Featuring...
Presidents Day?
February is the oddest month of the year. Though only 28 days---excepting for the quirky Leap Year--- it houses a combination of rote rituals and "must-see" events. No need to list them. I think we all know what they are. Hint: the first one takes place on February 2nd. Though on a more serious, interesting, historical note, it is Black History Month. So designated since 1926, it often reveals unknown people of significant achievement.
(e.g. Bessie Coleman (1892 -1926). The first licensed Black pilot in the world. She wasn’t recognized as a pioneer in aviation until after her death).
And then of course, presidential election years are kicked off with the absurdities of the Iowa caucus and New Hampshire primiary. Both of which often take place in weather that even a polar bear would shun. And right out of the gate, these small exceedingly white-peopled places, can make or break a candidate. Except when they do neither. Like last year. Which is all a segue into one---from out of a managerie---of my pet peeves. Presidents Day.
In days of yore when I was in high school, Washington (February 22) and Lincoln's (February 12) birthdays, were separately celebrated holidays. The former, national...the latter, state. We got both days off in my NYC public high school, no matter where they fell within the week. College was a different story. It always is. We only got Washington's birthday off, with the assumption that Lincoln was also along for the ride.
When the Uniform Monday Holiday Act became law in 1971, so as to create three day weekends, Washington and Lincoln got swept up into a dust bin called Presidents Day. Some lawmakers had objected to doing this, arguing that "grouping George Washington and Abraham Lincoln together with less successful presidents, minimizes their legacies." I concur. And using the phrase "less successful" is being kind to say the least.
In the early days of Presidents Day, one would still automatically think Washington/Lincoln. Fifty years later, I wonder if new genrations realize the original intent of the day and how it came into being. My sense tells me no. History is hardly being taught in schools any more (The New York Times Magazine Decline and Fall of Teaching History). Presidents Day to them means just that. They presume that it encompasses all of them. The good, the bad and the ugly. And now, even the last guy is part of that club.
There was a time when the presidency was considered to be an honorable position. Even though we've had a bumper crop of incompetence and corruption, aye noteriety, in the oval office throughout our history. Buchannon, Johnson (Andrew), Jackson, Tyler, Pierce (whose Secretary of War was Jefferson Davis), Harding, Nixon, to name a few. Zachary Taylor was merely exceedingly mediocre (Great Hollywood name though).
But who really walks around thinking about presidents on Presidents Day? Except maybe when you realize, "Shit. My bank is closed." Or, wonder why your mailbox is bare. "Oh yeah, Presidents Day."
Let's go back to it being the celebration of Washington's birthday. Ok. He had slaves. (But as the "Father of Our Country," he must have been nice to them, no?). Or, what about Lincoln? Or eliminate it altogether. Add a holiday in its place elsewhere on the calendar. Call it...uh, Save Democracy Day. Call it something. Do it. And don't worry. The mattress sales will follow.
Quote of the Month
The Queen's Gambit: On and Beyond the Board
Recently, the hottest thing on Netflix was the mini-series The Queen’s Gambit. So hot, that it would come to set a record as “the most-watched scripted limited series on Netflix.” I came late to the party, having only watched it over two months following its initial airing. So bear with me if you've seen it. It was reported that 62 million, out of the almost 200 million member accounts wordlwide, tuned in.
62 million!? To a story waist-deep in chess? A game (sport? art form?) that even “out-niches” poetry readings? A game that causes nary a ripple in our culture; high, low or no brow?
The long ago exception coming in 1972 when Bobby Fischer beat Boris Spassky for the World Chess Championship.
“Pawn Sacrifice,” an indie movie starring Toby Maguire and Liv Schreiber, captured that short-lived chess mania so well. (MuseLetter October 2015, Chess: An Obsession, The Cold War and the Madness of Bobby Fischer).
Yet one need not know a thing about chess, to be captivated by The Queen's Gambit (TQG). Not be aware that a Sicilian Defense is not a strategy John Gotti’s lawyer once used in court, but the name of a favored chess opening.
Its popularity no doubt arises from the fact that the world of chess forms but a backdrop to a classic theme: the overcoming of all odds and obstacles to find oneself, and then go on to triumph. Though this time around, that story is uniquely told.
