April 30, 2025

By Stuart Mitchner

I’ve always been interested in poetry and poets that show up in unexpected places. And, as happened recently with another national recognition month, I’d forgotten that April was National Poetry Month. Even so, given my sense of poetry as a gift not necessarily confined between the covers of a book, I inadvertently signaled the subject this month with pieces featuring a great poet named Charlie Chaplin (who W.C. Fields, a poet himself, called a “ballerina”); a lesser known “disappearing” poet (Weldon Kees); and the greatest of them all, on the stage or the page or in the air, William Shakespeare. The one sentence of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s I know by heart is from his essay “The Poet”: “The people fancy they hate poetry, and they are all poets and mystics.”

Tony Soprano a Poet?

Before poetry surprised me on the front page of Tuesday’s New York Times with a squib on Charlotte Brontë’s “A Book of Rhymes,” I was well into an article about being haunted by the actors, characters, and situations of 21st-century television series like David Chase’s The Sopranos, Matthew Weiner’s Mad Men, and Graham Yost’s Justified.

David Chase’s shocking cut-to-black never-ending ending of The Sopranos qualifies as poetry if only because it’s sudden and enigmatic, like a line of verse that keeps you wondering. Tony and Carmela and their kids A.J. and Meadow have met for a dinner out, Tony has set Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” playing “on and on and on” on the jukebox, as Meadow hurries in late after a clumsy parking job, adding a touch of everyday angst to the life-or-death tension that the family-meal atmosphere is already pulsing with, an undercurrent of dread thanks to mass audience apprehension energized and intensified by the song, as Steve Perry sings the words “Don’t stop” and James Gandolfini’s Tony gazes into the dark unknown. more

April 23, 2025

By Stuart Mitchner

An open pack of premium cigarettes was thus a centerpiece of Hindenburg advertisements.

—Edward Tenner

Even before I read about those advertisements in Edward Tenner’s new book Why the Hindenburg Had a Smoking Lounge: Essays on Unintended Consequences (American Philosophical Society Press $34.95), my interest in vintage cigarette ads had been stirred by a Broadhurst Theatre Playbill from 1934, three years before May 6, 1937, the day the Hindenburg crashed and burned on landing at Lakehurst N.J. Naval Air Station, killing 35 of the 97 passengers. By specifying the proportion of fatalities, Tenner leaves it up to us to assume that most of the victims were in the smoking lounge at the time (“under 7 million cubic feet of flammable gas”), a possibility underscored by a pointed reference to satirist Bruce McCall’s drawing of a Hindenburg prospectus showing a skeleton in an officer’s uniform asking elegant passengers, “Zigarette?”

The Playbill

Passed down by my parents, who once dreamed of writing Broadway plays together, the Playbill for Men In White, Sidney Kingsley’s drama about doctors, love, abortion, and medical ethics, features three cigarette ads in its 22 pages, the first a two-page spread wherein the “Warner Bros.” star Joan Blondell testifies to the “throat-ease and flavor” of Old Golds, my two-pack-a-day mother’s brand for life. Another two-page spread (“Get a LIFT with a Camel!”) shows two unidentified young women, one frowning (“Tired? Then light a Camel!”); the other smiling, radiant, cigarette in hand. On the back cover an older, fashionably dressed woman is saying, “Frankly, one of the chief reasons why I enjoy Chesterfields is the fact that I don’t get little crumbs of tobacco in my mouth.”  more

April 16, 2025

By Stuart Mitchner

The SOB is a ballet dancer, the best ballet dancer that ever lived. And if I get a good chance I’ll kill him with my bare hands.

—W.C. Fields on Charlie Chaplin

The talkies brought forth one great comedian, the late, majestically lethargic W.C. Fields who could not possibly have worked as well in silence…

—James Agee, from “Comedy’s Greatest Era”

I’d agree with Agee if I hadn’t just seen Fields at his flinching, cringing, fumbling, pugnacious, masterfully disoriented best in the 1926 silent The Old Army Game, which also offered actual visual details (cars, stores, streets, small town America) to compare to the period recreation in Paramount’s recent series 1923. Given Chaplin’s immense popularity in those days, it was interesting to watch his 1923 silent feature The Pilgrim alongside Taylor Sheridan’s brilliant prequel to Yellowstone at a time when theaters all over the country, including one in Billings, Montana, would have been screening the latest Chaplin. And since The Pilgrim opened in New York in late February 1923, I’m taking the liberty of installing it in a Times Square movie house on the day that 1923’s embattled heroine Alexandra Dutton arrived in America.

Ellis Island Ordeal

What tempts me to imagine The Pilgrim into the third episode of 1923’s second season (“Wrap Thee in Terror”), is the witty, charming, and altogether delightful woman portrayed by Julia Schlaepfer. Admirers of Paramount’s Golden Age star Carole Lombard will see a 21st-century throwback in Alexandra, which makes it even harder to watch her being brutally debased by three Ellis Island immigration doctors. Poked in the stomach, made to strip naked, treated as a pregnant adventuress, she braves the humiliation, and, in one of the great moments of the show, shames the last and harshest of the doctors by quoting the lines on the Statue of Liberty (“give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses”) and reading a passage from Walt Whitman as further proof of her literacy.  more

April 9, 2025

By Stuart Mitchner

…my first love, my darling.

