Lone Soldier…Fallen Hero

Earlier today I found myself submitting a blog entry in honor of the death of Ingmar Bergman, a man whose work has influenced me greatly but to whom I have had no direct connection throughout my life. While this tends to be a forum for my thoughts on film and other arts, it seems foolish to go without mentioning a good friend of mine who the world lost a year ago, Michael Levin.

Mike was a friend of mine back at Council Rock High School, where we sat next to each other in geometry our Junior. But that, of course, was to be our least exciting aspect of that year. From February to April of 2001, we went on the same trip to Israel with the Alexander Muss High School in Israel. It was an intense eight-week program in the middle of the school year that followed a rigorous curriculum of Israeli and Jewish history, from the Torah to today. We also had tutors keeping us up to speed with our American studies. Mike and I had the same tutor for Geometry over there, which was just a little bit of a joke for the two of us. We just had too much fun.

We were all greatly moved and changed by that experience in Israel, though anyone that went on the trip could attest to the fact that Mike was affected on a more profound level. When we came back, there were a few of us who remained in yarmulke and tzit-tzit (the fringes that hang from your shirt), but as the weeks strained on back in our trendy, suburban, overwhelmingly Jewish public school, we all fell back into routine. Not Mike though. His mind was made up during the trip about how he would live the rest of his life.

Many of us considered making Aliyah and moving to Israel, serving in the Army, and making a life in the Jewish homeland. But for many of us, the allure of an American college experience won our hearts over. Of course, not Mike. He told us his plans all along, to move there after High School and join the paratroopers, an elite unit of the Israeli Defense Forces. We of course ragged on him, for we weren’t sure yet how serious he was. His Hebrew, like our own, was inadequate for most things let alone taking orders in the army.

Mike was also seemed an awkward fellow at times back then. He was obsessed with dance films, especially those with Julia Stiles that were so popular in high school. He even knew a number of ballet positions. Whenever this subject came up a macho button inside of me would go off, but the joke was always on me. Talking about dance always got him the best girls. Always. For his ability to climb most anything put in front of him, his nickname on the trip was Mogley, which matched perfectly to his curly hair.

After high school we all went our separate ways and tried our best to keep in touch. But with Michael in Israel, at first as a student and then as a citizen, he and I grew far out of touch. I have always regretted this, but I figured once we all settled and the tumult of college and army were through, there would be plenty of time to catch up on those lost years.

While my close friend Kevin, who was like a brother to Michael, was on a trip to New Orleans with his campers last summer, I called him to say hello, taking advantage of precious cell service outside of the camp. He was excited to announce “I’ve got Michael on the other line!” and then connected us via conference call. He was back home in Holland, PA, cutting his leave early to go back and join his unit as war had broken out in Southern Lebanon. He was leaving the next day for Israel. As usual, he was of few words, even though I hadn’t spoken with him in many months. I had to press him for information on his life, for there was nothing glamorous about it to him. It was just his own life. When he told me why he was heading back, I said two things to him: “Be safe. Kick some ass.”

Now, this is about the point where the Michael we all knew ends and the legend begins. I do not mean this as an insult to his memory, for everything that happened in the ensuing weeks is very true. I simply mean to say that a lot has been written on Mike, and much of it focuses on these last two weeks. It is so compelling that it almost seems like a storybook, and not the guy we knew. All I’ll say more on this is that he found a way to force himself back to his unit in Lebanon.

On Monday night, July 31st last year, I spoke with my parents who had just come from an Israel rally at a local synagogue that was packed to the gills with around 1000 people. Rockets were raining down on northern Israel by the hundreds every day, causing major cities along the border to evacuate and send their citizens to bomb shelters. This was war as I had never seen in my lifetime in Israel. This was what the Israeli Defense Forces gear up for. This was why Mike joined the military: not to fight for the sake of fighting, but to defend the Jewish state. And so in the suburbs of Philly, a crowd of a thousand stood and cheered as Michael’s family was announced. The family of a local boy fighting for exactly what we all we wished we could fight for. my parents told me how excited the whole community was for him. That Monday, Michael went into Lebanon.

