I first heard about “synchronicity” while listening to RFK Jr. a few weeks back. “Synchronicity” is a theory — and book, waiting to be read on my shelf — by Carl Jung, all-time dream guru, developed during his many years of patient, psychological study.

Cut to the quick, Jung was trying to figure those coincidences which have no scientific rationale, people thinking or recalling from memory things in which mysteriously find reality materially in the moment. Think: you are talking about someone and they suddenly call; or, you are thinking about a song and it comes on; or, something around you, a scent, sight, sound brings forth a divine deja vu from memory’s past. Jung was never able to prove such phenomena beyond circumstantial evidence, but he asserted his belief in it, and saw, perhaps, a higher power speaking through these moments to him and those he studied.

Interpreted through RFK Jr., the continual enactment of everyday tasks and doing what’s essential right (i.e. avoiding the snooze button and getting up; making the bed; cleaning one’s mess when and where it happens) clears the space and opens the channel, at least for him, to these moments of synchronicity when they coincidentally occur.

Big jive out of my mouth, huh? Get a load of this guy.

In case I lost you as I lost myself in that maze, let’s use this:

Synchronicity = coincidence = god breaking through the malarky of daily life and talkin’ to ya.

So, last Tuesday. I show up a few hours early on Montana Avenue in Santa Monica, finishing the final hours of the work day at a picnic table and a bench. I shove my computer — with all its nonsense — under the passenger seat of my car and search for somewhere, anywhere, with a cold beer. I find it quickly, a tiny Mexican joint called Prima Cocina, across the street from the American Cinematheque.

There, between housing dos Pacificos and talking briefly to an older French woman (ooh la-la), I work on a project for my father in the notes app of my phone. Dad throws a smooth jazz festival in October, and I put together the formatting for his email blasts. This week’s email blast was extra special, as my dad was posting a playlist for one of the artist’s performing, Mr. Ronnie Laws; extra special because I have been hounding my dad for three years to bring Laws back to Catalina. Guy is a fuggin’ legend, smooth as silver.

So, I craft this turkey in my notes, then I call my dad with a few questions. We’re talking, I mention where I am and that I am going to see Three Days of the Condor.

“Three Days of the Condor”, my dad says, “that’s Dave Grusin.”

“No,” I respond, “it’s Sydney Pollack.”

“Not the director,” dad clarifies, “the composer. Dave Grusin did the score, I think. Were you on the island for Dave Grusin last year?”

“No.”

“He was something to see.”

I tell him I’ll check the credits for Dave Grusin. We hang up.

Follow me. We have:

1. Ronnie Laws.
2. Dave Grusin.
3. a semi-sober me jay-walking across Montana, liver-lubed for a Tuesday, 7:30pm screening of Sydney Pollack’s 1975 Three Days of the Condor starring Robert Redford.

I thus enter, eye a Sydney Pollack retrospective book being sold by the attending author, I decline the sell, I use the men’s room, I find an isolated middle sear and stretch out among the cinephallic weirdos of my community, all willing to sit together in the middle of the week to watch the government try and catch Bobby Redford.

My ears pick it up, first. On the screen, a standard advertising image for the theatre and the film. Over the screen, however, a song plays. It’s smooth, easy, definitely Dave Grusin. This makes sense, of course, nothing strange about the composer’s work being played before the picture. I jam for a bit, enough to pull my phone out to shazam the song, desiring its title. The song starts to fade as I hold my phone up. I raise it higher, hoping to catch the last, few, notes . . .

It’s “Friends and Strangers” by Dave Grusin, a cover, no less, of a Ronnie Laws song. Here’s the link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_2or5RqfyIc.

I sit with a dumb smile on my face, nearly stoned from my discovery, laid back and content in all emotional faculties. More moments pass, more songs play. In the corner of my eye, a being, a human being pops out over my shoulder. It’s not god, but close, my pal and friend Matt Laniado, arriving for the very same film as me, two star-crossed cinematic kooks. We share a few words, he takes a seat, the show begins. The host pronounces the picture and points out that Sydney Pollack also happened to found the joint, the American Cinematheque, making it an exceptionally special evening, indeed, a dedication to their patron saint.

I hate to wax poetic but, when the movie started, the walls seemed to hum like a house of worship. And, then, well, that was that.

“I apologize for calling so early,” she said, “but, your mother. She passed this morning.”

Of course. The news would, of course, arrive just in the middle of final inspection. Headache turned to migraine before 10am. “Okay,” a breath, “I will be there as soon as I can.” She put the phone away. Her mouth watered for a cold martini. “Dirty,” she thought, “gin please. Hendrix, if you have it.”

“Maria,” the inspector’s mouth moved, “is everything all right?”

“Yes, fine. My mother died.”

From the property, Maria Valentino turned left onto highway 111, the noon sun tall over the six lanes and makeshift divider that had been under construction for what seemed since man entered this valley. She slowed approaching the crew; beneath a temporary canopy, they lazed away, their tools and vehicles strewn apocalyptic to the right of the center, yellow dash.

Most people, dreaming of the desert, saw cool pool water; their skin toning to a perfect, darker shade; a waiter delivering something orange, alcoholic. Or, perhaps, they fell asleep nose full of fresh cut grass, golf in its perfect climate; walking, cycling, swimming as if they’d been chosen for the biopic roles of Desi and Ball. For Maria, those thoughts had been cremated many years ago. She’d driven this road back and forth and forth and back, sleepy at the wheel sometimes, crying others. Often, her eyes blurred by water, she would make the wrong turn home and wonder if she had caught dementia from her mother.

Her clients would call soon, their thoughts on the final inspection, their ‘expertise’. “Maria, please, the sellers must fix the septic line.” “Maria, do you think we can ask them to remove that tile in the kitchen?” “Maria, did you notice something wrong with the pool?” “Maria, Maria, Maria.” She didn’t need the fucking escrow anymore, really. This market, hotter than hell, Maria kept saving and saving, for the care of her mother, for the kids, for retirement.

Retire? Who did she think she was? She had worked since she was eighteen, always. Even when she popped the babies out, even when she divorced the husbands, even when the towers blew and the quake shook their home in Northridge. An image popped in her mind. She was old, giving another open house on another humid day. Maybe a heart attack on the kitchen tile. No, rather the living room carpet, no impact, no blood. Something quick, nothing like her mother. Anything but her mother.

For a split-second, she heard it manifested, on the road, at a stop, a steady and deep thump, the last and final beats of her heart.

Alas, it was only the back left tire, floppy and flat on the sweaty pavement.

“Afternoon,” said Samuel, the gig driver that Maria had ordered as her tire waited, deflated. “You going to leave your car just there?”

“Yes. Do you have an issue with that?”

“No, ma’am, not at all. No problem.” Samuel’s gaze moved from the rearview to the road, “There’s been some thefts, you know, recently.”

“Triple-A’s going to take a few hours,” she said, “so it’s either I call you or die in the heat. You have a preference?”

“With me, alive. Surely alive,” he spoke, nervous, pulling away and back on the road. At a red light, Maria laid back, eyes cast on a dry bush wilting. “You mind if I?” Samuel pointed at the radio. “Please,” Maria said.

Late-30s, she thought. He carried a nice head of hair, black and curly; his face appeared, from the rearview, soft and caring and a bit chubby at the cheeks. His right arm, reclined on the middle dash, was thick and muscular. He played good music, too, bossa nova. Maria always dreamt of Brazil, the roll of the shore in Ipanema, guitars and wild nights, ghosts of João, Moraes and Jobim filling the air. She should have married a Brazilian; she ended up with a Jew instead.

More work nagged on her. This particular one she acted as consultant. Two men, partners, had paid some jerk-off contractor to replace their marble countertop. Big mistake, she thought, paying a guy 20k before the job started. Now they couldn’t get the Mexican on the phone. Mexican, shit. Contractor could’ve been white, black, polynesian. You hand anybody cash before the job is through, expect it to be taken. It’s America, land of the grift and home for the takers. She laughed. Her memory rejoiced in her late-father, working construction in Los Angeles. Take where it’s given, never complain. Where it’s not, compromise, wheel and deal until you got what you came for. Sustainable, eh, maybe not. Effective, totally.

“Is it a left here?” Samuel asked.

“Yes,” Maria said, “left and then another. House with an arch of orange bricks.”

“Nice community.”

“Yeah, mom liked it here.”

Maria Valentino assumed her mother had lost her sense of place long ago. About a year prior, she had moved her mother here, small home with three patients and a round of senior care nurses. All the staff enjoyed her mother; because, probably, she had become a shell, gnawing on hand towels and mumbling far forgotten street names.

The day had darkened, Maria now standing outside the home with her mother’s final belongings in a box at her feet. An hour ago, a nurse greeted Maria sorrowily at the front door. Maria walked in, down a hallway, and the scent of fleshy death surrounded her. By a white sheet, her mother was covered, toes blackening, the television quiet and playing a Chaplin picture on TCM. Maria collected everything haphazard in the box, tried to keep still, and watched as the morgue came, wheeled her away, and drove toward the mortuary.

Maria knelt and picked out her mother’s silver ‘G’ engraved cigarette case. She blew the dust off a little. They smiled at each other. It needed a polish. Back in the day, nobody had anxiety pills, there was no therapy, no break from life. They had cigarettes. Smoke them wherever you please. Nervous? Have a quick puff. Tired of talking? Take a long drag. Expecting more? Here, have a red.

As Maria spread her forefinger along the face of the case, the phone began to ring. She answered without looking. “Hello, Maria speaking.”

“Where are you?”

“Oh, Harry, hello.”

“Yeah, hello. You said you’d be home by five.”

“Something came up, I meant to — ”

“Oh, really?” Harry began, “You ask me again and again to find a night for the jacuzzi, but when it comes you’re too busy to be home at a reasonable time? You knew my schedule, how difficult it’s been to find any free moment and you can’t — ”

“Harry.” She stopped him. “My mother died. I also have a flat tire. I will see you when I get home.” She hung up, threw the cigarette case back into the box, and made way to Samuel’s stationary car.

