Tuesday, January 06, 2004

Rest in Peace, Keith Arlen Magnuson Ah...the holidays are finally, firmly behind me now.  The tree that we cut down one fine Sunday afternoon in the country, and the ever-growing Christmas village that my boys and their dad so lovingly assembled beneath it, are still up.  But the ugly shirts and sweaters from thoughtful-but-just-a-little-clueless relatives have been returned.  And I used the money to select some pretty cool clothes for the kids instead.  And--perhaps most important for a mom who hasn't had time to even check her e-mail, let alone write anything, for weeks and weeks--the lads are back in school now.  Well, two out of three, anyway.  One's home sick and has to go to the doc in a little while.  But right now, while I've got a moment, I wanted to try to bring this blog back to life.  I'll start with an essay I wrote a few weeks ago, right after former and forever Chicago Blackhawk Keith Magnuson died in a car crash in Toronto. I'm not much of a hockey fan anymore these days.  It's a great game, but I just don't have the time to sit down and watch an entire game anymore, let alone follow a whole long season of it.  But any of you out there who remember supporting and following a sports team big time as a kid, or idolizing a particular player, or even if you just have some Chicago connections--you might relate to the thoughts that Mr. Magnuson's death brought on in me. ******************************************************************** Keith Magnuson--even his name sounded cool somehow. It was quite an apt name for a guy who was such a Magnum force on the ice, and who had Magnetism to spare as a fierce young defenseman for the Blackhawks in those glory years of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. I was thinking a lot about Keith and his beloved Hawks the other day. But it was something besides his death that first got me to thinking about this guy whom I hadn’t thought about in quite awhile. In one of those sad, strange coincidences, I hadn’t even heard the awful news yet about his too-early death when I happened upon a photo of him in the Special Olympics newsletter that I’d just received in the mail last Tuesday. That’s what got me to thinking back fondly on those heady days when Keith and his dream team ruled the ice and won the hearts of young Chicago-area hockey fans like me. As I skimmed the newsletter, a nice photo of a disabled young athlete and his family caught my eye. And who was that smiling, familiar-looking guy with his arm around the athlete? I scanned the caption and sure enough, it was none other than Keith Magnuson. I was touched to see that one of my old heroes was involved with this wonderful organization. Special Olympics is an organization that’s near and dear to my heart, because my oldest son is a teenager with Down syndrome who has earned many medals himself in the games. Since Keith’s death last Monday night in a car crash near Toronto, I’ve been reading so many heartwarming accounts of his devotion to so many charitable causes, of his kindness and generosity and selflessness. But until I saw that photo in that newsletter, I’m kind of ashamed to admit that I hadn’t known any of this about him. As the ‘70s had marched on and I’d become a teenager, hockey had gradually given way to other obsessions for me. Over the years, I’d completely lost track of Keith and all the other members of the team I’d been so loyal to as a youngster. And even during my years as an avid follower of the Hawks, there wasn’t the pervasive media coverage of athletes and their personal lives that we now get with 24-hour sports channels. And I was so young that I rarely watched the news. So I hadn’t known much about the kind of person Keith was off the ice. My admiration for him was based almost exclusively on his performance as a Blackhawk. Yeah, he was a fighter, all right. But he wasn’t a cruel, heartless thug about it. He’d never stab a guy in the back. He’d just take off his gloves and come straight at him and give him a good pummeling if the guy had done something to get his goat. More often than not, his fights were about defending the honor of his team. So I just thought Keith was the absolute coolest among all those very cool Blackhawks players prowling the ice of the Stadium back then. And okay, I’ll admit it; for awhile there I had a pretty serious pre-teen crush kind of a thing going for him, too. That boyish mop of strawberry blonde hair and those long, lanky limbs--not to mention that graceful way he had of zipping around the ice with his hair flying--just said “cute” to an 11-year-old girl. But when I saw that photo of him at the Special Olympics event, it gave me a whole new perspective on my childhood hero. I thought, “Way to go, Keith!” So my affection hadn’t been misplaced all those years ago after all. Turns out he was much more than just a memorable, very charismatic hockey player and extremely dedicated Blackhawk who was always fun to watch on the ice. He was a caring guy with a very big heart, too. I liked seeing this “new” side of him (new to me, anyway). So as I put down the mail and began to make dinner, I had lots of warm feelings about Keith and the Blackhawks occupying my mind. I fondly recalled the many evenings I’d spent as a kid watching the Blackhawks on WGN. Maybe it was easier to be a Hawks’ fan back in those days, when so many of the all-time greats of hockey were playing on the same team--on OUR team, for a change--at the same time. Sharing the ice with Keith were Bobby Hull, Tony Esposito, Stan Mikita and all the rest, whose names and jersey numbers I could’ve rattled off with ease back then, but whose names often escape this fickle fan nowadays. And when videos and computer games didn‘t yet exist, and a kid had only about five or so TV channels to choose from (or if you adjusted the rabbit ears just right, you might pick up a couple UHF channels too), what else was there to watch on those long winter nights but the best game in town? Well, whatever the reason, I was definitely hooked on those Hawks--especially the tall, lanky red-head who wore the Number 3 jersey--for a few wonderful years. And even after my passion for the game had diminished, I’d still go back in my memory from time to time to