Daniel and Lucia discuss how Edwin Muir wasn’t much of an architect, then Daniel boasts he designed Gull Cottage. Oh, the Gull Cottage in which if you fall asleep on the sofa you can kick the gas on and accidentally kill yourself — THAT Gull Cottage? Brilliant design, that.
(Sadly, this is why I’m not haunted by impossibly charming sea captains.)
I woke up with a charley horse in my right calf. Then I put weight on my straightened right leg and quickly took it off. When that nerve isn’t happy, I’m not happy — or able to stand or walk. I settled in with Stacy Schiff’s The Witches and tried to baby my leg for a few hours. Then for a few hours more.
That didn’t work, and my inactivity made me feel guilty.
Finally I dragged myself out. After a brief rest in the campus park a block away (yes, that’s sad) I decided I was up to walking to Nickels Arcade.
On the way I passed the State Theatre. I like the old-school tile although I’m not tall enough to capture the entire name. It looked like the theatre had been taken over by a Target store, but I found out later Target had replaced another retailer in the building, Urban Outfitters.
Coming attractions for the Michigan Theater (note ”er” vs. ”re”) down the street (Liberty):
I reached Nickels Arcade and thought I’d check out the Peace Corps medallion Roadside America claims is nearby. That required walking several more blocks south on State Street (hint, Roadside America: No, it’s not near University). I found the building but didn’t have the steam left to go around it to find the medallion. I’ll regret that, I’m sure. Well, here’s a Nickels Arcade marker instead:
I did spot this other Roadside America attraction across the street — it’s hard to miss. Whimsically called “See No Evil” by Roadside America, it seems especially appropriate for the times.
Another sculpture dominated the museum’s lawn.
Finally I limped back to Nickels Arcade for iced coffee and a cookie at Comet Coffee, to Sava’s for a drink and dinner, and to the park area for a bit of shaded rest before limping back to my room.
I don’t think I ever posted this marker before. It’s across Huron from the bed and breakfast.
5,171 steps so far at 20:24. I would have sworn it was at least 7,500. Each painful.
Krauss was an unapologetic anti-Semite who supported the Nazi party and its ideology. In 1933 Krauss joined the Vienna Burgtheater ensemble to perform in Campo di Maggio (German: Hundert Tage), a drama written by Giovacchino Forzano together with Benito Mussolini, where-after he was received by the Italian dictator and also made the acquaintance of German Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels.
Veidt had long been known in German theatrical circles as a staunch anti-Nazi. His activities came under the scrutiny of the Gestapo, and a decision was made to assassinate him. Veidt found out about the plot, and managed to escape Germany before the Nazi death squad found him . . . When Britain went to war, he gave most of his estate to the war effort. He also donated a large portion of the salary from each of his movies to the British war relief, as well.
Source: IMDB
Previously, I was most familiar with Veidt as Jaffar in The Thief of Bagdad, a villainous role which he played delightfully. He made me a fan.
Facebook has many flaws, but it does alert me when events I might be interested in are coming up. A few weeks ago I found out about the world premiere of Octave Chanute: Patron Saint of Flight, at Indiana Dunes Visitor Center. I knew the Chanute name vaguely from the old Air Force base, but I couldn’t have told you then where the base had been located or why it was named Chanute. This sounded like a way to get in a visit to Indiana Dunes, learn something, and spend what might be otherwise a dull winter afternoon, depending on the weather.
The parking lot was unusually crowded, and when J and I walked in about a half hour early, a good-sized group was watching Shifting Sands: On the Path to Sustainability, a documentary on the history of Indiana Dunes and efforts to restore what can be restored. It’s meant to inspire, but it’s also tragic and depressing.
By the time Shifting Sands ended and Octave Chanute was scheduled to begin, the auditorium had filled up, even when extra folding chairs were brought out. Soon it was standing room only.
Simine Short, author of Locomotive to Aeromotive: Octave Chanute and the Transportation Revolution, and young director Paul Nelson introduced the film. I mention Nelson’s relative age because the audience was mostly 50 plus, possibly 60 plus, which disappointed me because I would like to see younger people interested in history. Of course, when I was younger none of my peers would have been interested, either.