Harrison ‘Harry’ Ionov. Maria sure knew how to pick them. They lived together. They cared for each other. Love had turned fickle at forty-five. Maria met him at fifty. He loved her, she thought. She liked him, sometimes. You couldn’t tell he was romantic when you first saw him; short, difficult, knew only how he wanted to live his life and didn’t care to learn more. Watched the same show every night, drank the same wine every evening, took more and said less. But he treated her royal, and he wasn’t half as bad as her husbands. Sure, his character wore sometimes. Maria would tell him to relax, her children weren’t especially fond of him, and social interaction came at a moderate pain. Oh well: ’twas the answer to most of life’s queries.

“I am sorry,” Samuel said, “by the way.” Maria knelt her head up from thought to acknowledge his glance. “For what?” she asked.

“For your mother, your loss.”

“How did you know?”

“Well, I mean, I saw the hearse pull up.”

“Oh,” she said, “thank you for the words. I appreciate it.”

He coughed. “Could I get you anything before I drop you off?”

She nearly declined on impulse. But, her throat had dried, a rosebush in her neck, and she had little interest in Harry’s sympathy so soon. “If you wouldn’t mind,” she began, “I could stop for a drink.”

“Sure,” his smile bothered her, “I know a place nearby.”

“You sell any cigarettes?”

“No,” the bartender replied, “unfortunately not. Can I get you another drink?”

“With a little more olive juice if you could.”

Samuel leaned over, “They call that dirtier, don’t they?”

“They sure do,” she replied, pulling an olive from the toothpick with her molar.

“I can get you some cigarettes, by the way.” Samuel said, “There’s a mart right next door.”

“I remember when they sold them in the bar,” she said half-hearted.

“Sheesh,” Samuel laughed, “ I ain’t old enough to remember that.”

Maria was. All out of pivots, no vowels left on the board, four flat tires to her car’s one. Her career, when she thought about it, stood at the whims of the market. A client, too, could sue for something, somewhere. Maybe that’s why they called it real estate, real because it was so goddamn hopeless. Sell another house. Settle further. Offload to the kids a small fortune, maybe.

A young woman entered the dive, Maria’s thoughts overtaken by the swift current of her shawl. The shawl was navy, covering a light pink top underneath. The top matched the shoes, light pink Superga tennies. She reminded Maria of her first life, a young gunner in fashion, quick and nimble anywhere she be. Selling, buying, flying to factories. Where she sharpened her trade.

As the woman passed near, Maria said “I love your style.” The woman smiled and responded, “I noticed your shoes when I walked in.” She continued on. Maria stared down at her own pair, Sinatra-orange heels and a black strap. She still had it. Maybe it never left. Could always return.

Samuel laid his hand atop Maria’s. Her fingers tightened around the stem of the renewed martini glass. She rose her chin steady. He said, “If there’s anything I can do for your loss, again.” She plucked her hand out from his and stood up. “I’ll take my box from out of your car.” She dropped two twenties on the bar and looked toward the bartender. He nodded. She shot the second martini down in a slurp. “Hey, relax.” Samuel tried, “You’re a pretty lady and I’m just trying to be nice.”

As she walked out, he stood up. “Do you still want those cigarettes?”

“Not from you,” she said, “I’ll get them myself.”

Maria Valentino undid her heels, threw them into the box, and watched Samuel’s car grow smaller as the lights flew further and further down the dark road, mere specks to the stars that had begun to bloom in the sky. She was close to her car, a mile maybe, and decided it safer to walk. The repair had happened swift. They sent a text as confirmation.

Walking, she wondered if real estate would succumb to the isolationist pleasure of the internet. There was no need for an open house, really, if you could see it online, on your computer. Maybe she would show up as a hologram in the living room, far past her death, the real estate company bringing back all their dead associates, all their top performers. For now, she only had the escrow to worry about. If it closed tomorrow, the cost of the new tire was null. If it didn’t close tomorrow, well, the cost remained null. An escrow closed somewhere, be it tomorrow or next week. A closed-loop of busywork. A new law, a new consideration, a fixer or a family home, a pool with a jacuzzi, a yard with promise, bad septic lines, good sewer, shit on the outside, nice paint inside, hopefully there hadn’t been a squatter.

Maria took a shortcut through a long par 3, a course running adjacent to the road that had taken her car. Her arms had tired. She found a palm tree near the green, settled the box on the dewy grass, then crouched. Before sitting, she removed the pack of Camel cigarettes from her butt pocket. She reclined and smacked the Camels against her thigh. She unwrapped the plastic and opened the pack, flipped over one tobacco stick for good luck and set another at her lip. Before she lit, though, she considered. She pulled away the lighter and instead snaked a hand into the box. From out of it she fished a closed picture frame and the cigarette case. The lighter returned to the tip of the camel. Maria Valentino took a few quick puffs. Patiently, at the same time, she filed all the cigarettes from carton to case, keeping the lucky one still flipped. Finished, she closed the case and set it aside. The smoke bent towards her eye, so she reclined and held the Camel in her left hand, wrist bent over her knee. Her eyes considered the shape of the many palm trees, the trim of the green, and wondered if the eyes in the sky were looking down on her.

Knocking ash onto the grass, she noticed the picture frame pulled out along with the case. She opened it and out flew a slip of coffee-stained paper that had been folded by delicate hands and pressed by the weight of decades. It was a thicker stock, like that of a dollar bill or the texture of hemp. Maria Valentino opened it, tried to read, then flicked the lighter near its edge to see the faded ink. It read:

“I stole this from somewhere; a publication, a paperback, a place I cannot recall. It’s funny and crass. It settles my aching brain. Here it goes:

Life is all about ass.

You’re either covering it,

laughing it off,

kicking it,

kissing it,

busting it,

trying to get a piece of it,

behaving like one,

or you live with one!!”

Her fingers held the paper and created a new seam in its fold. Her wrist went to her face to rub her nose. Moving the lighter, she stared down at the picture frame from whence came the poem. Maria Valentino saw her mother: young, fluffy wide hair, a silver watch at her wrist, a smile on her lips, earrings and a black silk shirt. She was beautiful. Maria had forgotten. Tears sprung and traced down her face. Maria saw her family home, her mother cooking and smiling, their walks to the grocery, the lists and the laughter and the sage words of wisdom that fell on her childhood ears. She recalled, suddenly, her mother’s joy for movies, her opinions on the bad and her eloquence on the good. Her mother had been a writer once before she married Maria’s father, a high school newspaper editor, the leader of the english club, the star swimmer, a volunteer, a woman. How could Maria forget where she learned how to be resilient, how to dress and how to love. In this moment, her mother was not dead, she was young, she was beautiful, she was Maria. Life no longer needed to be a long fight. She could stop working and enjoy it. Love was possible with Harry, she wasn’t aged out of fashion, happiness wasn’t some far off form. The filter burned her lips but Maria didn’t care. She was ready to return home, hearing her mother, her mother commanding her to enjoy and live. Maria returned everything to the box, stood up, picked it up, and made way to her parked car.

Arriving home, she found Harry in the living room, a small lamp hanging over the large book between his legs.

“Harry,” she spoke, “I’m home.”

He aroused. He had fallen asleep in wait as one may in an unforgiving physician’s office. His grey eyes clear and adjusted, he rose and came toward Maria with open arms. “I am so sorry,” he said, “I cannot apologize enough.”

“It’s okay,” she accepted the hug and slumped to his frame. For a second, peace. Maria’s high continued.

But Harry’s nostrils flared. He disengaged the hug, hands still gripping Maria’s elbows as one would to a child. “Have you been smoking?”

Tears burst from Maria’s eyes, water now soured in sorrow rather than joy. She moved out from Harry’s grip and walked, brisk, to the backyard. Outside, a few clouds had overtaken the glow of the evening stars. Maria tossed her shoes to the concrete and stepped along the grass. One foot followed by the other, she stepped into the lukewarm pool water. These first steps adjusted, she waded further, down a step to mid-thigh, down another to waist. Finally, fully clothed, she immersed her entire head and body in the water.

When her head rose and broke the surface, she looked neither up nor down, but rather forward at the tile. She swam in purgatory, unsure between renew above or sober below.

Floating for awhile, she then rose and sat on the concrete. Harry had returned to bed. She grabbed another cigarette, the one which was flipped, and took a quiet, long drag.

Harry rose late. He rubbed his temple from an evening of terrible dreams and cynical remarks. He threw on a robe and entered the kitchen. He found Maria standing before the sink wearing rubber gloves. He assumed she was only washing dishes.

“I — ,” he started.

“We will talk about this later,” Maria said without turning her back, “I’ve got to meet my clients in fifteen.”

“Why so early?”

“The escrow fell through. The inspector says there were signs of mold in the master bedroom.”

“You can’t take a day to grieve?”

“I don’t need it,” she said, “but they need a house to live in.”

Harry scratched his head and nodded. He walked outside for the sun and left Maria in the kitchen.

Maria scrubbed vigorously, the solution lathered and thick in a small square sponge. She washed it under warm water, then held it up. The cigarettes sat scattered like pick up sticks on the counter. The dust and dirt removed, the ‘G’ of her mother’s cigarette case stood brilliant and clear. It was polished. It was clean. She saw her reflection. Maria Valentino smiled.*

Day 1. Wednesday, June 30th.

A bit of a misnomer, for the trip truly began two days ago, but those were mostly roads and quick stays. Dad and I played musical chairs as we made our path up the 101 yesterday. An eight-hour-slug (but a beautiful coast).

Arrived in San Francisco some past seven last evening. Dropped our luggage as Dad recalled a bar nearby. Change of clothes and a five minute walk, streets swept with an eery emptiness, until the golden-barred doors of Tadich Grill opened with the scent of happy voices and busy evening.

A long bar and waiters in white gowns, I had a dirty martini served quick and easy, poured to the brim so that the gin pond was spilling across the giving hand and the bar floor. Ordered a Calamari-main served Siciliano: fish seared atop a long oval plate (‘Cold Day Restaurant’ along its ceramic, a tag from the city tax assessor election of 1882), swimming in a red tomato sauce with sliced onions and peppers to taste, rice and steamed veggies to soak it up. Watched our neighbor - a George Mason economist named Joseph D. Reid - mop up the red sauce with a side plate of sourdough bread, so I followed the example and left the plate easy to wash. Call it free trade, as a martini came soon similarly spilling as Joe’s after dinner cap. Dad and him got happily going on politics and jazz. As a side, Joe - a jazz purist - was none too happy to hear about Dad’s stature in smooth jazz. All was well, though, as I lapped up a rice pudding and called the night before things got hairy.