recall those glory days of the mighty Blackhawks. And of course, you just can’t think about the Hawks without thinking about Keith Magnuson. So when my husband got home from work just an hour or so later and broke the sad news to me that Maggie had died in a car crash the night before, it hit me even harder than it might have if I hadn’t just seen that photo and been reminiscing. All there’s left to say now is thank you, Keith, for all the wonderful memories, and for giving so much of yourself to others. You were way too young to die. You still had so much goodness and caring left to give to the world, to those special athletes, to your friends, your family. You came to the flatlands of northern Illinois by way of the vast prairies of Saskatchewan. But with your intense and long-time devotion to your team and to your adopted city, it was easy to forget that you weren’t a native son. We sure will miss you, Keith Arlen Magnuson. But you’ll always remain in our hearts. And right now, those hearts go out to your family. 1:18:47 PM    comment []

	Monday, November 03, 2003

Chatting Our Lives Away I sent this essay to The Chicago Tribune about a year ago.  They didn't publish it.  But in yesterday's paper, I saw an essay written by one of their staffers that expressed very similar thoughts.  Kind of strange, really.  Maybe I was just ahead of my time on this one.  At least, I like to think that's why they didn't publish it then.  Anyway, I thought I'd post it here.  I don't think I'm the only one who feels this way.  Maybe some of you can relate. **************************************************************   I’ve recently returned to suburbia after a week-long retreat to the far reaches of the North Woods of Wisconsin, where the soothing warble of loons replaced the annoying chirp of ringing cell phones, where the sigh of the wind through the pines replaced the drone of mindless cell phone chatter. And I don’t even own a cell phone. But like secondhand smoke is to non-smokers, so the hazards of cell phone use affect even those who don’t choose to partake of this highly addictive habit. So it’s always a refreshing breather to spend time in a cell-phone-free environment. I guess I should make clear that I’m not a complete Luddite when it comes to these things. I can see their appeal, necessity even, to doctors on call, lawyers, reporters and many others in professions where all kinds of Very Important Things hinge on one’s being always reachable. And they sometimes do come in quite handy for us regular folks, too. For instance, recently I was with my sister when she got a rather urgent call on her cell phone from her college-age son, who was stranded on the side of the highway after his beater broke down. And I’m sure there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of people who lost loved ones on September 11th, who are clinging to those last words they received via cell phone like life preservers. So yes, I know there’s definitely a time and a place for these things. I’m not suggesting we all throw our cell phones off a bridge into a deep river tomorrow (although come to think of it...hmmm). No, really, I’m just suggesting a little moderation is all, for things have gotten way out of hand. That’s why I’m so apprehensive about joining this chatty club myself. I’ve seen way too many people purchase cell phones with the honorable intention of using them “strictly for emergencies,” yet soon enough, they’re caught up in the phoning frenzy. Eventually they’re so far gone that they profess to not knowing what they ever did before they got their cell phone. That’s when cell phones cross the line between being a useful tool and just another high-tech toy to add to one’s arsenal of Palm Pilots, laptops, beepers, etc. Like so many of these devices that purport to save the user time, the cell phone often ends up being a real time waster instead. With apologies to Betty Friedan, you could say that cell phone usage expands to fill the time available. People start to use them simply because they’ve got them and they can. Most of the conversations I’ve overheard (and believe me, it’s very difficult NOT to eavesdrop on someone gabbing away at full volume next to you in the cereal aisle)--most tend to be of the “Hi, I’m at the meat counter now, heading over to ethnic foods” variety. In other words, we’re not talking pressing, life-or-death matters here. I cherish my husband and kids just as much as the next devoted wife and mother. But I’m sorry--after being at home with the kids all day, and finally getting out of the house on my own (even if it IS just to the grocery store), I also cherish the quiet time alone to just unwind, think deeply and uninterruptedly about things, be a little “out of touch” for awhile as I stroll the aisles. My husband doesn‘t need (or want) a play-by-play of which aisle I happen to be pushing my cart through at the moment. And I wouldn’t want to subject the other shoppers to such inane exchanges. One of the big draws of cell phones seems to be their ability to keep users in constant touch with everyone and their great uncle. Yet they end up putting people much more out of touch with those in their immediate environment. With their phones glued to their ears, their gaze focused on some distant horizon, the chatters miss those little connections that used to happen a lot more often between customers in line at the cleaners, post office, etc. It was those brief, pleasant exchanges with our fellow citizens that used to make some of us feel much more a part of our communities, that would occasionally pull each of us off our private little islands for a visit to the mainland. Back in the days when almost no one owned a cell phone, I used to relish such encounters at my favorite neighborhood coffee shop. There I met gracious old ladies, struggling young artists and middle-aged Vietnam veterans, all with their own stories to tell, their own wisdom to impart. Then there were the other young moms like me, with babies and toddlers in tow, thirsting as I was for some adult company to savor along with their lattes. I spent many enriching, satisfying hours hanging out in that cozy shop, conversing with friendly, interesting strangers over steaming cups of really good coffee. That was