The presentation began with some technical glitches (flashbacks to every high school A/V club everywhere!), but my ears perked up at the mention of the Portage Bridge, accompanied by a photo I recognized immediately. Through this film, I found out Octave Chanute was the engineer behind the much-loved railroad bridge over the Genesee River at Letchworth State Park in New York.
Known for his bridges, Chanute was called in when the original timber trestle, the longest and tallest wooden bridge in the world when it opened in 1852, was reduced to ashes on May 6, 1875, after a train had passed over (spark?). Chanute’s iron replacement opened only 86 days after the fire. According to Short’s book, the piers were rebuilt and the uprights and girders strengthened in 1880, “making the bridge better than new.”
Although modern Norfolk Southern trains were restricted to 10 miles per hour over the Letchworth gorge, Chanute’s bridge lasted until 2017, when the Genesee Arch Bridge opened. The state of New York declined the offer of the 1875 bridge, the last of which was demolished on March 20, 2018. I’d been fortunate to visit the old bridge one last time in 2015. When I’d found out about the premiere of this film, I’d had no idea it would take me back to perhaps the most iconic of my childhood memories. I remember walking along those tracks with my brother during one of his visits.
But wait! There’s more!
My ears perked up again at the mention of Kinzua Bridge. I’d found out about Kinzua Bridge State Park when I was looking up Kinzua Dam, another place I’d visited as a child, for my 2015 swing through Ohio, New York, and Pennsylvania.
It turns out that Octave Chanute was behind the original 2,000-foot-long Kinzua Bridge (or Viaduct), built in 1882 at 302 feet above the narrow valley floor. Short calls it Chanute’s “most spectacular bridge.” She adds that the bridge was rebuilt in 1900 “to keep up with the increasing volume and weight of the coal traffic.” Carl W. Buchholz redesigned the superstructure on the original masonry foundation piers.
By 1959 the viaduct failed safety inspections and was closed to commercial rail traffic. Restoration began in 2002, but in 2003 an F2 tornado “tore eleven towers from their concrete bases. Investigators found that the anchor bolts, installed under Chanute’s supervision, had rusted over the past 120 years.” Over time, the materials had failed the design.
After seeing this film, I’m even happier that I had the opportunity to walk out on what’s still standing of Kinzua Bridge and get a look at the remnants resting in peace on the valley floor. Even destroyed, Kinzua Bridge is indeed a “spectacular” sight.
Of course, most of the film was about Chanute’s contributions to flight and relationship with Wilbur Wright (rocky; Chanute was an open source kind of man and Wilbur believed in closely held information). What’s the link to Indiana Dunes? With their lake winds, elevations, and soft sand, the Dunes were Chanute’s choice for safely testing their experiments — the Kitty Hawk of the Midwest.
Octave Grill in Chesterton is named for Octave Chanute. Found out they serve a Chanute burger.
Oh, Auntie Em, there’s no place like home.
With a day off from work, temperatures in triple digits, and no air conditioning in my apartment (I’m a holdout), I decided Independence Day would be a great opportunity to go to the movies.
Choosing a movie is always hard. I don’t like urban, gritty, violent, inane, Disney, or Disneyesque movies, which doesn’t leave much these days except the occasional period drama or book adaptation, and even some of these (like the 2011 Jane Eyre) disappoint me.
J. mentioned Prometheus, but after reading the description I had an unpleasant vision — right or wrong — of Solaris with George Clooney. When I looked on Flixter, a movie called Moonrise Kingdom had scored more than 90 percent positive with both critics and moviegoers, and the plot seemed innocuous. So that’s what we set out to see.
Normally, going to a movie on July 4 is the last thing I’d think of, so I was surprised to find a good-sized crowd at the ShowPlace ICON Theatre on Roosevelt Road. I thought most people would be watching TV or entertaining in their air-conditioned homes or, if feeling especially heat resistant, cooking out in their yards or favorite parks. But many like us apparently decided to escape the relentless sun and heat in the dark coolness of a movie theater.
When the ticketing system asked us to choose our seats, we were surprised to find that the only seats left were a few in the front, those for the disabled, and a few scattered singles. Our only choice was to be on top of the screen. We wondered what was up because we’re used to these theaters being at most one quarter to one half full, even for a big movie like the first Sherlock Holmes directed by Guy Ritchie. When the lights came on at the end, we saw that there really had been a nearly full house.