Awoke lazy in the morning, descended to the Regency lobby so Dad could work and I could play civ. We sat under a hexagon-looking-booger-ball that stands in a still pond.

Dad finished and we took a long gander along the embarcadero. A few blocks in he pointed at a building just off the bay, the old apartment of a past girlfriend. He’d lived there for two years, he and she shared an $800 rent in the nineties. We didn’t bother with a guess of what the tag could be today.

Stopped for lunch at Red’s Java House, hot tuna with pickles and a hard roll. Pretty good, really easy. Place played traditional jazz (which would’ve made Joe happy). Kept walking past Pac Bell - which I concluded hasn’t been Pac Bell for some time and now reads ‘Oracle Park’ - and on down to Golden State’s new digs. A shame neither had a game this week in the city. I would especially have loved to watch my Dodger’s two-game sweep. Alas, I’ll return to watch the blue take the bay another day.

Tonight expects Dim Sum, a reservation at China Live awaits me excited and hungry. One question, though, will bug me until our leave…

What’s the penultimate San Fran film? I’ve got my eye on a few - Bullitt, What’s Up, Doc?, Dirty Harry, Vertigo, Zodiac, The Rock, Venom - but I’m missing many. The tab stays open.

Day 2. Thursday, July 1st.

The start of a new month is always a real bitch, crossing out June’s ‘06’ for July’s ‘07’.

The conquest for Dim Sum found its culinary consummation last evening at ChinaLive, a jawn in SF’s North Beach. I screengrabbed the place off an SF eater article (pretty hip, huh?) as Dad and I traversed a twenty minute walk from the embarcadero. Passed that lovely pyramid of a building, stared up at its peak caressing the rolling fog.

Arrived at the restaurant in time to enjoy the feast of CP3 (clippers, goodbye!) before our charming waiter recommended more earthly delights. Three courses we received: Baked BBQ Pork Buns branded with the title “Dutch Crunch”, six divine soup dumplings paired with the ambrosia of garlic-infused vinegar, and a lovely fort-wall of pork short ribs. The mouth was, unfortunately, far quicker than the eye, as I caught a picture of only one.

Each devoured and successively washed away with sake then IPA (oh me, the drunken fish), Dad and I rolled down the hill whence we came. I pondered the great silence on the street. Where were all the people? Had the pandemic’s hold continued in the big city? The fear soon subsided when my father reminded me that we were no longer in North Beach, but rather the business district. Silly I, the finances had been long settled for the day.

The morning brought little rest to the knees as we took off toward Fisherman’s Wharf in search of a particular mixture of coffee. After half an hour, we found it at The Buena Vista, a wake-up call served to us at the counter. Beneath the heavy cream, in the frolicking soup of coffee and Irish whiskey, we found more conversation with a lovely waitress who had lived many years. A morning quiet of customers, she told us about the state of the city (good), the state of her twenty-five-year-marriage (great), and recommended a crab cake benedict (see for yourself).

For all those considering divorce, she recommended a nine-year-hiatus and a subsequent bar to talk things over. As a child of the capital-D myself, I’d also recommend ample whiskey in your coffee and a crab cake below your hollandaise. Maybe try talking instead of yelling before you see a lawyer, too.

Sharing gratitude for the conversation, we took leave and sobered along the wharf. Some distance down, I thought I may be seeing double. A hallucination? Could it be? A tap to Dad’s shoulder. Is that the company that syndicates the show?

It was! To the present day, Dad syndicates his smooth jazz radio show (shameless plug here). The company behind the process is Wide Orbit, and our walk happened to trip just alongside their bay office. So, as one does, we poked our heads in the lobby and found ourselves on a tour of the building with facilities manager, Dino! Dino (what a guy) gave the tour of a lifetime, showing us the offices and leaving us with a pair of Wide Orbit sweaters.

As we left the building, I couldn’t help but notice a wonderful side-park.

A small Shangri-La (or Kathmandu, if you prefer), the park could be the perfect retreat for a thirty-minute break, a reason to arrive early at the office, or a pleasure to stay late and read while the traffic lightens. Another quality of San Francisco that simply wouldn’t be found in my native Los Angeles. Alas.

The question from yesterday still lingers and grows. In absolving my passing sins, I add more films for consideration from this great city by the bay: Mrs. Doubtfire, 48 Hrs., The Maltese Falcon, Invasion of the Body Snatchers (’78, oof), The Conversation, The Game (ooof), The Planet of the Apes Trilogy, The Internship, and, of course, 2014’s own Godzilla. I am still missing more, but the decision will be made tomorrow on the quintessential.

Now, a few copious napping hours later, we are headed to Fogcity Diner with matching Wide Orbit sweaters. I hope, being a short walk from that office, to see our guy Dino sitting at the bar.

Day 6. Monday, July 5th.

Unfortunately, we never did see Dino at the Fogcity Diner. The Fogcity beer drowned the ensuing sorrow.

Friday, Dad and I took off for the upper crest of California. The drive kept rather uneventful, excluding the massive upset my Italia Futbol Club snatched against the golden boys of Belgium. My yell and smack of low ceiling nearly sent Dad into the emergency lane.

A short digression. I carry but small, probably manufactured memories of the last great Italian National Team, the one which took the 2006 World Cup with legends Andrea Pirlo, Gianluigi Buffon, and Francesco Totti. My adult relationship with the sport didn’t begin, though, until early-high school, spending summers with my best friend (and legendary goalie in his own right) Jayden Thomas, playing Fifa and attempting desperate to link brain and foot. Yet, like random lava spat from Etna, Italy took leave in the group stage of the 2014 World Cup, the year of Costa Rican havoc and the jaws of Luis Suárez. The condition only worsened. In 2018, as once occurred to the unsuspecting folk of Pompeii in 79 A.D., Italy did not qualify for even the group stage. It was a sack. The empire had fallen, the barbarians turning civilization to the dark ages.

Friday, though, the world’s boot raised a rallying cry. The defenders of the central coast, Bonucci and Chiellini, aged like true reds of Tuscany. Donnarumma reminds both the lineage of the Gianluigi’s and the protection of Jupiter. And, the rest of the young talent rushes forward akin to the redshirts behind a liberating Garibaldi. The Euros continue, and I have never been more content in the glorious game of futbol. ANDIAMO ITALY!

Digression aside, Dad and I arrived at the Lucky 7 Casino in Smith River. A quick dine at the bar (which reminded one of Twin Peaks and One-Eyed Jacks), and we fell too tired to even gamble. Next morning, after a short viewing of Federer tearing up Wimbledon, we hit the road for Florence, Oregon. All was well.

Until. Our stop for coffee at a tiny java hut in Brookings caught the steep wall of a curb. In the lot of a motel, we stepped out and assessed the damage. The front-left end of the alpha romeo knocked clean, plastic flailed as a dying turkey wing. With a butter knife from the glove (you know, for road rolls) we cut off the plastic fender. Still, the plastic bottom of the car knelt to pavement. Dad and I stared, two white guys without a clue.

Then, miraculous, though directed by Capra, an angel appeared. He owned the motel. He carried tools and thus the answer. Within a few minutes, holes he drilled in the plastic and several zip ties locked around the base of the grill. Dad tried extending money, but the man respectfully refused. His faith lay in Hinduism, a brief lesson he told us. In his town, where he’d been fortunate to accumulate wealth by several properties, he offered his helping hand. If ever a day he be in our town, he’d expect the same from us. A smile, a thank you, a wave. We continued down the road. We, also, decided against the coffee.

A short stop for lunch at a diner in the Old Town of Bandon, the kind of joint serving breakfast at 2:00pm. Dad shared the fender story with the patrons as I tore through a country plate: three eggs, two sausage links, hashbrowns and a biscuit basked in gravy. We left, full.

Arriving at our abode in between Florence and Yachats, we assumed our trials had ended for the day. They had not. The security code for the rental did little to open the front door. Calls to the bureaucratic headquarters of Vacasa offered a long wait. The ocean rolled in view. Dad and I sat with books, awaiting entry. He struck up another conversation with some neighbors.

Out of breath, those higher powers of the divine comedy ended their laugh. The door opened. Dad’s talk led to an obligatory glass of red wine with the couple. I had two. We found dinner at a nearby dive, greasy, and enjoyed some much needed rest. Awoke on the fourth to that beautiful ocean.

In the late-morning, we made our way to brunch in Yachats. Hip place called Yachats Brewing, they served Dad’s french toast on sourdough bread (the kind, really, for butter before supper). Pulling a Benedict Arnold, I defected, nabbing the better of the two dishes: another eggs benny, this time with pulled pork under poached, a side of roasted potatoes and paired with kraut. I must extend the glory of the kraut moment, its current succession in jars from Trader G’s to G Outlet. Stuff is not only delicious but great for the gut.

We returned, Dad for a nap and I for a walk on the shore. Chopra once said the best strolls happen without shoes, so I followed bare, feet enjoying the cold water and wet sand.

Mid-afternoon waning, Dad and I found some independence on a nearby golf course, nobody in front or behind. Eighteen later, dinner unplanned and rental without a kitchen, we stopped at a Fred Meyer for pre-made ribs, macaroni and potato salad. With plenty of red wine, we made the most and watched Bullitt.

Another cozy day without much ado. I sit watching the Canadiens, hoping they return to form. Got a reservation planned on Florence’s waterfront, stomach still resting easy from a beautiful lunch at Luna Sea Fish House: a beer, a cup of homemade chowder, and a dish of Fresh Ling Cod Fish & Chips. Check out their menu, you’ll know from the look of it, it’s a place that’ll make you smile. Who knew Yachats was a culinary coastal capital? I sure didn’t. My belly does now.

While enjoying a quartet of sea scallops on a bed of creamed and mushroomed pasta at Florence’s Waterfront Depot Restaurant, I took a breath and a swig of my martini. A gander of the walls saw this picture of Peter O’Toole and Richard Burton.

Something about it. Please, enjoy that picture as much as I.

In the culmination of San Francisco cinema, it is ridiculous to suggest there’s a quintessential film for the city. Instead, here’s the meager top five that I love the most, for some reason or another.