more than a decade ago. Now when I enter my local coffee chain store/franchise, barely a word is spoken between strangers. If you so much as make eye contact with someone else in line, you‘re often glared at. God forbid you should actually smile at someone. People rudely chat away on their cell phones while standing in line right next to you, so that you have to practically shout out your order to the barista. Many of the people sitting at tables alone are babbling away on their cell phones too, not showing the slightest interest in making a little small talk with the person sitting at the table right next to them. And they call this a coffeehouse! The situation isn‘t completely hopeless...yet. I’m always encouraged when I see two friends sitting by the fire over a leisurely game of chess. And I still encounter the occasional friendly smile or word while waiting in line for my java fix. But there’s definitely a tighter, more guarded vibe in the air in public places like this nowadays. We’re shutting each other out more and more, often by erecting cell-phone barriers around us. Seems like only yesterday when a trip to the video store might lead to a nice, thought-provoking little chat with a fellow wanderer of the video racks about the merits of a particular movie, director, etc. But that doesn’t happen much any more, because video stores seem to be one of the “hot” places to chat on cell phones. People practically run you down as they squeeze by you in the narrow aisles, oblivious to everyone around them as they have their Very Important Discussions with the person on the other end of the line: “Nah, I heard that one sucks.....Yeah, that’s supposed to be a good one.“ Blah blah blah.... It certainly IS a different world now than it was 15, or even five, years ago. With no small thanks to the ubiquitous cell phone. Besides their ironic tendency to be a deterrent to face-to-face human interactions, they also create another hazard to our collective emotional health: noise pollution. Ever find yourself pinned in the grocery store checkout line between two cell phone blabbers? Not a pleasant sandwich to be the filling of, is it? As if kids whining for candy, or Russell Crowe’s handsome face smiling from the cover of the latest tabloid, weren’t enough to fluster the harried housewife in the checkout line. Now we must sometimes contend with the cacophony of dueling cell phone conversations, one coming in each ear. Not only that, but we must politely pretend we don’t hear said conversations, or risk the withering, Type-A glares of the perfectly coiffed suburban moms who’ve unholstered their weapons, er, cell phones, from their stylish belts to fire off a round of instructions at their husbands or nannies. Speaking of noise pollution, I still remember one lovely day last spring when my kids and I were driving with the windows down, letting in the fresh air after a long winter of closed windows. But all too soon a blast of foul language came wafting in to sully that air, not to mention the ears of my 9- and 5-year-old boys. A big, loud pick-up truck pulled up next to us at a stoplight. In a big, loud voice, the man driving yammered away into his cell phone, shouting over the roar of his engine. He carried on a heated, animated conversation with the person on the other end, sticking his free arm out the window to embellish his words with florid hand signals. Oblivious to my older boy sitting in the passenger seat just a few feet away from him, he began using quite graphic language to describe the person he was angrily gossiping about, prompting my son to glance over at me with a shocked look on his face. I asked him to roll up his window. So much for fresh air. Then there was the woman in the video store (see, we’re back there again), loudly telling someone out in cellular space that she didn’t want to rent a particular movie because she’d seen it once already, and had fallen asleep “during that dumb-a** movie.” Once again, one of my boys was standing well within earshot. Sadder still, her own little guy was standing right next to her. I’ll take the haunting call of the loon any day over the vulgar language of such inconsiderate loonies. There used to be a time when such conversations were conducted in the privacy of one’s own home (or at least in a phone booth), when people had better manners and more dignity. Some of the ads for cell phone service are almost absurdly comical to one who just doesn’t get the appeal of being constantly, relentlessly accessible to others every single moment of every single day and night. Frenetically hip twenty-somethings with almost maniacal grins on their faces, looking as if they’ve found Nirvana through their cell phones, are meant to convince us that spending hundreds of minutes each month chatting on cell phones is the road to bliss. Me, I say it’s the road to ruin. The more time we spend on our cell phones, the less time we have to...well...live our lives. Call me a hermit, but I think everyone needs a little “off” time, a brief quiet respite in the day when we’re not available to anyone but ourselves, when we’re not listening to anything but our own inner voices. But we’re shutting those voices out more and more with our endless cell phone chatter, our hours spent online or in front of TVs or Play Stations, our obsession with catching all the latest blockbuster movies. We keep ourselves as frantically busy as an MTV video. But somewhere among the herky-jerky movements, the hyperactive cuts from scene to scene, the flashy but ultimately meaningless dialogue, we seem to be losing the art of pondering, thinking deeply, daydreaming about things, appreciating things. We restlessly nibble and graze at the feast of life, rarely slowing down to truly savor each bite. We mindlessly wolf down the empty calories of all this spiritual junk food, never slowing down long enough to thoroughly chew on and digest anything more substantial and nourishing. For instance, when I go to the movies these days, I often get that surreal sense of feeling like a bewildered visitor from another planet. Before the movie begins, clusters of friends hang out in the lobby together. They’re engaged in lively conversation, yes. But often not with each other. Though they’re surrounded by friends, many of them are chattering away on their cell phones to someone else! Then as soon as the movie ends, just as the credits begin to roll, the herds flock out of the theater and back into the bright lights and bustle of the lobby. Immediately many of them reach for--what else?