First, I should admit that I’d never seen a film directed by Wes Anderson. I mention this because so much of the commentary online is focused on how Moonrise Kingdom is (or isn’t) a typical Wes Anderson film. I can’t agree or disagree with either position. Even if Moonrise Kingdom were just like every movie that Anderson’s made, at least it’s not a sequel or a period piece written, acted, and filmed according to today’s sensibilities. That alone gave it a leg up in my world.
If the title Moonrise Kingdom weren’t enough of a hint, the maps showing the location throughout and the stylishly clad narrator (Bob Balaban) who describes future events are strong clues that this is a fable that requires us to lay aside our expectations of realism or at least reality and to fire up what imagination remains to our adult selves.
Set in 1965, the story is centered on two misfit pre-teens, Suzy (Kara Hayward) and Sam (Jared Gilman). We’re taken on a tour of Suzy’s house and family as though it were a dollhouse and they the inhabitants whose lives are exposed from almost any angle — a sly acknowledgment of their unwitting role as subjects and our omniscient one as viewers. This is no ordinary house in an ordinary location. It’s part of a series of isolated and insular New England coastal islands, a world unto itself.
It’s raining to beat the band, and each family member finds a way to fill his or her time. The boys don’t watch TV or play Battleship; they listen to an educational recording by Benjamin Britton. At first Suzy turns her vision inward, reading one of her fantastically titled library books, then she picks up her binoculars to look outward toward the normally expansive world of water, now confined by rain and mist.
From this restricted and restrictive world of Suzy and her trapped family, we’re transported to the great outdoors and the equally restrictive, even hostile world of Suzy’s counterpart Sam — the Khaki Scouts. When the officious Scout Master Ward (Edward Norton) discovers Sam has gone AWOL, his Scouts consider the unpopular missing boy a “fugitive” and arm themselves accordingly.
For the rest of the movie, it’s Sam and Suzy vs. the dysfunctional adults around them. No matter how troubled the parents, scout leaders, police, and other authority figures may be, Sam and Suzy emulate their furrowed brows, he while smoking his short-stemmed pipe, she while sporting an eye makeup combination last seen on one of James T. Kirk’s alien conquests. The misadventures, some epic, that follow are never bust-a-gut, slapstick hilarious, but with a few gratuitously sad exceptions they are delightfully amusing. The audience soon finds itself guiltily on the side of a friendship so unfamiliar to the 12-year-old couple that they want it to be love and for it to last forever.
Too many directors fail to use the visual, kinetic possibilities of film, but Anderson isn’t one of them. His color palette evokes the popular Hipstamatic and Instagram apps, which in turn mimic the grainy, off-hue, decaying prints taken by cheap cameras decades ago. The characters and the camera are kept moving — away from one destiny and toward another. Many of the visuals, even the maps on which the fugitives’ progress is tracked, are memorable.
Each time you see Moonrise Kingdom, you’ll probably spot some new visual, verbal, or aural nuance. The performances are spot on, although I confess I didn’t recognize Bruce Willis as Captain Sharp. Newcomers Hayward and Gilman are the showstoppers, while Norton as painfully earnest and ineffectual Scout Master Ward never misses a beat.
For such a quirky film, the ending is predictable and conventional, yet still satisfying, while leaving the possibilities open. As Samuel Clemens knew, that’s the way childhood fables should end.
For people raised on Christmas movies like Scrooged and the live-action The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, or holiday releases like Happy Feet 2, Alastair Sim likely isn’t a familiar name or face. The Scottish actor, however, gave one of his best and better-known performances in a classic 1951 film that should appeal to both the Goth/emo generation and the Occupy Wall Street crowd — as Ebenezer Scrooge in Scrooge.
Directed by Brian Desmond Hurst, Scrooge isn’t the simple tale the Charles Dickens story has become in popular culture, with characters who can be played as easily by cartoon mice as by human actors. The world of Sim’s Scrooge is dark, creaky, and grim in the best tradition of monochrome film, with even a few film noir touches of interspersed light and darkness.