5. Venom

If only for one scene, where Tom Hardy arrives at a high-society establishment, jumps into a lobster tank, then proceeds to decapitate a lobster’s lobe with his human mouth. Astonishing. Speaks to the city’s culinary pleasure and its pompous fine dining.

4. Dirty Harry

Of course. I won’t elaborate.

3. The Conversation

Saw many a city weirdo along the embarcadero walk that reminded me of Gene Hackman. Funny how Coppola’s shady view on private security has only gotten shadier, Bay technocrats cultivating this age of social media and their wallets with all that information picked from our private lives. Oh, and that sax. Hackman’s sax rolls like the lovely hills.

2. What’s Up, Doc?

Speaking of the lovely hills, this is the loveliest rout of them all. I rewatched this recently, after the passing of my grandmother, Geraldine Tomasino. It was the one film both my mother and uncles could agree they saw many years ago at a theater with her. Late that evening, the screwball and slapstick kept me company, O’Neal and Streisand warming a cold soul. The vibe matches the city, a juxtaposition of cold weather with its warm, colloquial people. The chase sequence, too, maps out the hills and districts beautifully, a laugh-out-loud mosaic from the residential to the embarcadero.

1. Bullitt

Essential. In recent months, I’ve come across some conversations and opinions that suggest this film ages poorly, too slow and too simple. That is, truly, hogwash. Not only is the story tight as a string, but San Fran finds itself mapped meaningful across this entire pulp affair. McQueen traverses nook and cranny, from the heart of the Fairmont to the outskirts of the sea and the strips of the airport. A scene in the first fifteen completes the feeling: having left his responsibility (the hotel where Vaughn’s witness awaits deposition), Frank Bullitt joins his girlfriend for a late-afternoon supper at a corner bar. In lieu of plot, the bar’s band strums along to a climax of long bass and jazz flute. Forget your worries in the bay, find a drink and a few friendly faces. Life can find you after.

Your Show of Shows and Chappelle’s Show : A Comparative Essay on the evolution of sketch comedy

From Montgomery Bugle to Clayton Bigsby, sketch variety show comedy has changed drastically, an evolution that began as silly, situational comedy to the present-era of cultural, boundary-pushing commentary. Your Show of Shows ran as a 90-minute comedy program between 1950–1954 on NBC, featuring Sid Caesar — who acted in every show — and one of the greatest writing rooms in television history that included Carl Reiner, Mel Brooks, Norman Lear, Neil Simon, Lucille Kallen, Selma Diamond and Woody Allen. Sketches remained ambitious and complicated, from parodies on popular films (‘From Here to Obscurity’) to spoofs on Golden Age television programs (‘This is Your Story’). At the other end of the evolutionary chain, Chappelle’s Show ran from 2003–2006 on Comedy Central as a weekly, 30-minute comedy show. Helmed by Dave Chappelle — as well as co-writer and co-creator Neal Brennan — Chappelle’s Show hit a cultural zeitgeist in its short two-season run, as it featured sketches that bit at race issues and cultural hypocrisies; everything from a black white supremacist leader to the personal escapades in the life of Rick James. Although in the same format, Chappelle’s Show marks the most modern and developed form of the sketch comedy program by expressing racism and societal issues with comedy that was not possible during the era of Your Show of Shows.

The first and foremost contrast between Your Show of Shows and Chappelle’s Show results from their humor, or rather, the material from which they garner their comedy. In looking at an episode of each show — ‘From Here to Obscurity’ for Your Show of Shows and ‘Frontline: Clayton Bigsby Pt.1 & Pt.2’ for Chappelle’s Show — differences rise to the surface.

‘From Here to Obscurity’ — a spoof of From Here to Eternity — relies on parody and nonsense; the source of the laughter comes from the Sid Caesar-acted Montgomery Bugle, a bugle playing military man who has been commissioned to a Hawaiian post for his boxing skills. Much of the hilarity — always gauged by the laughing audience — results from Montgomery’s incessant use and respect for his bugle; the jokes are light and the situations silly, the humor focusing on Sid Caesar’s facial, vocal, and physical performance. In Mel Brooks’ own words on writing for the show, he speaks on the political avoidance of the sketches, rather focusing on the humor of emotion and behavior: “We never did political: we never talked about Democrats or Republicans, we never talked about the president, we never talked about Congress, we never talked about world affairs. We talked about human behavior.”

On the other hand, ‘Frontline: Clayton Bigsby’ focuses in on the Dave Chappelle-acted Clayton Bigsby, a black white supremacist leader. Honing in on the ignorance and utter irony of racism, the dialogue of the episode exudes racial slurs and hate speech that develop the situation into an orbit of ridiculousness. This is not to say, however, that Chappelle’s Show does not develop humor in the same techniques of Your Show of Shows; a large extent of the comedy in Clayton Bigsby’s character derives from Dave Chappelle’s facial, vocal, and physical performance, similar to Sid Caesar’s Montgomery Bugle. Yet, Chappelle’s Show builds off the foundation set by Caesar and his writing room, liberating the content of the sketch medium into a realm of boundary-pushing, societal introspection comedy.

More sketches exhibit this same revolutionary material: ‘Trading Spouses’ follows an interracial switch of husbands, ‘Black Bush’ watches Chappelle act as the first black president, and ‘Reparations 2003’ looks at the ‘effects’ of reparation payments to the African-American community. To a large degree, the Chappelle’s Show existence in the 21st century allowed it the capability to push the envelope and tackle these subjects, as Your Show of Shows was not offered the same advantage.

However, before moving to why exactly the two shows were provided differing freedom, there is a qualification to make on the progressiveness of the composition that existed on Your Show of Shows. The entire program, excluding Tony Webster, was produced, written, and acted by Jews, expressing themes of Jewish life to the audience; anything ranging from food to farcing taboos in what David Margolick calls “…poking holes in stuffed shirts”.

We may take this idea of the Jewish comedian for granted today with such an extensive list of celebrities, but Your Show of Shows remains a touchstone for not only sketch comedy but also Jewish comedy, the embodiment of the Jewish celebrity comedian. Even further, Your Show of Shows became one of the first comedy programs — or, rather, one of the first television programs in general — to hire female writers (Lucille Kallen and Selma Diamond) in the face of a male-dominated landscape; moreover, the show also placed the female actress Imogene Coca — “…the original funny lady of TV comedy…” — alongside Caesar, creating a tangible chemistry that would be recreated for generations to follow. Even in the face of the controlling hands of early television advertisers, Your Show of Shows set a revolutionary standard for comedy writing rooms as well as a standard for the future of comedy on and off the air.

Between 1950–1954, Your Show of Shows sat within the Golden Age of Television where advertisers controlled what material was allowed on the screen. In his article ‘The Rise and Fall of the TV Commercial’, William M. O’Barr comments on this fact of early television, writing that “…in the first decade of postwar television, advertising agencies tended to produce both the programming and the advertising”. This production by way of the advertisers acted as a censorship, where a “…sensitivity to the concerns of the sponsor…” held many shows — as well as the written material for them — hostage against any content that was deemed insensitive. This fact is crucial to understanding both the limits of Your Show of Shows and the great heights the show achieved under such dominion.

Oppositely, Chappelle’s Show found a liberating arena to work with at Comedy Central and cable television at large. From their book Make ’Em Laugh : The Funny Business of America, Laurence Maslon and Michael Kantor write that “…cable has clearly given the world a verbal (and visual) freedom for comedy…”, where channels like Comedy Central “…became a media powerhouse when it was able to turn to original programming”. By and large, Chappelle’s Show used the freedom of cable television to its furthest extent, turning comedy on its head and putting a microscope on contemporary society. At the helm of all this, similar to the captain of Your Show of Shows Sid Caesar, was Dave Chappelle.

The similar power of both Your Show of Shows and Chappelle’s Show resulted from the genius that sat at the center of their writing and performance. Sid Caesar stood dominant at the center, acting as both source of humor as well as influence to his entire writing staff. Just reading the comments of his writers room exude his imposing persona: “Inarguably he was the greatest single monologist and skit comedian we ever had” (Carl Reiner), “the funniest man America has produced to date” (Mel Brooks). The show, by and large, centered around Caesar’s characters and ability to improvise comedy; the entire first half of ‘This is Your Story’ — considered one of the greatest television episodes to ever air — is improvised by Caesar, who ran amuck in a real, live studio audience.

In the same light, Dave Chappelle remained the pillar of Chappelle’s Show, influencing arguably every comedy sketch show that would follow: “As we were doing Key & Peele, we’d get concerns like, ‘Did Chappelle do something like that?” — Keegan-Michael Key; “I studied him and loved everything about him” — Tyler the Creator; “I love Chappelle and Chris Rock, I grew up on their stand-up” — Eric Andre. The significance of each creator institutes the concluding similarity of the these two shows: not only did Your Show of Shows and Chappelle’s Show revolutionize sketch comedy television, but they also utterly changed the very fabric of comedy in our culture. The influence of both shows stretched into every corner of society, and both creators, Sid Caesar and Dave Chappelle, remain as paragons of American comedy.

Your Show of Shows set the stage for comedy on television, creating hilarious situations with a cast and crew of revolutionary import. Chappelle’s Show, naturally, acts as the next evolutionary step of the sketch comedy format, a show that maintains the bold personality to comment on problems existing in society as well as the silly humor to let the audience sit back and let laughs roll. Both shows, with their creators and their humor, remain implanted in the history of television.

An afterword…

I wrote this essay during my freshman year at Loyola Marymount University, in a class titled The History of Television taught by Professor Mike Daley and Assistant Professor Rachel Brethauer (who would later become one of my screenwriting professors). Before the start of the fall semester, it seemed this was simply a throwaway course, one in which offered a slightly different subject to inform incoming students how to write for college. Yet, the course changed my life, and introduced me to creators like Sid Caesar, the Smothers Brothers, Flip Wilson, Mary Tyler Moore and confirmed the significance of legends like Dave Chappelle, Jon Stewart, Jerry Seinfeld, Amy Schumer and more.

Most significant, though, and something I took for granted at the time, was the brilliance of individuals like Carl Reiner. It is unfortunate that we seldom only understand the body of one’s work when they pass, but Reiner’s remains unequivocally massive, that of not only a comedic god but also a man willing to platform the voices of others as graciously as any single person can.

