar foreign film contender. US release date in December.
Under the Skin: Pygmalion. Bride of Frankenstein. Seventeen years in development before it received the green light. Never have I seen Scarlett Johanssen so naked and cared so little. Other people naked. I want my two hours back. Ducks performing Othello. Voice dub by Mel Blanc. Will play well in Venice. But not at the Palm. In Scottish. Like Macbeth. Except it needs subtitles. Do they even speak English? I don’t mind working. Alien. But not for so little. Tarkovsky. No. Scratch that. He had deep Russian monologues. Fast motorcycles. Tin Man seeks a heart. Except in the Wiz you had Dorothy. A family drowns. Dystopian. Never Let Me Go. No. That was engaging. This: black succubus. The Horror! The Horror! Like that sex addict movie. But more excruciating. And dull. I like the scene after the soccer match.
The worst cowboy movie I’ve ever seen.
Vespucci Studios lives. But now they have a budget.
The Lunchbox (Dabba): In Mumbai a network of more than 5000 dabbawallahs deliver home cooked lunches from Indian housewives to their husband’s offices, and then later return the lunch boxes back to the appropriate home. The lunch boxes change hands many times as they travel by bike and train and porter to the warren of office buildings that lace Mumbai. Largely illiterate, the dabbawallahs rely on a complex language of colors and symbols to ensure the lunch pails arrive on time at the appointed place. A team from the Harvard Business School found the system to be highly efficient – only one in eight million lunch boxes arrive at the wrong location.
This story is about one lunchbox that get’s misdelivered. Instead of arriving at the desk of her inattentive husband, Ila’s sumptuous meal is delivered to the desk of Sajaan, a lonely widower. Food is consumed, notes are delivered, and a surreptitious love affair blossoms.
Throughout, the ebb and flow of relationship is governed by the pulsing roar of the Mumbai transportation system, the frayed edges of an evolving city drowning in it’s own growth and decay. The loneliness and alienation of it’s inhabitants are mirrored by the uncountable lunch pails carried blindly through the maze of streets and alleys. What are the chances of intersecting with the right person and finding true love? And perhaps the wrong train that will deliver us to the right station.
As visually sumptuous as Ila’s cooking, the story remains emotionally restrained as Sajaan’s guarded expressions. But as the narrative builds, we see both characters relax into themselves and find the emotions they’ve long since buried. Without the polished arc of Monsoon Wedding or neat ending of Slumdogs, this story hovers a little closer to the grit and mud on the ground, and the very real messiness of our life choices. And it affords a chance to be a voyeur on the streets of Mumbai to boot. Delightfully sad and a crowd pleaser. Look for it’s North American release on September 20th.
Gravity: Although it will be hitting the theatres in wide release on October 4, the movie gave the TFF folks a chance to put the new Werner Herzog theatre sound system and 3D projection through it’s paces. And how was it? The Zog, assembled in the town park ice rink, blows away the competition.
From the first moment we delight in watching an extended sequence of George Clooney and Sandra Bullock floating in space as they complete repairs on the Hubble Space telescope. When disaster hits, Bullock and Clooney (looking ever more like Buzz Lightyear) are left floating in space like a bit of cosmic debris. Against all odds they must find their way home.
You’re only a few minutes into the movie before you suddenly wonder, how in God’s name did they film this? For 91 minutes astronauts float about in zero g’s. And it feels real, perhaps the best tribute to the film’s greatness. In Gravity, director Alberto Cuaron (Y Tu Mama Tambien) veers away from his terrestrial and more character driven stories into an extraterrestrial minimalism. He and his team labored for more than four years to develop the technology needed to recreate the clear light of space and what appears to be a zero gravity environment. And it does what movies are supposed to do – bumps the pulse and make you feel wonder.
Cuaron casts a vision of human experience that includes the exosphere of our planet. We feel the oblique loneliness that our descendants will carry as they chart a course ever deeper into the terra incognita of space, and away from terra firma. And you realize that yes, indeed, we at last are living in the 21st century.
Here Be Dragons: I mention because it’s classic Telluride Backlot fare. Shot with a flip cam for less than $3000, filmmaker Mark Cousins presents a film essay chronicling a trip to Albania to consult on the preservation of the Albanian film archive. Living under wraps for fifty years, the Balkan headlands of Albania may be the last place on earth for which we have few visuals. Cousins now supplies them. And his associative mind lends meaning to the starkness.
Nebraska: This one turned out to be the biggest show stopper this weekend. Following his success with The Descendants, Alexander Payne has committed to becoming a regular at Telluride. His delicate and human touch make him a nice fit. When Woody Grant (Bruce Dern) receives a letter in the mail informing him that he may have won a million dollar sweepstakes, he sets off to Nebraska to claim it. His youngest son aids and abets him and a family locked in its dysfunctional dynamic is splayed open.
Grant returns home, he connects with his old friends, and his life time of low grade trauma is replayed for him as relatives and friends are revealed for who they are. In this, he and his son find their own redemption.
When Bona Fide productions received the screenplay from first time writer, Bob Nelson, they asked Payne to step in as executive producer, but he said he wanted to direct instead. Payne, himself a Nebraska resident, relied on open casting to give these midwestern characters a some flesh. These are understated people eking out livings in an understated world.