--their cell phones. These hyper types wouldn’t even dream of taking a few moments to sit calmly in the dark and read the credits. Are they curious about where the movie was filmed, who was its cinematographer, who wrote its score? Do they pause to reflect on what they’ve just seen, to replay the magical or poignant scenes in their heads or discuss them aloud with those they’ve just shared the movie with, to think about what the director was trying to communicate? Nah. Who has time for all that nonsense when they’ve got more pressing matters to discuss on their cell phones as they seek the next thrill: “So what are we gonna do now?” “So where are we all gonna meet for drinks?” “The movie? Oh yeah...it was okay.” Nowadays, any attempt at casual conversation that goes deeper than the latest Vin Diesel vehicle often gets regarded with scorn and ridicule. I was at a party awhile back where another woman professed her fondness for a certain actor. I conceded that this particular actor could really lay on the charm at times, but added that his film performances had never really moved me. She gave a derisive snort and said, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “Moved? Who wants to be moved? After working all day, I don’t want to be moved; I just want to be entertained.“ Yes, we’ve all shared that sentiment at times. Of course we’re not always in the mood for an Ingmar Bergman or Mike Leigh film. Yet she said this with such great certainty, and without the slightest hint of irony or apology, as if any sensible person would have to agree. As if depth and profundity was no longer even an option. When someone “catches” another person immersed in thought, the offender is often good-naturedly ribbed for “spacing out“ or “just sitting there staring at the walls.” But contrary to appearances, those who are “just sitting there” actually might be quite busy at these times--testing out ideas, following a meandering train of thought to see where it might lead, savoring a past experience, letting the memory of it fill them with joy. I can think of far worse ways to spend one’s time. Yet we’ve become so dependent on all that stimulation from without to keep us occupied and entertained--all those other voices constantly talking to us--that many of us seem to be losing the ability to be engaged by the voice deep within us. Some people truly can’t distinguish any longer between being alone and being lonely. We seem to be forgetting how rich with possibility and creativity the aloneness, the silence can be. It’s a good thing people like Albert Einstein, Thomas Edison, Emily Dickinson and countless other brilliant, creative types never forgot how to shut out all the outside noise and listen to the silence. One telling detail often recurs in the biographies of such creative geniuses: most of them recall childhoods in which they were given plenty of unstructured “down” time, plenty of time to lie under a tree and stare up at the clouds, to explore the world around them, maybe with a magnifying glass in hand, to practice their instruments until they could play the emotions as well as the notes, to concoct imaginary characters and worlds in their heads and then bring them alive on the page. Imagine the likes of Einstein caught up in the cell phone frenzy: “Hello, Francois.... Oh, I’m not too busy. Just tossing around some silly ideas about velocity, mass and relativity.... Listen, I was just wondering, can you fit me in today? I can get to the salon from Princeton in a New York minute. You’ve just got to tame this wild mane and do something about all this gray.... Ah, thanks so much. Ciao!” So next time you get the urge to dial up a friend to find out something crucial--like what intersection she’s approaching as she drives to a lunch meeting with you--just put that phone right down and pick up a newspaper or a novel or an empty journal while you wait. Or smile and say hello to that person waiting in line for a table along with you. Or if you have children with you, try giving them your undivided attention, looking them in the eye and really listening to what they have to say. After all, when we get to that final curtain call, none of us wants to be left with the awful, remorseful feeling that we might’ve been merely phoning in our performance.   6:13:37 PM    comment []

	Wednesday, October 29, 2003

Teenagers These Days.... This wasn’t starting out well. I had just parked the Jeep in the high school parking lot.  My two boys (ages 10 and 5 at the time) and I had just gotten out of the car, eager to head to the gym for their older brother’s basketball game. Two male students, juniors maybe, walked right past us. They were engaged in conversation. One of the first words I heard as they walked by was The Word, the f-word. They just blurted it out as loudly and casually as you please in the middle of their conversation. My kids looked up at me with slightly shocked expressions.  I stood there a little stunned myself, wondering why they couldn’t have lowered the volume just a notch as they approached us, at least for the part of the conversation featuring that word.  It was almost as if they'd wanted us to hear them say it. Immediately I went into my I’m-turning-into-my-parents mode: indignant and inwardly fuming, “How could they use that word so loudly and carelessly around young kids, in front of somebody’s mom, for goodness sake, and with no shame!”  I started thinking all those “kids these days” thoughts: they’re so rude, self-centered, no respect for their elders, etc. Now I'm no prude when it comes to swearing.  Not that I do too much of it myself.  I try to save those powerful words for those rare occasions when I really need them.  But a lot of the people I hung out with in high school were chronic swearers; thought it made them sound cool, I guess. And it didn’t bother me too much to hear it. I was just used to it I guess; some of the kids in my crowd used (or I should say, overused) the f-word as just another adjective. But even the worst offenders among them would check the swear-words at the door when in the presence of little kids and adults, especially if those adults were--egads!