But no doubt, it is doubly satisfying if one does know the game. Which I do, having gone through spasms of obsession with it at various points in my life. So much so, I once played in a couple of mini 4-person tournaments by mail. Almost fifty years ago. No computers or social media back then of course. And carrier pigeons, were on the way out.
The heart would sometimes pound while approaching the mailbox in anticipation of an opponent’s postcard response to my last brilliant move. I know. Get a life. It is within this context that my commentary follows.
In the beginning there was…
The Book
TQB is based on a novel by Walter Tevis, written in 1983 (he would die a year later). It’s about a female chess prodigy (and more) in the 1960s.
Other works by him had been turned into successful movies. Notably, The Hustler, The Color of Money and The Man Who Fell to Earth. Who knew.
I decided to read it prior to viewing the mini-series. I’ve always been curious to see how the transformation from page to screen is handled, as they are such divergent forms of creative expression. And it is so easy to go astray. (“Bonfire of the Vanities,” anyone?).
It’s a page turner. Beyond a compelling story, it offers a fasiniating look at chess
when played at the highest levels. To achieve that goal, legendary chess coach Bruce Gandolfini was brought in to serve as a consultant. Therefore every tournament game depicted in the book, can pass muster with even a Grandmaster. Gandolfini would come to reprise that role when it would be turned into the mini-series 37 years later. This time, he would be aided by Gary Kasparov; arguably the best to ever play the game.
Unique to TQG---aside of course, with using Master/Grandmaster level chess as a backdrop--- is that this story is told by way of a female prodigy, Beth Harman. Who first learns and becomes emersed in the game at age 8. (Some prodigies start as early as 4. Invariably, they are boys). And it follows her life passage, from childhood to adulthood. With skidding through a rough patch along the way. Hence, it’s a bit surprising that it would have been written by a 55-year old man.
The challenge here in turning it into cinema, is two-fold: 1) How do you make a game of chess visually compelling? Especially for those who don’t know a Rook from their elbow? Even the writer/director of the mini-series, Scott Frank, has said that “To make chess cinematic is impossible.” (That's encouraging). 2) How do you convey the thoughts and thinking process Beth Harmon goes through in the course of a game? At least without resorting to voice overs? Which can wear thin after a while, and start to seem as if a crutch?
The Mini-Series
The resultant 7-part series follows the book very closely. Many lines of dialogue are transferred directly to the screen. To Scott Frank’s credit. Though some brief scenes in the book are omitted. Which is common.
Where to start.
You begin with the casting and the performance of the lead actor. Here, as with poet Amanda Gorman (see first piece), we have another dynamic young woman before us: Anya Taylor-Joy. Age 24. One critic hails her as “the hottest young talent in Hollywood right now.” (I never got the tweet, text, or email).
In the lead role of Beth Harman, Ms. Taylor-Joy is dazzling. In looks and performance, she alone solves the two aforementioned novel-to-screen challenges.
The most defining feature of Anya’s portrayal of Beth, is her glare. Which one critic described as “studious, placid and fierce.”
Spoiler alert. Beth Harman develops a drinking problem along the way. Which explains the poster layout below. And that glare is shown in action in the final championship game
I think that look alone is Golden Globe worthy. And in every gesture and facial nuance by Ms. Taylor-Joy, we know exactly where Beth Harman is in her life and in her game. Whether she's on top, or losing; on and off the chess board.
A critic from The New Yorker however, carped that making her so attractive is a “fatal flaw.” The stereotypical profiling here I suppose, is that such an attractive, and young woman could never reach the level of a highly-ranked world chess player. Which I would call chauvinistic if that critic wasn’t a woman. It’s the old shibboleth: pretty women aren’t smart…smart women aren’t pretty. Ergo, someone like a Beth could never exist in the real world.
So let us debunk that right now.
Behind Taylor-Joy’s performance, stands a solid supporting cast. And a shout out here to Isla Johnston, a 13-year old actor who had previously only been in two movies. She plays Beth as an 8-year old, and with a precision defying her years, plants the seed for the troubled character we will see later.