Please, if you are unaware of the impact of Carl Reiner, search his IMDB for but only a slice of his career. Twenty-five and counting credits as a writer, twelve and counting credits as a producer, literally hundreds of credits as an actor.

Yet, what one cannot fathom are the smiles and joy Mr. Reiner put to worn faces, to people working nine to five hoping only for an escape. Or the innumerable young faces who watched him and wanted to be just like him. Or the individuals in passing who he sparked a small idea within, a small compassion within, those seemingly small moments which changed lives, brought glowing white teeth in a smile, and made the world just that much happier.

When I was properly introduced to him through this History of Television course (sometime earlier, my generation unknowingly had their first encounter with Mr. Reiner as Saul Bloom in Ocean’s 11) I began to take a step back and truly appreciate the brilliance of those who came before. Although I focus most directly on the thread between Sid Caesar and Dave Chappelle in the essay above, I always knew I wasn’t accounting enough for the glorious writing team behind Your Show of Shows or the great camaraderie they must have shared.

Even more, across countless interviews and CBS special reports, Carl Reiner and Mel Brooks shared a friendship which becomes difficult to compare to any relationship in any space of time. Such care and love and laughter is what we all must aspire to, and I think that is enormously important during the critical and painful time we live today.

Everything - every screen, every dogmatic political voice, the virus that pins us apart and the racial/economic divide that has made us look at each other with subhuman eyes - wants us to hate and loathe one another. That remains the easy, primal way of human existence. We can choose that path if we hope for violence, if we do not wish to put the effort in for our common man, if we do not wish to question our own standards in the face of our common brothers and sisters dying in the street, if we wish to prop up regimes of hate which watch us die and continue cyclical.

But Carl Reiner said no to that. Instead, he smiled, made a damn good goofy face, and told us a damn good joke.

A generation of men and women who arrived out of the storm of fascism and McCarthyism and racism and poverty - all of which, in a new form or the same form, continue and pervade to this very day - a generation that we still do not give enough credit. To share happiness with one another. To respect one another. To fight against injustice. To see the struggles of people left behind by the system. To suffer for a collective good so that that future may be better. To use comedy as a change. To point out what is ridiculous and detrimental to human existence.

And…to just laugh. Laugh very very hard. Because, at the end of the day, nothing is as glorious as watching another smile and laugh. And nothing brings change quite like comedy.

Thank you, Mr. Reiner, for being a role model to me and so many others. I hope we can bring but a fraction, a tiny percentage of the happiness you brought the world.

Rest in Peace. Carl Reiner, 1922–2020.

Bianculli, David. The Platinum Age of Television: from I Love Lucy to The Walking Dead, How TV Became Terrific. Anchor Books, 2017.

“Chappelle Reveals Himself.” Broadcasting & Cable, vol. 136, no. 1, Jan. 2006, p. 9. EBSCOhost,electra.lmu.edu:2048/login?url=https://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=f3h&AN=19445384&login.asp&site=ehost-live&scope=site.

Fenton, Matthew McCann. “Your Show Of Shows THE ‘SNL’ PRECURSOR POURED ON THE LATE-NIGHT LUNACY.” Entertainment Weekly, Fall 1998, p. 120. EBSCOhost, electra.lmu.edu:2048/login?url=https://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=f3h&AN=54516259&login.asp&site=ehost-live&scope=site.

“Innovation Sensations.” Daily Variety, vol. 312, no. 49, Sept. 2011, pp. 27–39. EBSCOhost, electra.lmu.edu:2048/login?url=https://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=f3h&AN=66151457&login.asp&site=ehost-live&scope=site.

Kweli, Talib. “Eric Andre Talks Comedy”. UPROXX. People’s Party. June 8, 2020. https://www.okayplayer.com/culture/eric-andre-talib-kweli-dave-chappelle-advide-interview-video.html.

Margolick, David. “The Deep Jewish Roots of Television’s Sid Caesar.” Tablet Magazine, Tablet Magazine, 14 Feb. 2014, www.tabletmag.com/jewish-arts-and-culture/163060/sid-caesar-show-of-shows.

Maslon, Laurence, and Michael Kantor. Make ’Em Laugh: The Funny Business of America. Twelve, 2008.

Lowry, Brian. “‘Your Show of Shows’ Co-Star Remembers a TV Comedy Genius.” Variety, vol. 323, no. 2, Feb. 2014, p. 63. EBSCOhost, electra.lmu.edu:2048/login?url=https://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=f3h&AN=94672865&login.asp&site=ehost-live&scope=site.

O’Barr, William M. “The Rise and Fall of the TV Commercial.” Advertising & Society Review, Advertising Educational Foundation, 1 Sept. 2010, muse.jhu.edu/article/389521.

Romano, Allison. “Chappelle Unplugged.” Broadcasting & Cable, vol. 134, no. 30, July 2004, p. 20. EBSCOhost, electra.lmu.edu:2048/login?url=https://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=f3h&AN=13932632&login.asp&site=ehost-live&scope=site.

Rothstein, Mervyn, and Peter Keepnews. “Sid Caesar, Comedian of Comedians From TV’s Early Days, Dies at 91.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 12 Feb. 2014, www.nytimes.com/2014/02/13/arts/television/sid-caesar-comic-who-blazed-tv-trail-dies-at-91.html.

Tanzer, Myles. “Why Chappelle’s Show Will Always Be Important To Anyone With A Creative Spirit.” The Fader, The Fader, 27 July 2017, www.thefader.com/2016/07/27/chappelles-show-interviews.

Tucker, Ken, and Whitney Pastorek. “Uneasy Rider.” Entertainment Weekly, no. 866, Mar. 2006, pp. 30–37. EBSCOhost, electra.lmu.edu:2048/login?url=https://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=f3h&AN=19959456&login.asp&site=ehost-live&scope=site.

VanDerWerff, Todd. “How Your Show Of Shows Invented American TV Comedy.” TV Club, TV Club, 23 Aug. 2017, tv.avclub.com/how-your-show-of-shows-invented-american-tv-comedy-1798238121.

Vineberg, Steve. “Mr. Chappelle’s Neighborhood.” Christian Century, vol. 123, no. 7, Apr. 2006, p. 58. EBSCOhost, electra.lmu.edu:2048/login?url=https://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=f3h&AN=20356952&login.asp&site=ehost-live&scope=site.

A Moment in Wes Anderson’s Rushmore.

During a play, you may feel something, the way an actor drinks or the way they walk, that simply does not occur in real-life. A “stage moment” one of my professors, Beth Henley, coined. An action so beautiful to the stage, the perfection of acting or directing, a moment which keeps you thinking, feeling long after you’ve left the theater, arrived home, fallen asleep, and awoken with that emotion lodged in your soul. The same, of course, occurs between the audience and the screen, the movies. I manufactured a word for it, translated to Italian for matter of romance, momento del cinema, or a “cinema moment”. A moment from a film watched last night gave such definition.

Rushmore, directed by Wes Anderson. I awoke this morning. The nag of a momento del cinema warm on the temples. When the space between viewer and screen collapsed.

It occurred near the falling action of the story, just after our protagonist Max Fischer had fallen to his lowest point. His ambition, gone. Working shifts at his father’s barbershop. School, quit. Then, in a sequence, Max runs into both Herman J. Blume and Rosemary Cross. He’s ruined their romance, in his madness he may even have decimated the happiness of their individual lives. Blume is the shell of a man, smoking cigarettes and drinking midday in the elevator of a hospital. Cross has ended their relationship and returned to the grief of her dead husband. Can Max fix this? He flies a kite in a parking lot full of grey. Create a club. Return to over-achiever. Fix what he has ruptured. A shot, a yellow kite in the expanse of dark clouds.

The following scene, Max hopes to offer peace with Bloom at his father’s barbershop. For a moment, they stand across a street, two outlaws at high noon.

Then Max crosses the threshold, extends friendship with an open hand and two Rushmore pins. Max and Bloom both move into the barbershop, a swift pan from left to right, steady, no cut. Blume is confused, why have they met in this place? But, Max introduces his father, Burt Fischer. He is not a neurosurgeon, as Max has continued to lie, but rather a barber.

Cut. To be specific, the cut occurs at 1:14:25. The camera meets Blume with a medium close-up, chest high. Blume is in the extreme right-third of the frame, pinned by the weight of the empty space to his left. For nearly five seconds the audience waits. And then Blume says “nice to meet you, Mr. Fischer”.

Without knowing, the script has forced us into an all-too-human moment of dramatic irony, a crucial point where we understand that Max’s father is a humble barber, but the adult’s of Rushmore don’t know this fact, unaware of the truth. Paired with the direction, these five seconds could explain the emotion of the entire film. The emotion of a young ambitious kid fighting against odds, of a disguise that hides the true soul under our skin, of someone doing everything possible to fight who they truly are. Alas, emotion becomes far more palpable, far more sophisticated than the words I’ve written above. Further, this becomes but a small moment in a continuum, of a wonderful film, a spectacular work of art from one of our greatest sublime auteurs.

“Mr. Fischer was my father’s name. Call me Bert, please”. After those five seconds, in response to Bloom, it appears Max’s father teaches us all. That is, not to be ‘Mr. Fischer’, but rather Bert, wholly and unabatedly proud to introduce ourselves as who we are, as Bert Fischer, or whatever your name may be.

This month, Apple became the first corporation to hit the market cap of $1 trillion. Last month, Jeff Bezos became the wealthiest man in the world, valued at $150 billion. On July 13, Sorry to Bother You — the debut feature from Boots Riley — hit the widescreen for the American public. No single word can describe this film; one can only say that Sorry to Bother You was released with impeccable timing.