--somebody’s parents. But not these 21st century teenagers. This wasn’t the first time this has happened to me; I’ve encountered groups of profanity-hurling teens while grocery shopping with my kids, in movie theater lobbies, etc.  Again, it's the nonchalance with which they do it--even within full earshot of children and adults--that I find a little disturbing.  Many of them use these words indiscriminately to express even the mildest annoyance at something.  They don't realize that these words are going to lose their impact and power for them very soon if they keep this up.  Then who knows what they'll come up with!  I mean, can the line really be moved any further? So with all these thoughts steaming inside of me at this point, I had worked myself into a bit of a stew, and was feeling pretty fed up with their whole generation.  Definitely not the right sort of mood to be in when you’re about to face a whole gymnasium full of ‘em. As we entered the school building, I tried to shake off all the negativity, to rid myself of those venomous thoughts.  I didn’t want those thoughts to poison my enjoyment of my son’s game.  Well, it didn’t take long to stop thinking that way.  What happened next helped me to change my mind about those teens and to hold out hope for them, lots of hope. Coming from the stillness of the bleak, wintry outdoors, the loud, electric atmosphere in the gym was a total contrast.  The place was positively buzzing!  The bleachers were packed on both sides.  What was unusual about this was the fact that this was a morning game, held while school was in session.  Most of the students had come here rather than going to study hall.  So they didn't have to be here.  And that's a big point, which you'll see in a minute. As the two teams walked out from the locker rooms to take their places on their respective benches, the crowd roared...for both teams, home and visitors.  The players, in full uniform, beamed and waved up at the bleachers, feeling the love.  But this is where I need to mention that these weren't just any old high school basketball teams.  Both teams consisted of all the students in the TMH classrooms of their respective high schools; in other words, these were the "teachable mentally handicapped" kids.  That's the official label the education system in Illinois gives to the more severely handicapped students, as opposed to the "educable mentally handicapped," who are higher functioning. But you wouldn't know that it wasn't Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippin out there from the way the crowd of their non-disabled peers whooped and hollered and cheered them on.  All these young, sturdy, healthy, handsome, pretty, "normal" students were making these two teams--filled with awkward, lumbering, shuffling, often confused players--feel like graceful, revered NBA superstars.  Some of the players couldn't even find their way to the basket without a friendly assist from their personal aides; and still the crowd cheered them on.  Some of the players passed the ball into play by rolling it down a ramp from their wheelchairs; and still the crowed roared.  Still others (like my laid-back Daniel, who has Down syndrome) were more content to just stand in the middle of the court as the game moved back and forth around them, exchanging high-fives with another disabled friend.  And still the crowd got to its feet and clapped even louder.  There was no smirking from those students in the bleachers, no pointing and laughing, no making fun.  They just radiated so much genuine enthusiasm and affection out to both of those teams on the court.  They really payed attention to the game, following the action closely, cheering or getting all hushed at all the right moments.  At one point I overheard a student sitting behind me in the bleachers ask his friend if he knew the name of Number 18, who was dribbling the ball down the court.  "Oh, that's Mike," answered his friend.  So suddenly I heard loud shouts of "Go Mike!" and vigorous applause coming from behind me.  Mike (who also has Down syndrome) stopped in mid-dribble and glanced up towards the bleachers, a little surprised to hear his name shouted out.  Then he flashed a huge, proud grin that crinkled the corners of his sweet, slanted eyes. And did I mention that the school's marching band was on the sidelines in full force, providing lots of "We Will Rock You's" and other rousing numbers to pump up the players and the crowd?  And the cheerleaders cheered and clapped and did their flips and stacked themselves in their pyramids, putting just as much effort and skill into their routines as they would for the varsity team.  These weren't bored, miserable kids coerced into watching the game by their teachers, forced to "be nice" to the "retards."  They all seemed to be enjoying every minute of it, almost as much as the basketball players themselves.  It was all enough to bring tears to the eyes of a mom of a disabled son, and it did.  And it also made me feel really guilty for thinking those cynical thoughts I'd been thinking out in the parking lot.  True, there are a lot of shallow, rude, disrespectful, self-obsessed teenagers out there.  Always have been and probably always will be.  But there are also so many like those teenagers in the gym that day, who gave those handicapped kids their chance to be noticed and to shine and to feel very good about themselves.  And that makes me feel pretty good.   4:40:05 PM    comment []

	Saturday, October 25, 2003