At Christmas, the world of the better-off poor (represented by Bob Cratchett, played by Mervyn Johns) seems bright and merry, dependent as it is on the little they receive from “men of business” like Scrooge. By contrast, Scrooge’s house is a nightmare of cavernous space dominated by dust, disturbing sounds, and impossible shadows. Even his door knocker appears to be possessed — and that’s before Jacob Marley’s face appears on it. If a bad bit of potato or cheese didn’t inspire Scrooge’s ghastly visions, the lonely austerity of his house might.
The story follows the standard plot, but Sim’s performance, those of the supporting characters like the undertaker and the housekeeper, and bright visuals of happier times and places contrasted with the stark reality of poverty and death keep the film moving. Sound is important; when Marley directs Scrooge to look upon the tormented, the music and sound work more effectively on the nerves than the visual. The pointing skeletal finger of the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come dominates the screen in a horrifying way — Scrooge and the viewer are compelled to look. The most haunting scene, however, is that of “this boy and this girl,” Ignorance and Want, emaciated, sickly urchins with deeply shadowed eyes who look like Death itself.
When most film versions of A Christmas Carol have come out, the huge divide between Victorian capitalists and the workers who supported their wealth seemed like distant history. Today for many, it looks more like history repeating itself.
While at Regenstein Library, I noticed a Doc Films poster showing City Lights (Chaplin) as the night’s feature film. Until then, I had had no plans. I called J., who was discovering that, unlike farmland, bank accounts don’t lie fallow until the farmer returns. He agreed.
He arrived bearing gifts — an enormous mixed bouquet (pink roses, miniature roses, tulips, carnations, and snapdragons with white mums) in a red vase with pink ribbon and a red scented candle. This was added to the five cards, including one to Hodge from “Celeste the cat,” postmarked Gary, Indiana. I find “Celeste” suspect, as I told J. No self-respecting real cat would use the phrase, “your owner,” to another cat. He disagreed, but he doesn’t know cats like I do. It was a cat who first said, “You are not the boss of me,” I’m sure.
I thought of going to the Dixie Kitchen and Bait Shop, in case it succumbs to the university’s new mission as urban planner and developer. The wait would be 40 minutes, which also seemed to be the time in line to pay the fancy new parking machines (one of which was broken). On the way to Medici on 57th (Plan B), we passed Salonica, which ended up being Plan C when I mentioned it to J. It’s the least romantic place on earth and therefore perfect for two friends on a budget (and he must have spent his on the flowers and candle). He came away $23 poorer (including tip), plus about $13 for a bottle of extra virgin olive oil. During dinner I regaled him with stories about Dr. Sadist. Isn’t that fun?
At Ida Noyes, City Lights was 2 for the price of 1, so $5 for both of us. I wondered who else would show up at a campus film society for a movie that’s almost 80 years old. Mostly couples, many young; several were like us — not so young. A few single young and middle-aged men and women were scattered about.
Of course, I can’t sit through even a 90-minute film without a couple of visits to the women’s room before and after. Much has changed at Ida Noyes Hall since I guarded the sports facilities and the towels — the Max Palevsky Cinema replaced the gym where I once watched Joey Ramone snorting and where the Hispanic Cultural Society held salsas. The pool is long gone, replaced, from what I could see, by underground offices, an elevator shaft, and many walls. But a certain strong mildewed odor of decay prevails — that hasn’t changed in 30 years. The strains of “Satisfaction” (Stones) from the Pub completed the scene. All I needed was a hint of chlorine.
Except for an access ramp, the women’s bathroom appears to be untouched by progress. The one new amenity I noticed was the condom dispenser (25 cents). The lubricated variety was sold out, while half of the non-lubricated awaited their moment of passion. I’m curious about how often it’s restocked. The third time I went downstairs, I met two girls but witnessed no purchases. I wonder how sales compare to those on the other side of the stairs.
Ever since I saw City Lights in a college silent films class, it’s been one of my favorites. Underneath all the absurdities of life are joy and sadness waiting to happen. Visually, it’s a brilliant film from the opening gag to the closing question. Why is a sword the most prominent feature of a statue dubbed “Peace and Prosperity”” — a sword that repeatedly sticks it to Charlie, so to speak?
I don’t belly laugh like I used — someday I must figure out why — but even just a few minutes in my face was wet. Each scrape is so perfectly framed and timed, from Charlie’s pantomimed critique of the nude statue that keeps sucking his attention and his flailing helplessly on the dance floor to his brief career as a boxer avoiding being hit. Laughter is contagious, and I was almost as charmed by the carefree giggles of the woman behind me as by the movie.