If you must find, in desperation, one word to describe Sorry to Bother You, that word must exert an enormous weight of chaos, a terrible dosage of madness and instability. Boots Riley’s debut film is bonkers, off-the-wall, bat-crazy, and far too much fun to watch. As Riley put it, “it’s not the game you thought it was”. There are enough ideas in this film to fill an entire film course : capitalism, police brutality, telemarketing, liberal racism, existence, far-too-wealthy white dudes. Watching Sorry to Bother You is unlike any film experience you will ever have; its like Putney Swope, that is, if Putney Swope was on an acid-trip, time-traveling to the year 2020. To wrap your head around the fact that this film is a first for Boots Riley becomes mind-boggling; the touch of his genius reverberates on every scene, every piece of dialogue, every object in the background. This film screams to be on your DVD shelf, or rather, in your computer library, played again and again and again to find more quotes, more messages, more hidden easter-eggs in the background. Lakeith Stanfield, if you even needed the reassurance, comes out as an absolute behemoth, taking the performance of Cassius “Cash” Green to an entire, ethereal plane.

Every character, for that matter, from Tessa Thompson’s ‘Detroit’ to Armie Hammer’s ‘Steve Lift’, takes the film further and further into the realm of insanity, not one actress or actor taking a wrong step. After leaving the theatre, one central idea seemed to prevail. I cannot say with certainty that this was Riley’s primary idea; you must ask him yourself for that answer. But, as the lights dimmed, and my eyes adjusted to the brutal light outside, the social critique of Sorry to Bother You on the abhorrent flaws of our capitalistic society began to ring with far too much volume.

‘Social satire’ feels like the wrong description of Sorry to Bother You, an over-simplification. Sorry to Bother You is absolutely hilarious, using humor to expose all-too-real truths in our current society. At some moments, however, it almost doesn’t feel like a satire at all.

Although the film becomes quite insane in the final 30 minutes, many overriding truths continue in swaths of light throughout its entirety. Two corporations sit at the forefront of the film: the telemarketing firm Regalview and the global giant WorryFree. Regalview’s slimy conduct lies in open air, as they pay employees below a living wage; Squeeze (played by Steve Yeun) organizes a union and attempts to strike to increase the wages of the telemarketers. Squeeze’s fight -or rather the union of all the telemarketers - against Regalview expresses the power of the people, the optimistic view to fight the power and gain a level of human right. WorryFree’s intentions, however, fall into the depths of the sewers. To the public eye, WorryFree seems to be offering a beautiful solution to a competitive world: sign a lifetime contract and you will receive work, food, and shelter for the rest of your life. Steve Lift (Armie Hammer) is the owner of WorryFree, the quintessential rags-to-riches billionaire, attempting to provide a “new future” to all of Earth.

Of course, WorryFree is sinister, as they deprive their workers of basic human rights and use the fruits of their labor for weapons trade. Yet, even when WorryFree’s actions become clear, the public does not care, for WorryFree creates all their products, and Steve Lift is the pinnacle of the male, misogynist world. WorryFree’s stock price subsequently rises. Does this all sound too far-fetched?

Today, Amazon sits as one of the top companies in the world. Jeff Bezos is the quintessential rags-to-riches billionaire. As reported in April of this year, the median annual compensation of Amazon employees is $28,446; in no state would this gather an ample, living wage. According to Stanford University, wage inequality has, in the United States, increased to levels similar to before the Great Depression. Grab your remote, press the power button, and watch as a racist multi-millionaire named Donald Trump makes comments as the acting President of the United States of America. Social satire? Sorry to Bother You seems more like a social commentary.

SPOILERS AHEAD

The phrase ‘I don’t know’ carries a quiet beauty, a hidden consciousness of its own. In a world of yes and no, there is too much confidence, too much of the definite, the absolute, the ‘forsure. ‘I don’t know’ removes responsibility, allows debate, takes away baggage of harsh, extreme opinions. Well, maybe I’m just making myself feel better for indecision. I saw Sicario : Day of the Soldado, but I don’t know how to feel about it.

From the pit of the U.S. Government, Sicario fell into the laps of the public in 2015. Over the course of a few months, Sicario grew from a small opening weekend, slowly burning with the help of critical acclaim and word-of-mouth, amounting to over $80 million in box office returns. A tense, unrelenting thriller, the film was built on an intricate script written by Taylor Sheridan, the direction of the up and coming Canadian director Denis Villeneuve, and a cast of Emily Blunt, Josh Brolin, and Benicio Del Toro. Featuring set-pieces that could twist and tie any viewer into a barbed wire fence, it was violent, gritty, and unforgiving. When a sequel was announced, I could not decide : should we shout in joy, or worry of failure? Fortunately, we don’t need to worry of failure; however, I’m not sure if we should shout in joy.

The powerful script of the first Sicario fell amess in the second outing. Sheridan, over the past few years, has created intricate crime narratives that call back to the plots of classics like The Getaway or The Big Sleep, set in the modern landscape, be it the Mexican-American border (Sicario), the dry foreclosures of Texas (Hell or High Water), or the stark isolation of Wyoming (Wind River). However, the plot of Sicario : Day of the Soldado seems to call back more towards the confusion of films like Farewell, My Lovely or the messy entire second season of True Detective. Too many times throughout the film, I found myself unable to pinpoint what was going on at and around the border. Subplots and quests of the story crisscrossed and overlapped in a heap of pickup sticks; this film demands a second viewing, not for its aesthetics, but to figure out what exactly is going on. Sure, the first iteration of Sicario contained a complex plot, but there was a character the audience could lean on in Emily Blunt, a character just as agape as the audience to the descending madness and hypocrisy of the mission. A huge contention of Soldado comes through the stakes of Isabel Reyes (played by Isabela Moner), the daughter of the Reyes cartel kingpin. Yet, her importance continues to become jumbled and mixed, as rivaling factions try to grab her, then decide to leave her for dead, then the government says kill her, it’s madness. Sheridan may have decided to create a plot of overlaps and murkiness, the border a place of undecipherable craziness; it, however, does not help the viewer decipher the context of the story in any way.

Aside from the script of Soldado, the action of the first comes back in a different, fresh direction, under Stefano Sollima. Rather than haymakers, Sollima creates set-pieces that arrive in a flurry, one after another. Action is stripped naked, full of grit, as Alejandro (played by Benicio Del Toro) disburses violence across the desert. Violence becomes especially raw; the initial scenes of the film express border patrol surrounding exhausted migrants in the depths of the night, as well as a group of four suicide bombers bombing a grocery store. The bombing of the grocery store, especially, is brutal and unforgiving; guidance or morality is not given, as these scenes provide no mercy, they are quick, unnerving, and absolutely disturbing.

Benicio Del Toro makes the most of his time on screen (which is obvious from the trailer, as he whips out a pistol on a populated, Mexico City street).

He forges a path that both, somehow, develops a human side of Alejandro, but yet creates more of his violent tendencies. Towards the end of the two hours, Del Toro commits a surprising twist as Alejandro rises from the dead, in a Revenant-esque bit of physical acting; he is both brutal and forgiving throughout the film. To a large degree, as discussed by Sollima on the Big Picture Podcast, the morals of Alejandro are left to the viewer, to figure our own conclusions about his motives. Even in Josh Brolin’s Matt Graver, we watch a mercenary scum express hidden compassions as he watches Alejandro’s limp body, then decides to back out on orders of killing Isabel. In this way, Soldado becomes unforgiving, a film asking more from the viewer than its own agenda.

Left alone is the development of Isabel Reyes, a potential story line that both Sheridan and Sollima dismiss.

Similar to Blunt, Isabela Moner offers a tremendous performance that cries for more attention; her fall from tough, thick-skin confidence to shell-shocked adolescence is underused, a character that would help the story ten-fold, offering a pillar beside Alejandro and Graver. Instead, Sheridan creates the subplot of Miguel Hernandez (played by Elijah Rodriguez), a teenager turned cartel grunt. In murkier and murkier story-telling, Hernandez is built on questionable intentions (why, exactly, does he choose to join the cartel?) and weak, chance plot points (by chance he runs into Alejandro in the parking lot and later at the border?). At the end, he becomes the next carrier, destined to be the next “Sicario”. I kept asking after, though, why him? Why not build Reyes into the new Sicario? Skip the entire subplot of Hernandez, build a new killer in a hardened, young woman. Here, Sheridan and Sollima’s focus on masculinity hurts the story and future of the franchise.

Is Sicario : Day of the Soldado a good film? I still don’t know. The performance of Benicio Del Toro keeps the film standing, as he pushes the boundaries and keeps the engine running; the eyes of Stefano Sollima also add a depth to the story, making Soldado a sequel worthy of being a standalone in the franchise, instead of just a copy and paste of the original. There is a valiant effort made in Soldado to be different, a clear indication that this Sicario franchise wants to be innovative, trying new ideas that might not always work. In the Big Picture Podcast described earlier, Sollima explained how he gutted the crew of the first film to create a standalone second feature, hoping to take a different approach to storytelling with the same characters and universe. However, tagged along with the project, inevitably, was Taylor Sheridan. Sheridan, by and large, is an exceptional writer; yet, as shown with the destructive subplots and confusing directions, pulled along baggage from the plot of the first film. What worked in the first Sicario could not work in the second, as the agenda changed. Alas, Soldado is an ambitious sequel. Although much of the story loses itself along the border, there maintains an unforgiving story that finds a few triumphs in excellent set-pieced action and gritty performances.

This letter is not written as a plea, but rather a discussion, a discussion I both hope will persuade and explain the importance of not only Mrs. Lazarova — a teacher who has changed my life along with countless others — but also the importance of the education of Latin, at not only Palm Springs High School but also in high schools across the country.

A few hours ago, I was told by my classmates that Palm Springs High School — the school in which I had graduated only three days prior — plans on phasing out the Latin program, along with forcing Svetlana Lazarova (our Latin teacher, head of Foreign-Language) to begin teaching English. It is an understatement to say I was beside myself; I felt betrayed, filled with an anger against the utter ignorance of this catastrophic decision. From the report of my classmates, this decision is being handed by the administration, headed by Mr. Ryan Woll, the principal of Palm Springs High School. How true this is I do not know; it may come from a higher or lower level. The only relevant piece of information remains that this entire circus act should not occur; the Latin program should not be put in jeopardy, nor should Mrs. Lazarova be forced into a position in which she does not concur, as she contains both extreme mastery of the classics as well as long-term seniority at Palm Springs High School and education at large.