Soon Weir Going To Sea Here's one of those long essays I warned you about in my first post yesterday.  I wrote it a few days ago and submitted it to several newspapers--three in the Chicago area and, getting really ambitious, The L.A. Times too.  It concerns a highly-anticipated upcoming movie, so I thought what better place to send it than to the mecca of movie-making.  Well, so far I've received one very prompt, very polite rejection e-mail from The L.A. Times.  From The Chicago Tribune I got what I expected--nothing.  I've found that if they're not interested in your story, they just ignore you.  But I remain optimistic.  In the meantime, I thought I'd post what I've written here.  I'm sure there are at least one or two others out there who might be as eager as I am to see this movie, and who might be interested in reading what someone else has to say about it. I'm a huge fan of director Peter Weir, actor Russell Crowe, and writer Patrick O'Brian.  So you can understand why it's been very hard for me to wait for "Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World," which brings all of my guys together.  When my kids were in school the other day, I sat at the computer for hours, getting all rhapsodic about why I'm looking so forward to this movie.  Here's what I came up with: ******************************************************************   In spite of that action-packed, testosterone-fueled trailer that ran during the testosterone-depleted (and heartbreaking, I might add) Chicago Cubs playoff losses last week, I can feel it in my bones that “Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World” is going to be something pretty special indeed. What’s not to like about a movie directed by the often sublime Peter Weir, based on the magnificent Aubrey/Maturin books by Patrick O’Brian, and starring as Captain “Lucky” Jack Aubrey none other than the amazingly talented Russell Crowe?! Bring aboard the outstanding Paul Bettany to play the pivotal role of ship’s surgeon (and so much more) Stephen Maturin, and this movie lover will surrender to the experience before a single cannon shot is fired (though the incredibly loud booms of the cannons in Dolby Surround Sound will make it all even cooler). Hungry movie-goers have spent a long summer maneuvering through dangerously shallow cinematic waters. With supplies running low, they’ve either been fasting or subsisting on meager, unhealthy rations of sequels and blockbusters--as stale and bland as old hardtack--with the occasional “something a little more serious” thrown into the pot like a few measly scraps of meat into a thin broth. But now the fall is here, and there’s relief in sight! The supply ship has finally arrived. It’s carrying overflowing stores of nourishing, enriching movie fare--dark, harrowing adult dramas that viewers can sink their teeth into like “Mystic River,” or meaty, understated comedy/dramas like “The Station Agent.“ Even the “desserts” have more substance, with the lovely Diane Lane making an appearance “Under the Tuscan Sun.“ And then there’s the delectable, unique blend of thrilling action/male-bonding-at-sea/subtle poetry that I‘m quite certain “Master and Commander” will turn out to be, contrary to what that trailer (which focused mainly on the action aspects) would indicate.  No, this movie (which opens November 14) isn’t going to be merely a Clash of the Tall Ships, or a Terminator on the High Seas. Anybody who’s read even one or two of O’Brian’s novels (confession: so far I’ve read only three myself, but am about to eagerly embark on the fourth) knows that all the sea chases and battles--exciting and well-written as they are--mainly serve to punctuate the more quiet, more profound scenes that capture the mutual admiration and affection between captain and crew, and especially, the remarkable friendship between Aubrey and Maturin. To the delight of readers, the two of them certainly do not meet cute. And from that first prickly but comical meeting, they’re as unlikely a pair of friends as you’ll ever meet. But after you’ve spent some time with these two very different but equally complicated, flawed but ultimately good and honorable men, you know why they complement each other so well. And you know why I’m so certain that any movie based on these brilliant novels can’t help but be so much more than just another bang-up action/adventure. And if the source material alone weren’t enough to convince you that this movie is going to be fueled much more by characters than by gunpowder, bear in mind who the director at the helm of this ship is. I got my first taste of Peter Weir’s incomparable, lyrical filmmaking in college, when I saw “Picnic At Hanging Rock” at the university’s art-house around 1982. I walked into the theater an inexperienced 20-year-old, not knowing quite what to expect. I’d never even heard of Peter Weir, in fact. But I was in “that phase” that most young intellectual-wannabes-in-training pass through when you think a movie--um, sorry, film, that is--can’t be any good unless it’s “foreign” or at the very least, Independent. So I was open to anything. What I got was a nearly transcendental experience. Many of Weir’s movies are more like poems, crystallizing moments of aching beauty, sadness, poignancy, dread. How does he do it? Often through the use of just the right combination of a stunningly beautiful, otherwordly landscape, a haunting score, and lovely, poetic dialogue (as in this exchange from “Gallipoli,” spoken in rugged Australian Outback accents, of course, in which a young runner‘s uncle/coach is trying to psyche him up before a test sprint: “What are your legs?“ “Springs. Steel springs.” “What are they gonna do?“ “They’re gonna hurl me down the track.” “How fast can you run?“ “As fast as a leopard.” “How fast ARE you gonna run?“ “As fast as a leopard!”).* *(I’ve quoted these lines from memory after not seeing the movie for several years. So it’s probably not exactly word-for-word correct, but it’s pretty close, I think. ) At the time I saw “Picnic....,” I was an English major studying Victorian literature and poetry, so of course I was going through my Pre-Raphaelite phase as well. So the ethereal, flowing-haired beauty of some of the characters made quite a lasting impression on me, and gave the movie a very dreamy, hypnotic quality. To add to the impact, I happened to be living in a place (Southern Illinois) where there are plenty of imposing limestone (or maybe it’s sandstone, I can never remember) bluffs, outcroppings and overhangs. After that movie, none of my frequent hikes and climbs through those moss-and-fern-covered rocks was ever the same. I couldn’t pass a deep, dark crevice between boulders without feeling that something was staring out at me from deep within there. For that I blame Peter Weir and the profound sense of ominous dread, of an unknown force lurking, which