Then there's the sets and lighting. They enjoin to create whole characters in themselves. Some of which come full circle.
Mixed in, is a smattering of special effects. A translucent overhead upside down chess board, illustrates what's going on in Beth's head as she visualizes games, and contemplates her next moves.
And all underlaid with a soundtrack that mixes an original, often moody score by Carlos Rafael Rivera, in concert with an array of pop songs. They play a role in helping to identify where the story is at the moment chronologically. They include “Don’t Make Me Over” (Dionne Warwick), “Venus” (Shocking Blue), “Jimmy Mack” (Martha and the Vandellas), and my favorite, “You’re the One” (The Vogues). This last serving to illustrate how disenfranchised Beth is from other girls her own age.
And finally, there’s the imaginative costuming. Beth's wardrobe is often suggestive in some way of chess itself. Its personification comes in the closing scene (again spoiler alert), following Beth’s championship win using the Queen’s Gambit opening. And as she walks a street in Moscow on the way to a park immediately following her victory, she is now in effect, the queen of chess.
As all these elements had come together, it reminded me of a musical ensemble playing in unison. Yet, each getting a solo to come to the forefront and shine. It’s a credit to Scott Frank in his role as director, to focus on character development. Especially with Beth. It's chess. It's a mini-series. You're allowed to take your time. He’s not about trying to push the actors into dramatic flourishes to try to make chess sexier. He entrusts that to production design. And that crew delivers.
Though six hours and thirty-three minutes long in its entirety, there’s never a lull. Never an extemporaneous scene that might have been cut. This is as close to perfectly conceived and executed cinema, I’ve experienced in a long while. Though I might be biased, what with being an afficionado of both chess and angst.
As the late Larry King would often write in his column following one of his recommendations, ”Go see it. You’ll thank me later.”
Word of the Month
hiraeth (hi-raeth)
noun
A Welsh word pronounced [HEER-eyeth]
No direct English translation, but closest…
1. A deep, wishful nostalgic sense of longin for home; a home that is no longer
or perhaps never was.
2. A yearning and wistful grief for people and things long gone.
Used in a sentence
As he got up in years, his hiraeth to return to New York became more pronounced.
Inaugural Poetry: The Young and the Old of It
A star is born. Through poetry? Apparently.
Amanda Gorman, in her sweeping, stunning and highly praised poem on the state of our union, The Hill We Climb, describes herself and the moment, as such:
Where a skinny black girl
Descended from slaves and raised by a single mother
Can dream of becoming president
Only to find herself reciting for one.
At 22, she is the youngest inaugural poet in U.S. history. Though that history is rather sparse. There have now been only six such readings, requested by just four presidents. The first was not until 1961 at the inauguration of our 35th President, John F. Kennedy. Another 32 years would go by until Maya Angelou’s recitation of her commishioned poem, On the Pulse of Morning, at Bill Clinton’s first inaugural. Later, came another new poem for Clinton, then two for Obama and now Biden.
I distinctly remember JFK’s inauguration on January 20, 1961. Or at least the imagery of it, (which we would now call “the optics”), on an old black & white---need I say bulky--- TV.
Slowly approaching the podium, came 86-year old Robert Frost with hair as white as the snow as in... "the woods are lovely dark and deep." He was to recite a poem he wrote for the occasion, as personally requested by Kennedy. It was entitled Dedication, which I only learned recently.
However, as he began, it was obvious he was having trouble what with the glare of the sun, and the wind of that cold winter’s day ruffling the pages in hand. So he improvised. And instead, recited from memory a poem he had written twenty years prior, The Gift Outright.
An American icon, Frost is still read and recited. Mostly, in literary circles. Poetry has long since become a niche art form in America. Though Kennedy was a firm believer in it.
Kids are no longer spoon fed it in school as we were, wincing as if swallowing a dose of castor oil. Yet at key moments in life, often ritualistic---weddings, memorials, celebration of achievements and consolation in tragedy---it gets dusted off to try to bring some deeper meaning and understanding to the moment.