After this information was made known, I took to twitter — as any maddened young adult would — and wrote a series of tweets to (hopefully) engage a larger mass, informing them on this horrific course of action. It was a small motion, one that must be supplemented with larger action. After a few minutes, as more of my peers of the Latin program — disciples of Mrs. Lazarova — continued to tweet, a message popped up from a group chat of my close friends. Initially, the messages exuded ignorant comments and worthless jokes, which turned my already festering anger into steam. From here, however, a few of my friends began a discussion (if you can call it a discussion), attempting to support the caustic idea of Mrs. Lazarova becoming an English teacher, where she will reach more students, and continue to teach an area of literature. I admire these friends, seeing a silver lining in this abhorrent action. I, however, cannot respect their observations and opinions on the Latin language, or Mrs. Lazarova’s teachings in any way.

I came into Latin August of 2014, a freshman carrying the awkward etchings of middle-school and the brutal excitement of a new school. I chose my schedule about a month before school began, placing myself in the foreign language of Latin — to those unaware, two years of a language are required for a high school diploma; most colleges expect three to four years. After I had made this decision, I began to taste the wrath of ignorance and pressure. My family joked that only “nerds” took Latin; my bestfriend, who was becoming a sophomore, asked me why I wasn’t taking Spanish; a countless number of my peers howled in laughter, saying Latin was a dead language. I began to question myself. I don’t want to be a nerd do I? Should I be taking a language that is dead?

On the first day of school, as the bell rang for lunch, I ran through the burning desert air, into the arctic confines of the main office building. I beelined to my counselor’s office, Mr. Richard Kravitz, and asked to be switched into a Spanish class. I’ll never forget this encounter, as I took a seat in the claustrophobic office, a scrawny, blonde, pale fourteen-year-old, covered in a mist of peer pressure. With a smile and a laugh, Mr. Kravitz’s eyes pierced through his glasses into my subconscious. He spoke.

“I can look to see if there are an openings,” he said, “but why exactly do you wish to switch?”

I responded in a mumble.

“I…uhhh…well,” it all began to run forth, “everyone says I should take Spanish! You know,” I stumbled more, “everyone says Latin is dead anyways.”

Mr. Kravitz was a savvy veteran, another one of my personal mentors. He twisted his chair, and began to look at his computer screen, scrolling through screen upon screen of lines and numbers. As he did that, he nonchalantly began to dispel rumors of the Latin program. To this day, I do not know if he actually checked for spaces in the other classes, because after a few minutes of his talking, I quietly sighed.

“Actually, I’ll try it for a little.” I looked like toddler who had drawn with crayon on white walls, “Can I still come back later if I want to change?”

In this way, my Latin career began.

After that lunch, I walked into the Latin classroom for fifth period. As I entered the door, a woman stood at the head of the classroom, surrounded by three groups of about twenty desks each. She had her back turned, writing what looked like nonsense to my adolescent eyes. There was a table, maybe a desk, filled with pencils, Roman figurines, rulers, wreaths, scissors, and Greek pottery. When the bell rang, the seats were filled with freshman, each one sitting in a tired malaise like molasses on toast. She began to speak. But she spoke not in English, but in some weird expression that sounded like the Pope speaking to the masses. She was speaking entirely, utterly, unequivocally in Latin. The entire period, she spoke like an absolute lunatic, in a language my eyes could not hear. Yet, somehow, someway, by the end of that period, I knew four Latin words : salve (hello), magistra (teacher/feminine), puer/puella (boy/girl), and uva (grape). From there, Latin grabbed me by both shoulders, and Lazarova threw us into the sky.

When I try to find a word, a single word, to describe the Latin program, I chuckle. You may even laugh as well; the word is exhilarating. Yes, it may sound ridiculous, but it remains the most honest answer. As this whole, ridiculous situation began, people told me that Lazarova would reach more students in an English class, that English was more important that a Latin class. Maybe for some individuals that is true, but let me ask, do you really understand what subjects are involved in the study of Latin? First and foremost, it is a foreign language; the education of a foreign language forces the brain into a pit, demanding us to think in complex manners, as well as understand a culture separate from our own. To anyone who has travelled to a foreign country, one in which the language is not English, the break from natural linguistic pattern is confusing, off-putting, and absolutely intoxicating. Latin adds more, however. Along with foreign language, Latin combines the disciplines of history, mythology, english, social science, literature, and philosophy. In the course, students study the ancient stories of Homer (The Iliad and The Odyssey), Vergil (The Aeneid), as well as the myths of gods and goddesses, the labors of Hercules, each story straight from the original Latin text. In addition, the course discusses the history of Ancient Greece and Rome, creating an understanding of the Roman Empire, Roman Government, and Roman life. Even more, the course develops an understanding of ancient philosophy, of the rhetoric of Cicero, the poetry of Catullus, the ideas of the ancient world that permeate modern life; the class of Latin speaks on ideas of love, loyalty, family, understandings of the tragic character, the archetype of the hero, integral parts of all stories and tales. In so as much, students become engaged with a classical education, an opportunity allowed only to the most fortunate. Yet, even with such benefits, ignorance continues.

In the final days of my senior year, a project was put forth to us in our Latin IV class, one that asked our most personal stories, our deepest connections with the class of Latin. All that remained of the class was a core of seventeen students (for each foreign language course, the class dwindles as students meet their requirements). We began our presentations on a Friday, about a week and a half from the end of school. Each of us brought two, self-translated passages to the class, along with a written reflection, from Vergil’s Aeneid and Julius Caesar’s De Bello Gallico (another book translated in class).

It is difficult, with word, to express the emotions exchanged in the classroom, a mix of love and utter sadness, of hope and desolation. We told stories of struggles, of pain, of confidence given to us by Mrs.Lazarova. My peers shared personal stories, those of which I cannot share in respect of their privacy. I can, however, share my own in this final note. Some who read might impart that I am being narrow-minded, thinking only of my own experience in Latin. But, what else, as I watch this atrocious action by Palm Springs High School, should I turn to? I have only my experience with Latin, an experience that includes the lives of seventeen other peers I call amicis, as well as four years of observing lives changed by the course of Latin. Even further, as I sat, most often in the back, with open ears and swiveling eyes, my mind followed the actions of Mrs.Lazarova, a woman full of experience, full of knowledge, in her happiest place, the room of Latin.

It was August, and our steps were full of spry youth and excitement. After a few weeks, however, our gait began to stumble, eyes sagging with late-nights, brains clogged with stress. Senior-year cascaded on us like a falling avalanche, growing in size as each day came forward. College applications, AP classes, dwindling GPA’s, ravenous extracurriculars, friends, social events…everything seemed to be happening at once. It still feels as if everything continues to overlap, frustrate, and burden our backs. Yet, although the year has broken the richter scale of stress, it has also shown patches of extreme beauty and comfort: those sweet, few Sunday hours to finally have our own time; fleeting moments of painful, belly-aching laughter with friends; hearing that satisfying ‘click’ of the submit button of college applications; and, especially, the comfort of certain classes, classes where we felt comfortable with everyone, where you could travel somewhere else with a teacher you loved so deeply. This was sixth period Latin.

A few weeks ago, I had chosen a passage of The Aeneid that “worked”; I connected with it mildly, enough to get me by. Yet, when I heard the presentations of my peers, I felt as if I had made a disgusting decision; I needed to find a passage that really spoke not only to me, but also my experience of this year in Latin. So, I chose the death of Laokoon to the sea serpents before the Trojan Horse. Allow me to explain…

I do not remember exactly when I began this habit, but at some point in either August or September, I began to use the rubber snake (which resembles the serpents in The Aeneid) as a pass to the restroom. At first, it was just a gag to hold as I went to the restroom. However, as the year dragged forward, and stress continued to beat me over the head, the rubber, head-pinned snake became a being of solitude. No matter how bad a day had gone, no matter how much work I had to complete later, that snake would be there for me. It truly sounds ridiculous, but I cannot explain how true it is; somehow, someway, I had an emotional attachment to this snake. Almost like a toddler with their blanket, this snake brought me back to earth, feet back onto the ground. In the same way, the stories of The Aeneid took me away from agony for awhile. I could escape to the sea, or to Carthage, or to the Underworld, somewhere in the Ancient World. I saw myself in Aeneas, my plights bearing some heroic prophecy. All of this became available because of Mrs. Lazarova, who not only taught us, but cared for each and every one of us; a teacher unlike any other.

This is not, however, the only importance of this passage. I cannot say that everyday in Latin was rainbows and sunshine. I cannot say I did not have days where I wanted to quit: school, sports, all the stress. Maybe that’s the mind of a young adolescent, maybe that’s the growth into an adult, maybe that’s just life; I do not know. During these moments, I felt like Laokoon, shouting at the world, screaming at the truth behind the horse. I assume it happens to every human being, a psychological conflict to keep on going, learning, working failing, succeeding. As I sit in present day, I again feel that anger of Laokoon, as I watch individuals attempt to take away the class of Latin. In both calm and conflict, I found solace and strife in The Aeneid, in the class of Latin.

To those that agree with the motions of Palm Springs High School, of Mr. Ryan Woll, of the administration, those that have no inkling of experience in the Latin classroom; you must know, and you must understand, that you are doing your part in taking away the happiness of a teacher I love so dearly. You are removing the joy from another human being, a being that is more intelligent, more qualified, more loving than I, you, or any individual will ever be. Most of all, you are taking away the happiness of future students, of the class entering high school as we speak. That, the theft of happiness, the theft of this education, is a crime greater than you know. Please, reconsider your action, and allow the Latin program to continue, and allow Mrs. Lazarova to continue what she loves in the Latin classroom.

Ut erit lux,

May There Be Light.