he created so masterfully in those rock-climbing scenes. And thanks to the gorgeous cinematography, I realized probably for the first time just what a primevally lush, beautiful place that part of Australia was. As the boarding-school students and their French teacher languished and napped after lunch in their shady but sun-infused grove, I could feel the stifling, oppressive heat, hear the drone of all those no-doubt primevally huge Australian insects, feel the late-afternoon torpor descend over me, too. Made me want to slip off my stockings and Victorian granny boots and go wandering barefoot and trancelike among the brooding rock formations with the ethereal Miranda and her gauzy companions. And then there’s “Gallipoli.” That grueling run by Archy (Mark Lee) through the red dust of the Western Australian desert country, to the haunting, pinging strains of Maurice Jarre’s memorable score--another of the many Weir scenes that stay etched in the mind forever. And speaking of moments frozen forever, how ‘bout that very last freeze-frame shot, the young Anzac soldier’s head thrown back as he’s shot by the Turks. No other frames are necessary after that. We don’t need to see him fall to know that the fair young Archy has just run his last sprint. And right before that comes his best mate Frank’s (played by the very young Mel Gibson) heart-stopping run through the trenches to try to stop him from going over the top, again with Jarre’s score urging him along. And the palpable sense of mourning and fear that hangs in the air of the trenches as the men take deep drags of their last cigarettes, as they secure their dog-tags, their wives’ photos, their final letters home, to the sandbags before bravely charging over the top to face nearly certain death. All this, and so much more, is what Weir can do in a film. So with material like the heart-stopping, all-guns-firing, ship-clashing-against-ship sea battles, or the complex, manly, but also very tender friendship between Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin, imagine the possibilities! Those spirit-restoring cello/violin duets in the calm of the captain’s cabin after a day of fierce, savage battle, after Aubrey has seen holes ripped through his beloved men by the cannonballs and bayonets, after Maturin has spent the horrific day in his blood-splattered operating quarters trying to repair the damaged men. What contrasts in mood and tone for Weir and his talented actors to explore, for movie-goers to savor. And what Weir will do with the vast, roiling seas as the ship makes its way to the far side of the world, as it rounds the treacherous Cape Horn, one can only imagine. In so many of his films, the natural surroundings take on the role of a character in and of themselves--the ghostly Australian rocks and deserts in “Picnic....” and “Gallipoli,” the rippling, shimmering Pennsylvania wheat fields in “Witness,” the wheeling flocks of fall geese in “Dead Poets’ Society.” So I’m absolutely sure he is going to make us smell the salt air, feel the waves spraying over the ship’s bow into our faces, feel the sturdy, magnificent ship shudder as it pitches its way through towering black waves that want to tear it apart. And what better captain to vicariously feel these things through than Russell Crowe as Captain Jack? As Weir has said, Crowe seems born to play this part, because he’s “a captain among actors.” I can’t think of any other actor working right now who could do a better job of conveying both the bold, imposing, boisterous side of Jack--his “man’s man” qualities--and then, perhaps in the very next scene, show his “softer,” more sensitive side. This is a captain, after all, who can plunge his sword through his enemy’s heart without mercy when it’s necessary, then after the battle, put down his sword, wash the blood off his hands, and pick up his delicate violin to drown out the memory by playing sonatas with Stephen, or his quill pen to write an eloquent, heartfelt letter to his beloved Sophie. For such range I’d pick none other than Russell Crowe. He has the commanding, magnetic presence needed to play this heroic, larger-than-life character, to make us believe that his men would follow him anywhere. (Anybody remember Maximus?) But most crucially, he’s also got the subtlety to convince us that Jack is a real human being, with all his flaws, doubts, his deep affection for Maturin and his crew, his self-deprecating, sometimes corny sense of humor. A “big” role like this runs the risk of crossing over into parody. But one of the many things you can always count on Crowe to do is to never overact. He always gives a scene just what it needs to make it believable, poignant, powerful. But he never crosses the line and goes overboard (which is always a reassuring trait in a ship‘s captain). Part of his subtlety lies in his almost uncanny ability to say more with a lingering look or a certain glimmer in his eye than most actors can express through lines and lines of dialogue. If you’re one of those anti-Crowe cynics who scoffs at everything he does, simply because he’s, well, Russell Crowe, just check him out in the Australian-made movie, “The Sum of Us.” There’s an exquisitely-wrought scene in a hospital room, and another on a park bench in the Sydney Botanic Gardens, that should touch even the hardest hearts and convince even the biggest skeptics that Crowe is capable of creating absolute magic onscreen. And there are all those scenes in “Gladiator” when Maximus could’ve become a cartoon character but never, ever did. Even in what could’ve been a pretty hokey, comical shot of him seeming to float above the ground as Max’s spirit leaves his body to join his wife and son in the afterlife, you’d never, EVER dream of laughing at Maximus. Because Crowe convinced you that he WAS Maximus, not just some puny actor in a tunic. That’s why I’m almost certain that we’ll soon be adding Captain Jack Aubrey to his pantheon of great, iconic roles. And lastly, I have to give a mention to the extremely talented, likeable Paul Bettany. I’m not one of those O’Brian fanatics who frets because Bettany is taller than Stephen is in the books, or because Crowe is shorter/thinner than O‘Brian describes Jack. Because what it all comes down to is that