Of course, it’s the ending of City Lights that haunts the memory. The flower seller, once a few dollars from being both blind and homeless, yearns to hear every wealthy young man who walks into her flower shop speak with her unseen lover’s voice and afford to feel pity for her awkward, ragged “conquest.” As she recognizes his touch, they know that they have no future — not because she is a shallow, grasping ingrate, but because she has, thanks to him, moved to a different world, one that she aspired to and one that cannot trap his freer spirit. His expression reflects joy, hope, and recognition of the unmovable new barrier between them.
I think she will not see him at her corner again.
Although A Christmas Carol with Alastair Sim is my favorite film version of the Charles Dickens story, I’ve found myself enjoying the 1938 movie with Reginald Owen several times. Filling in for the injured Lionel Barrymore, Owen delivers some lines a little too hurriedly, but captures the essence of the crusty capitalist before, during, and after his transformation.
As a side note, this film mentions that the poor take their dinners to the baker. This was of special interest to me because Elizabeth Gaskell notes the same tradition in Cranford. My edition of the novel explains that the poor used the leftover heat from the baker’s morning production to cook. I don’t know if this is in the original Dickens story, but it’s wonderful to see a small insight into daily life like that in a contemporary book and then in a film produced nearly 80 years later.
This version of the film focuses on the differences between childhood and adulthood, children and adults. When the juvenile Ebenezer is left behind at school for the holidays, he explains haughtily to a departing friend that he is to stay to continue his studies and that Christmas and its traditions are for children. Barely out of childhood, he justifies his father’s edict with the grim resignation of an adult. When his sister Fanny comes to retrieve him after his father’s reversal of mind, Ebenezer responds with a delight that mirrors Fanny’s own. This scene serves as a glimpse into Scrooge’s formative years, when he is neither child nor man.
Earlier, both Scrooge’s nephew, Fred, and his clerk, Bob Cratchit, had been portrayed as men-children. When he comes upon boys sliding down an icy hill, Fred cannot resist taking a few turns himself, attracting the notice of two of the Cratchit boys. Then, on his way home, Bob Cratchit turns a snowball attack on his formal adult person into a lesson on the fine art of making the perfect snowball. When one of the street urchins announces, “Here comes a topper!” Cratchit gleefully impresses his young friends with the accuracy of his aim — knocking the top hat off his curmudgeonly employer. Within an instant, Cratchit is transformed from impish boy into a careworn — and unemployed — father.
When the Ghost of Christmas Past tries to take Scrooge away from the reawakened memories of his childhood and youth, he demands to stay, like a difficult child. At a party in honor of Fred and his fiancee, Scrooge watches a game of blind man’s bluff with the wide eyes of a child (and seems not to notice the couple kissing in the foreground). When the Ghost of Christmas Present tells him it is time to leave, he pettishly refuses, stamping his feet and pounding his fists like the child within himself he is rediscovering.
In contrast, the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come takes Scrooge to the relentlessly dark world of adulthood. With the death of Tiny Tim, the ebullient spirit of Bob Cratchit and his family is diminished if not lost. Scrooge’s own death brings out only the sarcasm and greed of the “men of business” who are his peers; Scrooge leaves no children behind to mourn him.
By the end, Scrooge finds his inner child, the spirit of openness, generosity, and even fun that makes the poorest of street urchins and the lowliest of clerks happier than he. In his new-found joy, Scrooge gleefully engages an urchin to bring him a prize turkey for the Cratchit table.
Christmas is a time for family and friends and for the unspoiled spirit and wonder of childhood. In this movie, Scrooge becomes a good, even a great man by opening his elderly heart to the child he had never been allowed to be. I would not be surprised if he broke Fred and Peter’s record slides on the icy hill.
I’m sure they’ve been around for a while, but I’ve only recently discovered free on-demand movies. I’ve never bothered with a DVD player or a service like Netflix, so this is a good opportunity for me to see old movies with frequent breaks to accommodate my inborn restlessness.