Peace,

Austin Anthony Good

It’s Sunday afternoon, a breeze swings through the warm air, the sun welcomes every porch, the trees whistle with glee; a beautiful day to sit in a dark room and put a film on. Yet, the same constant brawl begins: I have absolutely no idea what to watch. Too many options, so little time. Okay, I say, something will spark a film to watch…something must…

Fast-forward a few hours later, the light in the sky has gone out, dinner relaxes happily in my stomach, Bill Simmons talks to me through the speaker of my iphone as I lie sprawled on my couch. After discussing my fix of NBA basketball, Simmons brings on a guest. But this isn’t just any guest; he begins the interview with a particular Ethan Hawke. Interesting…there must be an Ethan Hawke film I have not seen. Just as that thought pops into my head, the pair begin to discuss The Before Trilogy (consisting of Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, and Before Midnight). They talk about the 90’s, a time before cellphones, a time only when a film like this could be made; they begin to speak specifically about Before Sunrise, its take on youthful romanticism and adolescent idealism. Simmons wonders if anyone 18-years-old is listening, still waiting to discover this film on the streaming avenues of today…hey, I’m 18! I’m listening! I haven’t seen Before Sunrise! I have streaming avenues! Wait, how have I not seen Before Sunrise?! Eyes open in a Mad-Max fury, fingers dash over to the pause button, legs up and off the couch. I have a movie room at my father’s home, a dark pit, cut-off from humanity and the stress of reality (it’s really a room only meant for an office, but light cannot penetrate its walls, so it doubles as a movie room). My father, as I enter the room, sits at his desk, fussing with the printer, shouting words under his breath at damned technology. I fall into the clutches of the second office chair in the room, Apple TV remote in hand, glasses on. My dad knows this flurry, he’s seen this focus, he needs to escape the storm.

“I’ll get out of here if you fix this printer,” My father utters. He’s trapped me. Nice play, Dad.

“Alright,” I sigh. I am coming, Ethan. I’ll be waiting at the station.

Fast-forward another ten minutes. I have only expletives to exchange with this worthless printer. The final sheet of contract finally pushes out like Ace Ventura falling out of a rhino. My dad snatches the sheet, stumbles out of the room. He doesn’t want to watch my weird, art film choices. I close the door that leads into the claustrophobic room, light escapes in a fleeting moment as darkness engulfs the scene. Again, I crash into the clutches of the office chair that lies in front of the television. My index finger falls upon the silver button of the Apple remote, and suddenly, I am transported to Vienna with two curious, attracted souls.

The credits roll, my body falls back, neck bending over the lip of the chair. My eyes begin to water…okay, tears are streaming…head lies in a hum. It’s that feeling, that incredible, indescribable emotion of having watched something magnificent, something life-changing.

As I write now, I think particularly about the podcast of Bill Simmons and Ethan Hawke, about a specific point made: Before Sunrise is timeless. If the year was not listed on the film, I would have absolutely no idea when it had been made; it could have been the 90’s, the early 00’s, maybe even present day. Of course, this timelessness falls when you start to think about the presence of cellphones; but the love, the awkwardness, the curiosity in Jesse (Ethan Hawke) and Celine (Julie Delpy) continues uninterrupted.

The timelessness of the film derives largely from the filmmaking of Richard Linklater, a curious assortment of long takes, pans, and glorious cuts of Vienna. When Jesse and Celine first meet, they converse in the lounge car of the eurorail, and Jessie presents an idea he’s had for an open-access cable television show: one that follows the daily life of 365 people from across the globe, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I don’t know if this addition is profound or silly, but the film itself feels as if it is this television show, following the intertwining lives of Celine and Jesse. Linklater’s style not only adds to the overall timelessness of the film, but also the beauty of awkward emotions and growing attraction. In one very long take, Linklater leaves the camera sitting in front of the pair as they sit and talk on a bus. The camera captures Jesse’s awkward motion to push away Celine’s hair, Celine’s averting eyes as she answers questions, all the motions of natural beings. Even more, later in the film, inside of a listening booth within a record store, Linklater leaves the camera on its own again, this time leaving us to watch the play of eye-contact as the eyes of Jesse and Celine alike dance around the room.

Along with Linklater behind the camera, Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy dance in a wonderful attraction in front of the camera. Both present beautiful imperfections that each and every one of us contain: awkwardness, shyness, confusion, love. At times, Jesse talks with clumsy charisma, at others, Celine stares with mysterious intensity. Without cliche or sentiment, Jesse and Celine open up and push the limits, unafraid of sexual memories or dark thoughts on ideas like death or the future of their own lives. Both also bring together idealism and romanticism (which, to an 18-year-old like myself, is absolute candy), discussing their points-of-view on the world and strangers and work and everything of which surrounds their being. As they wander the streets, they come across part-time actors, gypsies, dancers, every odd being in the city — my favorite of these was the homeless poet, who lies seemingly without care along the river, dragging a cigarette and writing poetry for passing travelers, a life we (okay, maybe just I) have dreamed of. Every character brings together this story of wandering, traveling without a destination, understanding another person without reason to do so.

Now, more than ever, Before Sunrise is essential. As a child of the 21st century, born in 1999, I have lived in a odd moment: the emergence of the internet as we know it today, the creation of the iphone, the entrance of social media. I was almost eight-years-old when the first iphone came out, a device that would change the world in both wonderful and terrible ways. It’s difficult to remember the past before the iphone or social media; it becomes impossible for me to imagine a life without the internet or cellphones. When I watch films, I enter a time before all these globalizing creations, what seems to be a simpler, freer time. How true this is, I have no idea; is the world better now than before? It is a question humanity has been asking itself since the onset of the Renaissance. What I do know, however, is that social interactions, especially romantic excursions, have been hurt by the onslaught of our technological society. Text messaging alone has decimated interaction, as people would rather talk through the screen than open up in reality. People “know” and “understand” each other on twitter or facebook. Many feel naked without their iphone on them 24/7, 365. This is the power of Before Sunrise, a film about strangers connecting, about letting yourself go from the struggles of the world, about love in its purest form. This is no place to talk about a blundering icon, but Kanye did have a twitter quote that spoke volumes: “Love has a stigma”. In the present day, people are scared to love, scared to allow themselves to open up to strangers around them. Before Sunrise yells at us, tells us that we are all human, that we are all in this confusion together. The film is a demand, be it a subtle demand, to look up, to dream, to live, to love, to find some magic in the world. Yes, I am about to plug a Celine quote. No, I don’t regret a thing.

“If there’s any kind of magic in this world, it must be in the attempt of understanding someone, sharing something.” — Celine, Before Sunrise

I’ll see you in six months…

Peace,

Austin Anthony Good

The American flag fills the entirety of the screening, looming almost as a threat. After a few moments, live-footage of the Rodney King beating cuts into frame. Over the next minute, the American flag burns and the footage continues. The final image of the introduction transforms into the remnants of the flag, burned into a monolithic ‘X’. Spike Lee has the uncanny ability to bring one into a film with such an immediate, ferocious, iconic image. After the next three hours and twenty minutes, I am struggling for words to describe this sweeping epic of Malcolm X, a man so important to the world, a man with unmatched intelligence, a man misunderstood by history.

From the angle of film, Malcolm X is absolutely seamless. Spike Lee holds a story of a man’s entire life, a sprawling account from adolescence to adulthood, ignorance to understanding. With such a challenge set at his feet, Lee handles the epic with stunning detail and care. Never once did the film lose its place in time, nor was it ever burdened by slow story motion. Through Lee’s structure, we learn about characters, leave them for a time, and come back to them to watch their changes. For most biographic features, this method of storytelling often leaves the film in shabbles, dumbfounding the audience. Lee, however, has a clear grasp of a story — although focusing on one character in particular — that involves several characters that permeate on-screen and off-screen. Just take a look at Do the Right Thing and Lee’s control of a story becomes vibrant. My favorite example of this character development in Malcolm X occurs with the West-Indian numbers boss, Archie, in Harlem. When Malcolm first comes in contact with him, Archie is a brash character, full of charisma, but also full of adrenaline and anger. Malcolm, at this time, is almost the same, a young man full of exuberant charisma and a head of misplaced ideals. We then leave Archie for a time, as Malcolm becomes imprisoned, learns the teachings of Elijah Muhammad, and becomes a minister of the Nation of Islam. After these events, Malcolm hears about the old crew he ran away from, hearing about Archie’s decaying life. Malcolm goes to see Archie. Archie, unlike Malcolm, has not changed. He has become a junkie, engulfed in excess and succumbed in the streets. This relationship with Archie not only expresses the changing lives around Malcolm, but also shows the paths that Malcolm may have fallen to. Even more, these relationships express Malcolm’s growing compassion and understanding, as Malcolm comes back to support (or try to support) those from his past.

Then, we come to Denzel Washington. In the present-day, it is easy for us to take for granted the magical powers Washington has on-screen. Yet, when you watch a three-hour epic, where Washington never once lets the foot of the pedal, it is difficult to exaggerate how lucky we are to have a man of his ability. Washington’s portrayal of Malcolm X remains one of the greatest performances in film history. From street hustler to civil rights leader, Washington portrays not only the strength, but also the vulnerability of Malcolm. During the latter half of the film, Washington demolishes the screen with fiery speeches and incredible charisma. At the same time, in the sanctum of the home, Washington expresses Malcolm’s doubts, his fears of overstepping the Nation of Islam, his fears for his family, and his remembrances of his dark past. There are only a handful of actors that can portray the breadth of a figure quite like Denzel Washington (and he may be the only one that can do it so well). In his performance of Malcolm X, Washington culminates what made him such a leader, such a charismatic figure, but also what made him a human being.

Above all else, Malcolm X is a cultural monolith, a film needed desperately now just as in 1992. The beginning of the film could easily be intercut with images of Michael Brown, Alton Sterling, or any horrific number of the young black men and women who have been taken away at the hands of racist police, a police perpetuated by a still ever-present racism in the United States. On another account, Lee creates a story void of bias. As Roger Ebert put it in his essay on Malcolm X, “Every Lee film is an exercise in empathy.” Lee does not pick a side, but rather allows the audience to come to their own judgements, not leaving any piece of the story off-screen. This moves to the final, most important takeaway I had from Malcolm X : the film — and Lee’s telling of it — is a piece of revisionist history. Through the classes and textbooks of U.S. History, I was fed fallacy and one-sided lies about Malcolm X. He has been labeled a hate-monger, a racist, a supplier of violence, always counter-opposed to Martin Luther King Jr.. Malcolm, however, was anything but. He was a man who learned, a man who conquered his past, a human-being full of beautiful flaws and unlimited promise. Ultimately, he was a leader committed to peace, committed to justice, committed to a better world. In Malcolm X, I saw a role-model, a man and a set of ideals I could reach for. Here lies the power of the film, the power of Spike Lee, Denzel Washington, the crew of Malcolm X, and the power Malcolm still has on the people of today. Long Live the Man and the Message of Malcolm X.

Peace,

Austin Anthony Good