Another Oscar contender. At the tail end of his career, Bruce Dern should be up for a nomination. A moving must see when it’s released later this year.
12 Years a Slave: The LA Times gave five reasons to see McQueen’s latest. Without knowing theirs, mine might include Fassbender’s performance. Brad Pitt taking a moral high ground. Paul Giamatti doing anything in the 19th century. And the 19th century articulated sentence structure. Beyond that, I’m an outlier amidst the rave response to 12 Years. What more does it add to the slave narrative, other than the slight nuance of an educated free black man being abducted and placed in chains in the deep South? Not much in the way of character development, beyond the protagonist shifting his forthright voice and gaze to one of subservience, leaving the affair somewhat cartoonish. And don’t we already know about the depravity, the ways in which slavery dehumanized all participants, and the ongoing effects of the lash?
Which raises a difficult aspect. The graphic violence, I assume, is intended to galvanize audience emotion. Except that in today’s cinema graphic violence comes easy. For me it amounted to a cheap thrill not dissimilar to the cheap (and very different) thrill that the slave owner gained by whipping his property. Rife with great performance, the film depicts brutality, but not much more than that.
Slow Food Story: If you’re a foodie, I’d give it a must see. A fresh addition to the heavy morass of many foodie documentaries (e.g. Food Inc.) Filmed almost exclusively in Bra and Northern Italy, the playful flick lays out the origins of the Slow Food movement and it’s joyful, extroverted founder, Carlo Petrini, considered by some to be one of the most transformative persons on the planet. You can’t help but love this man who dreamt big as a young man, got involved in Italian leftist politics, infused his work with the social goof of the Italian street theatre, and realized that the politics of the mind would have a far lesser effect than politics of the stomach. Before we had ideas manifestos, we broke bread. The film transects this new world we’re creating of urban gardens, and White House gardens, and food once again sourced from the ground on which we walk.
First time director Stefano Sardo does a delightful job of creating something uniquely italian – part cartoon, part street grotesque, but vivacious and animated. This is not so much about a movement, but about life itself.
Tuesday morning, things are wrapping up, the crowds heading home. And the Telluride Film Festival, now in it’s fortieth year, still stands as the reigning queen of festivals. After five days of immersion in films and conversations and ideas, your head spins and you feel the need for some time to process.
The Festival is unjuried (no prizes given), is not a market festival (no sales or seeking distribution), the content unannounced (people come in from around the world not knowing what will be served up until the first day), no paparazzi or red carpet (this is about the craft and the story with a bit of buzz, so real conversation between filmmakers is possible), has a tradition of sneaking films (they don’t list some items in the program, allowing them to show films freshly canistered and scoop Venice and Toronto, showcasing movies before they’ve officially premiered) contains a healthy dose of film hauled from the vaults (you come here to see stuff you will never have a chance to see anywhere else), and it’s in Telluride (everything within a gondola ride or a couple block walk).
All this makes for Telluride to be a movie love fest.
What are these things we call films? At one point I found myself lying on the floor of the Sheridan Opera House, surrounded by images and ephemera from the last forty years. I listened to Werner Herzog’s solemn intonation and Andre Gregory expounding. I overheard another person explain how she’s been visiting for a few years and TFF feels so intense and even emotionally transformative that she can’t stop coming. It’s not so much a film festival as a body of people immersing themselves in collective dreams, then surfacing and recounting their experience.
TFF was once known for it’s informality and rough edges. This began as a festival about movies and about the love and communication between people. As guest director last year, Alice Waters curated the Fanny Trilogy by Marcel Pagnol – the stories that long ago inspired her to start Chez Panisse, creating a space that would become a vessel for food and pleasure and love shared. This year she was honored during a screening of a documentary about Carlo Petrini, the founder of Slow Food. Through her cooking and her involvement over four decades, Waters has been instrumental in growing and nurturing the Telluride gathering. In the Sheridan Opera House on Saturday morning, she described the Festival as an international family reunion in which the artists and creators whom we love most gather each year to revel in each other’s company. The festival counts as one of her many homes.
And It’s no wonder that many pass holders return year after year.
Back in the day, films projected in the quonset hut community center would be drowned out by rain pelting against the tin roof. And in 1984 the rough informality allowed for a baseball game between team Paris,Texas and team Stranger than Paradise in which Wim Wenders caught a flyball in the outfield and then left the game so he could go out on top.
Here viewers are willing to receive images in the purest, most trusting way. And owing to the outstanding programming of the festival directors along with their collective willingness to take risk, the Telluride films have had a streak of Oscar runs (Slumdog Millionaire, The Kings Speech, The Descendents). And Telluride has also had it’s share of delightful bombs. Which is wonderful. The last thing we want to do is discourage people from taking risk. Only in risk can a new world be created.
We don’t know the ultimate effect of Telluride’s market making power. This year, the Coen Brothers, Alexander Payne, and JC Chandor pulled their films from Toronto so they could premiere at Telluride. The buzz on Nebraska overshadowed the Silver Medallion Tribute to the Iranian filmmaker Mohammad Rasoulof. (Manuscripts don’t Burn). But the spirit is still there.
Let’s hope that the crew out of Berkeley and the town itself will succeed in remembering who they are and from whence they come, and will continue to honor the power of the moving image.