deep, abiding friendship. All I need are actors who can pull this all off with enough depth, poignancy, humor, wit, etc. And after seeing Bettany and Crowe together in “A Beautiful Mind,” I know they will do justice to the crucial chemistry between O’Brian’s fast friends. In “A Beautiful Mind,“ Bettany brought an almost electric charge to Charles (just as he did to his Chaucer in “A Knight‘s Tale”), so that his conversations with Nash positively crackled with energy and vitality. So I have complete confidence in these gifted actors’ ability to capture the witty, sometimes very funny, always intelligent, and often profound spirit of the friends’ exchanges that have captivated readers of the novels for decades. Weir also has stocked his ship’s crew with an outstanding supporting cast, including “The Lord of the Rings” Billy Boyd as Barrett Bonden. He searched far and wide to fill his ship with authentic- and rugged-looking sailors, rejecting the pretty-boy, Hollywood look for men with more weathered, interesting faces. In every detail of the filming, he’s strived for painstaking, absolute authenticity. And handling the cinematography, such a crucial element in all of Weir's films, will be his longtime collaborator Russell Boyd. The only thing I DON’T like about this movie so far is that cumbersome, confusing title. I thought the original “The Far Side of the World” standing alone sounded so much more poetic and resonant. But I guess it’s that old testosterone factor coming into play again, thanks to the marketing department. Perhaps they thought “Master and Commander“ sounded more manly. Which brings me back to that trailer.... True, that explosive, pandemonium-filled trailer might be necessary to wow the coveted young male audience into seeing “Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World.” But this great admirer of O’Brian’s novels, Peter Weir, Russell Crowe and Paul Bettany won’t need to be press-ganged into service to see this movie. On the contrary, I’ll probably be one of the first willing and eager “volunteers” waiting in line to board this ship. ************************************************* Oh wait--I can't close a piece about a Nelsonian-era, tall-ships movie without giving a big nod to the talented young Welsh actor Ioan Gruffudd. His memorable portrayal of Horatio Hornblower in six A & E movies over the past several years sort of launched the latest armada of movies set in this thrilling era. In fact, two new Hornblower movies will air on the cable network in early December. Ah...Captain Aubrey in theaters and Captain Hornblower on TV at the same time. It doesn't get much better than this for a lover of drama on the high seas. 11:49:05 PM    comment []

	Friday, October 24, 2003

A Room of My Own A big hello to anyone who's actually ventured over here to investigate.  I sure do appreciate your visiting my little space. I've been meaning to start a blog for quite awhile now.  Today is finally the day!  I'm one of those people who likes to think of herself as a writer, even when I'm not doing that much actual writing to back up the claim.  Well, that's not entirely true.  After a long break from writing, I have been a little more productive for the past year or two, since my youngest child has finally reached an age where he doesn't need my constant supervision.  But most of it's just personal essays about movies, music, etc., that I optimistically send off to my hometown newspaper, The Chicago Tribune, every now and then.  Then I anxiously check my e-mail each day for that dream response: "Yes, we love your story, and we're going to use it in our next edition.  Oh, and we're going to pay you $1,000 for it, too, and give you syndication rights." Unfortunately, that e-mail never comes.  So I figured, until those editors wake up and realize what they've been missing, a blog is a great way to get published, and to have other readers actually read what I write, which is the main point of extracting those deep thoughts from our heads and putting them down on a page, isn't it?  So someone else can "see" them. I have to warn you, I majored in English in college (after first dabbling in journalism), so most of my thoughts tend to come out in essay form, complete with organized paragraphs, topic sentences, transitions, the works.  Old habits never die, I guess.  But I hope to write about subjects that you'll find interesting enough to stick with me for.  And I'll try to keep most of 'em short (er than four pages, that is).  And you thought I was going to say just plain "short," didn't you?  Nah, conciseness was never my thing.  That's why I finally gave up the quest for the journalism degree and the high-stress atmosphere of the college paper's newsroom, and went back to the cozy, ivy-covered confines of the English department.  (Actually, my school's English department was housed in a very un-Paper-Chase-like building--a hunkering, ugly mess of concrete that was so long it resembled an aircraft carrier docked in the middle of campus, right down to its battleship gray color.  It felt so cold, modern and impersonal--more like a place to study marketing and accounting than a  place to ponder the great works of Shakespeare, Austen, Hardy, etc.)  But I digress.... Anyway, I'm brand new to this whole world of blogging, so bear with me while I try to work out all the kinks.  I have done my homework, though.  I've spent a couple of weeks reading through the archives of some of my fellow bloggers here at salon and a few other sites, just to get a feel for the lay of the land, and see what high standards I'm up against.  Only because of a lack of time, I don't know how much linking I'll be doing to others' sites in the beginning.  And I don't yet know how to do lots of fancy stuff like posting photos and favorite album covers, etc.  But over time I hope to learn all the fun stuff.  It's just that my time to spend here will be so limited (with three young kids who have the audacity to get hungry, tired or even lonely for my company sometimes) that I'm afraid it'll be all I can do to just get a post up a couple of times a week or so.  But if you discover my site and visit once in awhile, I'll be most obliged to you, and I'll hope to return the favor very soon.   5:08:04 PM    comment []