Over the weekend, I watched Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the 1941 version with Spencer Tracy, Lana Turner, and Ingrid Bergman. I wish I could remember the novel, but it has been decades since I read it. Even if the movie is not true to the book, it stands on its own as an interesting story.
I found the premise somewhat confusing; Dr. Jekyll seems to think that good and evil could be separated, although I’m not sure how the yelling man at the church service fit into this. He appears to be mentally ill (schizophrenia) rather than evil, and there are many worse crimes against humanity than disrupting a church service or interrupting the minister.
Like other fictional scientists of the 19th century, Dr. Jekyll experiments with the fundamental concepts of existence. Frankenstein creates life, while Dr. Jekyll tries to penetrate the secrets of the human soul.
According to Wikipedia, “Spencer Tracy’s performance in this film, out of all the performances he ever gave, was judged inadequate, and was one of his few critically roasted roles (Tracy was not considered frightening enough as Mr. Hyde, though he was quite good as Jekyll) . . . Tracy’s performance was routinely savaged when compared with March’s more monstrous version.”
My reaction was a little different. Tracy is not convincing as either a Victorian or as a scientist too ambitious to consider the ethical ramifications of his work. He doesn’t quite convey the single-minded devotion to his idea that is the hallmark of the mad, or nearly mad, scientist. The story line has him engaged to the Lana Turner character, although he is pointedly shown missing society dinners and functions with his fiancée and her father to indicate his commitment to his work. I’m not familiar with Tracy, but his Jekyll lacks an edge that seems vital to the character. He’s so bland that he doesn’t even seem to notice the very obvious advances of Ingrid Bergman’s barmaid/prostitute.
In this production, Hyde is more malicious prankster than personification of pure evil. While he is not handsome, he is not homely, either. The choice to use minimal makeup and effects makes Hyde even creepier than if he were shown to be a physical monstrosity, as he was in other versions. It is the combination of his words, his leering eyes, and his toothy smile that Ivy Peterson (Bergman) finds disturbing. Then, with much racy innuendo for 1941, she learns the painful way that he is not only a rapist, but a sadist who punishes her for the hatred he feels toward the man she loves — Dr. Jekyll.
The Victorians believed in physiognomy, the idea that outer appearance reflects inner temperament and character. This movie is better for eschewing this approach because a normal appearance encourages us to let down our guard. Unconsciously, we still expect a monster to act monstrously; we don’t expect a handsome, seemingly normal man like Ted Bundy to be a serial killer. Tracy’s Hyde dresses and looks like a gentleman, with a touch of something unsettling behind his eyes. While he is a prankster, slyly tripping a waiter and instigating a brawl, he is much darker, too, not only raping, beating, and murdering, but also gleefully gloating over the fear and loathing he inspires. His crimes are the culmination of the sadistic thrills that feed his existence. Ivy would rather die than live with the uncertainty of the depravities in which he may indulge. As I watched the movie, I did not experience a specific, all-out fear, but a more subtle, insidious, persistent anxiety, similar to Ivy’s.
Lana Turner is believable as the virtuous fiancée. She conveys the kind of sexuality that must have driven sexual tension in repressed Victorian society. When Dr. Jekyll says, “We love each other very much and want to be together,” his vision does not seem to be one of home, hearth, and family, the Victorian ideal, but of a sexy Lana Turner in his arms at last.
Unlike others, I was unimpressed by Bergman’s portrayal of the barmaid/prostitute, Ivy. In her first encounter with Dr. Jekyll, her rolling eyes and self-conscious smirks are hammy rather than naughty, flirty, or seductive. She can’t decide between her own accent and a lower-class English one. She also wavers between a tough-as-nails woman-of-the-street persona and a weak, naive one that finds Hyde’s depravities horrifying, perhaps even shocking. Her breakdown before Dr. Jekyll, as she asks for his protection, seems staged rather than spontaneous.
Despite the weaknesses in casting and performances, the flatness of the setting and atmosphere (which lack seediness and menace), and the glossing over of the ethical questions central to the story, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde still manages to disturb me and to remind me that horror doesn’t arise from what is seen and known, but from what is felt and anticipated. Hyde isn’t a monster because he’s ugly, physically deformed, and criminal; he’s a monster because our imagination gives him the power to frighten us with what he might do, and an ignited imagination is more powerful than any reality — or any film.