On Tuesday, August 1st, I opted to shirk my evening responsibilities at the camp I was teaching filmmaking at and head out to the town of Milford, which boasted a single really nice coffeehouse. Toting my New York Times, I ordered a cup of joe and looked forward to relaxing in its aromas before taking that first delicious sip. Then my dad called with the news of Michael’s death. I had almost prepared myself for this terrifying news, but I still could not wrap my head around it. I had spoken to him a few weeks before. We were to catch up and get together later, after the war.

His death was followed by a media frenzy. He was the first American killed in this conflict, and his life story was so compelling that no one could resist it. His parents receive letters by the ton telling of how his story touched so many lives. By the end of the week he was on the front page of every paper in the country. But his friends grieved together, without all that noise. It was almost, even at that dark time, entertaining to see what facts were real and which fabricated in all the stories from around the world, especially the spelling of his name and his age.

This past March I finally went to visit him in Israel, though sadly it was at the Har Herzl Cemetery, Israel’s equivalent of Arlington National. Here is a retelling of a trip there I wrote after returning to the states in March:

Our schedule was incredibly packed, but we wanted to make sure we went to Har Herzl a few times since that was the main reason for our trip. Midway through however, we had only been there once. So Wednesday night, after returning from dinner at a friend’s in Maccabeam, we hopped a cab directly to the cemetery. When our cab driver told us we’re crazy because it’s closed, we told him we have a friend in there. He went on to drop us off by the museum end of the mountain. Did he think our friend was Theodore Herzl himself? There were light showers in Jerusalem all day, but at this time the rain had stopped. The cabbie made a u-turn and dropped us off at the proper point. This had been my second time to Mike’s Grave and Kevin’s third since he was at the funeral. On our first time on this trip, Mike’s friend Baruch led the way to the grave, and Kevin could hardly recognize the place from the funeral as there were so many people around that day. Suffice it to say, we were alone on a damp night with only some clue as to where to find the proper grave. It all felt rather, I don’t know, “Scooby-Doo” I guess, but we managed to retain our composure and keep the solemnity of the place. So we passed through the main gate and made our way to the first stairway. After some discussion, we figured that was the proper way to go. So we both placed a single foot on the first step leading into the cemetery ready to begin our way up the dimly lit stairs, when, suddenly, all of the lights at Har Herzl went out at once with a bright blue flash. Thunder began to rumble from behind the mountain and the rain started again. There we were, in the middle of a cemetery at night in the rain with no lights anywhere. We reacted in the only logical manner, we bolted in the opposite direction for the gate and back out to the street hysterically laughing. We just couldn’t contain ourselves any longer. Thank goodness no other families of soldiers were there to witness this silliness. But we both knew, without saying it, that Mike would certainly join in our laughter were he outside the gates with us. More likely than not, he was laughing at us from within the gates. We finally contained ourselves and made it back to his grave as the rain came down harder. There was much silence between us. When we came with other people, we would share stories about Mike, but not this time. This time was much more personal. We just stood there and thought about him. I took some photos, something I had hesitated to do before making this trip. It felt inappropriate to take pictures of a friend’s grave, until I realized that it is so helpful for those who cannot make this journey to visit him so often. Not to mention Mike had his big SLR strapped around his neck everywhere we went on our trip to Israel in high school. We stood in the rain until we felt we didn’t need to stand there anymore. We returned the next day in sleet and snow for our final visit before leaving Jerusalem. I guess Mike wanted to make sure we would have stories to tell.

I know this is running on and meandering and such, but it’s so hard to organize so many thoughts on one person. To many people, Michael’s story and tragic end make him a hero. But I can honestly say, without pouring on the cheese at all, that he was a hero of mine well before he went to battle, before he joined the Army, before he moved to Israel. We have a song that we sing at the Passover Seder, “Deyeinu”, “It Would Have Been Enough…” during which we recount all the things G-d did for us and how we didn’t even need everything. Mike, as that wiley character I knew and respected and loved and laughed with in high school, would have been enough. But of course, Michael Levin strove for so much more.

Remebering Bergman

”probably the greatest film artist, all things considered,
since the invention of the motion picture camera,”

 

-Woody Allen on Ingmar Bergman, 1988

“Ingmar Bergman, the “poet with the camera” who is considered one of the greatest directors in motion picture history, died today on the small island of Faro where he lived on the Baltic coast of Sweden, Astrid Soderbergh Widding, president of The Ingmar Bergman Foundation, said. Bergman was 89.”