A great example comes at the conclusion of President Reagan’s moving speech written by Peggy Noonan after the Challenger exploded that January of ‘83. He closed with a couple of lines welded together from the poem High Flight by John Gillespie Magee, a World War II fighter pilot and poet. In a cruel twist of irony, Magee was killed in an accidental mid-air collision over England in 1941.
“We will never forget them, nor the last time we saw them, this morning, as they prepared for their journey and waved goodbye and ‘slipped the surly bonds of earth’ to ‘touch the face of God.'”
Last month, it was Amanda Gorman’s turn to try to make some sense of the conflicted state we're in, by way of an extensive narrative poem interspersed here and there with rhyme. Throughout, she would accompany certain lines with the delicate movement of her hands, as if leading an orchestra through a soft passage. Her poem has been described as... "hopeful and realistic. It comes with the promise of greater unity, yet addresses the current divisions in the country." Which just two weeks prior, had gone violently across the divide.
One critic noted on Gorman's performance, that “after four years during which language was debased---when it meant anything at all---she offered a fortifying tablespoon of American plain-spokenness.” To which I might add, in pitch-perfect cadence. Interestingly, she like Biden, also had a speech impediment during childhood. And now standing before us, a young woman as beautiful and aticulate as the lines she has written.
It was a work, a performance, a presence that was in unison with Biden’s inaugural address. Which was highlighted by his firm declaration: “Democracy has prevailed.” By all accounts, it was the best speech of his 50 year political career.
So now Amanda is a star. Not a Lady Gaga-sized star---she in a striking-red gown that knew no bounds, and sang a National Anthem that sent a chill up the spine --- but try this on for size:
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Gorman’s two books, The Hill We Climb and Change Sings: A Children's Anthem, have topped the Amazon and Barnes & Noble bestseller lists, and they won’t even be commercially available until this September!
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She picked up 300,000 Twitter followers instantly.
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She’s in much demand on the TV circuit. A cultural sign that this is someone to whom attention should be paid.
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Celebrities are agog over her, with tweets coming in from Oprah, the Obamas, Hillary, Stacy Abrams, Lin-Manuel Miranda, Bette Midler, Leslie Jones, Reese Witherspoon, etc. Some with references to Maya Angelou.
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And she's gotten job offers from colleges to be a poet-in-residence or teach. She herself graduated cum laude from Harvard just last year.
Reflecting on her moment, literally in the sun, I could not help but form an “inaugural arc” spanning 60 years. From that first poetic incantation by Robert Frost, who was older than God, to that of Amanda Gorman, whom I have socks that are older. Apples and oranges? Of course. But that’s one of the wonderful things about poetry, it gives license to traffic in making connections where none at first glance might seem to exist.
It will be interesting to see how long this sudden interest in verse is sustained. In the mean time, oh, the places she'll go.*
* Like signing with IMG, a heavyweight modeling agency. And this just in. She will be reciting a poem honoring three American heroes who have have also been named honorary captains at the Super Bowl pre-game show on Feb. 7. Something unprecedented in the alternative universes of football and poetry.
finito
Stale Mates
Curse the gods that
have fixed this lonely
centurion at this point
in time and space wreaking
havoc on the universe,
casting a shadow on the
orbit of Casandra spinning
in and out of control.
Unwittingly, the white
pawn blocks the path of
the anxious black queen
hell-bent on checkmate;
the sound of the ticking
clock a deafening roar
threatening to devour
her in one swallow.
Were not the moves
fated to flow from a
grand design, a churning
kaleidoscope of shards
of the past, but all the
same, a sequence of
squares each lighting
the way to another?
Patterns of black and white
defining the boundaries of
not only what was possible--- at
worst a draw by mutual concent.
And now an endgame that no
one wants, compelled to be
played on without resolution.
Ron Vazzano
pre November 2018
muse-letter \’myüz-‘le-tər noun
1: a personal message, inspired by a muse of one's own creation, addressed to a person or organization, in the course of which, the sender becomes absorbed in thought; especially turning something over in the mind meditatively and often inconclusively.
2: a letter from a poet, or one who envisions oneself as such, in which he or she “muses” on that which is perceived to be news, or newsworthy, usually in some ironic or absurd way.
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