I make no claims to be an expert on the films or life of Ingmar Bergman. In fact my viewing of his work has gaping holes in it, sadly. Still, I know enough to have been greatly influenced by his films in both the ways I look at cinema and how I myself try to create.

Much has been said on the man and much more will be written, and I’m sure in due time there will be more traveling prints of his work available, though retrospectives on the man have never been in short supply. But I’d just like to throw in a few of my own words on the man.

The first Bergman film I’d ever seen was “Autumn Sonata” in college. It took so long for me to come around to him as Ingrid was the only Bergman we usually watched in my house growing up. I was enchanted right away Nykvyst’s delicately haunting camera and Liv Ullman’s ranged performance. But of course, it was Bergman’s orchestration of all the elements that had the greatest effect on me. It was one of those “I didn’t know we could do that moments” for me, when I noticed there was more to cinema than I thought there could be. It remains on my short-list of favorite films of all time.

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I had begun to write about my favorite films of the man, but I must say there is little room for reflection at this time. I must go back and seek out those films I love and those I have not yet exposed myself to. Which I of course encourage to all.

He was an artist like no other, and perhaps his greatest film was still pending, but he left us with a repertoire so vast and incredible, we’ll forgive for not having made it.

 

Review: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows/the full HP Cycle

In the summer of 2002, after the release of Chris Columbus’ screen adaptation of the Sorcerer’s Stone, I vowed not to see the film until I attempted reading the novel. After completing the first paragraph I became hooked. I devoured the novel with every free moment and sought out the subsequent sequels. The past three novels I have purchased upon their release and made every effort to finish them diligently. This seventh and final installment was the one I was able to complete faster than any of them, probably because of a need inside to reach the end sooner rather than later. It may also be, perhaps, that this one will probably rank as my least favorite in the series once I go back and re-read/rate each one. That coveted prize belongs to the third book, Prisoner of Azkaban, which is also my favorite film for unrelated reasons.

But onto the last book of the cycle.

I was hoping for “Return of the Jedi” and alas, I was delivered “A New Hope”. This refers to the introduction of Luke Skywalker in both films. By “Jedi”, our final installment of that great mythology, Skywalker is a warrior, a formidable foe doing gymnastics and pulling mind tricks left and right. These books are quite long and this is the seventh of the series, coming in just shy of 800 pages. For goodness sake, J.K., why is Harry still such a dweeb? We have seen all of this before. We watched him learn of his near-royal past; we witnessed his first kiss(es); we saw him struggle with his crown of thorns amongst doubters of his importance; and we have seen him struggle with his friends and elders. Call me old fashioned, but by now he should be ready for anything, he should be Skywalker, John McClane, Man-With-No-Name, Odysseus.

Part of what causes this issue is that, as many will forget, this is still a children’s book. There was a time (Azkaban) when I considered these novels high literature, exploring parts of the human psyche that other works dared not venture. I still feel that way about much of the cycle, but now is the time for closure, and the soon-to-be-oft-cited example of “The Sopranos” proves that audiences rebel when closure is not given. So Ms. Rowling has offered a book of answers. Answers to nearly every question you have, and everything Harry has misunderstood through his tenure at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

What turns out to be most unfortunate in the end is that Harry is the least interesting character of the series. The most interesting throughout has been Severus Snape, which also plays out in the films. But just like in the films, he hardly gets any air time. And an even more unnoticed character whose layers could possibly fill volumes is Narcissus Malfoy, mother to the dastardly blonde Draco. Then there’s the relatively unseen Aunt Petunia, who’s commonly suggested arpeggio turns out to be just the same boring note. As the audience, we are given the unfortunate viewpoint of Harry, while a more omniscient narrator could have given us so many more opportunities to understand this world.

Of course, as the novel winds down, we see Harry the hero, fully aware of his powers and his purpose. This where Rowling proves her powers an action writers. She builds these scenes toward the end of the book, what I will call the last night of the book as not to spoil the fun for you readers, up to a glorious climax. This is where the right information is withheld so that we can keep on the edge of our seats whilst reading the book right up to the bitter end.

There is a lot at stake with this novel. The audience for this novel is so wide that there is no way Rowling can keep everyone happy at once. Like a great cartoon, the kids will be happy but the adults may actually understand it. What’s so fascinating about this series is that while the audience and the main character have grown up together, the prose hasn’t. There is a definite progression to the deeper and darker side of things through each installment, however, the writing itself remains extremely simple and direct with a wide-ranging vocabulary. It may in fact be one of the best SAT study tools out there. This is rather unfortunate as an 8-year old who became hooked on the first book would have recently graduated high-school, already having consumed “To Kill a Mockingbird”, “Beowulf”, and “The Sound and the Fury”, yet this final act is written for that same 8 year old.

I say all of these things because I can. In her genorosity, Ms. Rowling dedicated the novel to me and all others who stuck with Harry this whole time. Well with that I respond that I wanted more. The plot is all there, the story makes perfect sense, and I’m certain somewhere Joseph Campbell is smiling. But still, J.K., you created this beautiful palette of characters, spells, and plotlines, and in the end you took it and gave us exactly what everyone wanted: facts. I was hoping this go-round we could get even deeper inside. I suppose we’ll just have to wait for the spinoffs.

Coming soon…”Hermione’s Head”

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I also want to talk briefly about what these books are all about. The series is so British, and in this novel more than any of them, the focus is World War II. Time and place is always important in such things, and readers would be fascinated to learn that the series does not take place in our own times, a fact that has never been apparent before this novel. Harry’s parents died on Halloween of 1981, at which time he was not yet a year old, making the books take place roughly from 1992-2000, in which case it would seem as though it may serve as post-cold war struggles, but alas, the WWII mood is undeniable in my eyes.

There is an indescribable evil sweeping throughout the land, and the only way to stop it is to stand up in favor of goodness and right. As with everything else about the book, I wish Ms. Rowling took more advantage of this relationship. We Yankees tend to forget what the 30s and 40s were for Europeans. We watched from across an ocean in horror, but our lives were hardly affected through most of Hitler’s reign. Whereas much of London’s greatest architecture was destroyed during the war, and there was a very real possibility that one’s children may be raised by the Third Reich. The stakes are just as high in Harry Potter in which the Wizarding world is fighting not just for it’s own survival, but for it’s existence with Muggles, or the non-magic folk for those unaware of these terms.

Of course, as the book touches on but never resolves, there are other magical races to take into account besides wizards. This is one of those points of the book that is so poignant yet hardly ruminated upon as we must get back to the story to keep the kids entertained. My personal favorite to deconstruct are the Goblins, who I find to be the Jews of the story. (although there is one wizard who pops up with a name like Adam Goldstein or something for no apparent reason) I remember feeling a bit uneasy the first time Harry goes to Gringotts Wizarding Bank to find the goblins running the show. Both in the book and their cinematic counterparts (pictured right), they physically share many characteristics with the worst of anti-semitic propganda. Big nose, beady eyes, fangs, and stodgy stature. We learn in this novel not only that they not only keep the bank secure, but that they are rather greedy creatures who will not uphold their end of business agreements. Did someone say Shylock?

I’m not accusing the author or the publishers of any wrongdoing, simply not enough doing to resolve these other wizarding races’ lots in life. If good did prevail and evil has been vanquished, than can Muggle and Wizard live side by side? Who cares, when Giant, Elf, Goblin, and Centaurs haven’t yet worked their respective shit? If the climate over in Europe since WWII, and on our own shores, has taught us anything, it’s that the real social battles had only begun. Let’s hope the next book from the 136th richest person in Britain addresses these pressing matters.

I’m Back

No reviews, nothing too much important to say here, so I’ll make it quick. Those of you who knew me back in film school knew that I had a knack for tearing deep into a work that I found flawed or incomplete. During the formative years of my film education I simply found it more rewarding to point out the problems and holes in a film in hopes of learning how to avoid them myself.

However, for about the past year, I came to find this method far too negative, and ultimately a bad influence on my own karma or what-have-you. So I began latching on to the positives I could find and exploring those aspects; seeing what it was in films that I was unable to create myself that was so fascinating, even if other aspects of the work suffered or were non-existent. It is this that has brought me so close to the summer blockbuster, that has made me bask in the bright glory of the summer 2007 BO returns.

No more.

After the “Simpsons Movie” (for I’m positive the horrors this movie will hold may be too great for even my powers), I vow to return to my initial form of cinematic deconstruction. No prisoners will be taken, not even the venerable Tony Scott. I’m busting back like Voldemort out of a Horcrux kids.

So to my three devoted readers: don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Review: Woody Allen’s “Mere Anarchy”

 
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From the back cover

I have ben spending much of my time studying the works of Woody Allen. It’s not n easy task as his directing tally creeps closer to 50 and his writing credits have become innumerable. Once upon a time comedians wrote for a living. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that people devoured what it was that comedians scrawled across magazines, newspapers, short compilations, and of course, the great American novel. Woody Allen fit into this mix back in the days of yore, and he hasn’t really ever taken a break. He remains an hilarious thinker and quick tongued funny-man, with an endless grab bag of one liners that keep the chuckles coming.

I made the foolish mistake of reading this latest compendium in (practically) one sitting. I found it at B&N yesterday afternoon and decided to tear through it in time to read “Deathly Hallows”. Each short story was enjoyable, but I found myself trudging through some of them, leafing to the next break to see how much longer until a new face appears. That being said, I thoroughly enjoy most of the stories. The first five or so had me rolling on the floor. As I said, moving through became a little less fun, but there are certainly worse things out there to peruse.

In Sidney Lumet’s “Making Movies”, the filmmaker posits the question to Arthur Miller why he would prefer the theater if his first novel, “Focus”, which predates his subsequent successes, had every bit of strength as his stage stories. The writer replied something to the tune of loving the collaborative process. If for Miller it was camaraderie that kept him under the lime-lights, then it seems to be the pressures of films that keep Allen on the silver screen and off the bound page. When one is cutting checks in the millions for bagels and knishes on an overseas shoot, one damn well better hope to hell the script is in order.

Here, Allen lets loose and sets himself up to fail. And I promise, some of these shorts are failures. But it’s so wonderful to see the visionary branch out to territory he is not ready to do on the big screen. He is fairly detached from some things he writes about, but you can see he has done research enough to keep the facts straight. One of the book’s biggest mistake’s is a segment called Surprise Rocks Disney Trial. As we are all well aware, Mr. Allen is an east coast New Yorker no matter what locale he may find himself living in. This is an LA story he’s trying to tell, mocking the politics of the big bad Mouse House. Written as matter-of-factly as a stenographer would likely have taken the exchange down, a big mouthed Mickey Mouse takes the stand and quips about his animated friends. This is the stuff of adult swim wannabe kids who got a copy of Flash for Christmas. Where it does succeed is in seeing the master filmmaker try out something he is not known to do.

The novel really flies in segments that have hard boiled detectives or down on their luck actors. The names in the book are almost all hilarious in themselves. Names like Mealworm and Fleshpot. It is in the hard boiled tales like Tandoori Ransom and This Nib for Hire that he really flies. One must keep a thesaurus close to keep up with his witticisms, which at times feel like overblown intellectualisms, but in actuality, as one may find in his films, are a mile-a-minute pastiche of observations of this thing we have called pop culture all this time. While “Family Guy” rises in popularity for Dallas references or Margot Kidder appearances, Allen understands the interconnectedness of all things art. That is why he can write a rare cookbook in the style of Friedrich Nietzsche in Thus Ate Zarathustra(“Man is the only creature who ever stiffs a waiter.”), or call upon Dostoevsky to quip of the doomed future of a three-year old denied a decent pre-school in The Rejection. He recognizes that we all share one community, and what is pop now is simply an old trick taught to a new dog.

I’ve long said that I love Allen’s films because even when I see a bad one, I leave the theater happy. The same rings true for this book. While he may not be changing the industry or making it on any bestseller lists, he’s writing better than many others out there. He writes like frog sit on lily pads, it’s just in his nature. I’ve heard people accuse him of still working simply for the sake of it, rather than actually making a great film or novel every time out. To them I say piss off. There is no denying that Woody will continue creating until he is taken from us. We must simply enjoy it while can, for there will never be another like him.

 

  

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