—Isambard Kingdom Brunel on the Clifton Suspension Bridge

Born April 9, 1806, British engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel once claimed that the “most wonderful feat” he ever performed was producing “unanimity among 15 men who were all quarrelling about that most ticklish subject — taste.” He was referring to the panel of experts that approved his ambitious design for the Clifton Suspension Bridge in Bristol, the longest in the world at the time of its construction in 1831.

In a 2002 BBC Poll of the “100 Greatest Britons,” Brunel came in second to Winston Churchill and ahead of Princess Diana, Charles Darwin, William Shakespeare, Sir Isaac Newton, Elizabeth I, and John Lennon. While his contributions to English life were no more than bridges and tunnels, the Great Western Railway, Paddington Station, and numerous steamships, Brunel somehow managed to outrank William Blake (38); Charles Dickens (41); Florence Nightingale (52); Freddie Mercury (58); Charlie Chaplin (66); Tony Blair (67); Jane Austen (70); Geoffrey Chaucer (81); Richard III (82); J.R.R. Tolkien (92); Richard Burton the actor, not the explorer (96); and David Livingstone the explorer (98). The world-makers Blake, Chaucer, and Shakespeare aside, where are the poets? Don’t ask. Milton, Keats, Shelley, Coleridge, and Wordsworth, among numerous others, didn’t make the list.

What does a poll that places Margaret Thatcher (16) ahead of Queen Victoria (18) and Queen Elizabeth II (24) say about the state of that “ticklish subject taste” in England two years this side of the millennium? You can find the full list at geni.com (“Home of the world’s largest family tree”). Although I’m not here to praise the U.K. or to bury it, only to celebrate a bridge and its builder, my impression of the extremes on the list suggest a possible explanation for Mad Merry Old England’s fling with Brexit 14 years later.  more

March 26, 2025

By Stuart Mitchner

 I was willingly drawn into the whole scene, like a random character in a B. Traven novel.

—Patti Smith, from M Train

Mexico’s Mysterious Stranger” is the way James Agee characterized B. Traven in his February 2, 1948 Time review of John Huston’s film adaptation of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. I’ve been haunted by Traven’s multi-faceted invisibility ever since last week’s column on the “disappearing poet” Weldon Kees, who told a friend in his last phone call in May 1955: “I may go to Mexico. To stay.” My interest in Traven began in earnest on Albert Einstein’s birthday, March 14, Pi Day in Princeton, after hearing that Traven’s The Death Ship (Das Totenschiff), published in German in 1926, is the novel Einstein named when asked what book he’d take to a desert island.

The “American” Sailor

Apparently born in Germany in February 1882, the man who claims never to have laid eyes on his birth certificate died in Mexico City on March 26, 1969, a coincidence it’s hard to ignore on March 26, 2025 — which is why I’m reading Einstein’s desert island novel, subtitled The Story of An American Sailor. The fact that Traven himself translated the book into English helps explain certain peculiarities in the easygoing conversational narrative by a German castaway passing himself off as an American while casually referring to Cincinnati as a city in Wisconsin. Left behind by an American ship, without papers or passport, the sailor is shunted by various immigration authorities from Belgium to Holland to France to Spain, where he boards a massively devastated ship called the Yorikke, no doubt after the “fellow of infinite jest” whose skull Hamlet muses over prior to the “death ship” of Shakespeare’s ending.  more

March 19, 2025

By Stuart Mitchner

Nobody has seen or heard from Weldon Kees since Monday, July 18, 1955.

—Anthony Lane, in “The Disappearing Poet”

I was on my way out of the Bryn Mawr-Wellesley Preview Sale with $10 worth of books when I noticed a devastated Cedok guide to Prague on a table of discards. Although the back cover was detached, the book was full of information and photos from a time when Franz Kafka and his family were living in the Czech capital. Attached to the ravaged back cover was a large colorful fold-out map of Prague in first-rate condition, which I’ve been using to locate entries from Kafka’s Diaries 1910-1923 (Schocken 1975).

On March 14, 1915/2025 I found Kafka “in Chotek Park. Most beautiful spot in Prague. Birds sang, the Castle with its arcade, the old trees hung with last year’s foliage, the dim light.” Even if you can’t “be there” in 2025 by tracing his movement on a map, you can at least feel closer to the living, breathing, feeling, thinking man who began the same entry: “A morning: In bed until half past eleven. Jumble of thoughts which slowly takes shape and hardens in incredible fashion.” In the evening he goes for a walk with “the defensible but untrustworthy ideas of the morning” in his head. Struck by the phrase “in incredible fashion,” I looked up his most notoriously “incredible” work and found that Verwandlung (Metamorphoses) was published six months later in a journal and in December 1915 as a book.  more

March 12, 2025

By Stuart Mitchner

A few days ago I listened to Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra’s performance of Sergei Prokofiev’s Classical Symphony and have been buoyed by the joyous ambiance of this 13 minutes of music ever since. In the colorful image accompanying the piece on YouTube, Prokofiev is lounging on a cane chair surrounded by greenery, one leg casually balanced on the other, one arm slung over the back of the chair, holding a score he’s been working on, a pencil in his other hand. He’s dressed casually in a dark brown zippered jacket, and he’s looking good, touches of color in his cheeks, no glasses, in his thirties or forties, prime of life, and as in other photos from this period (see his wikipedia page), he looks more like a Russian David Bowie than the generic image of the severe, bespectacled composer.

Finding Out More

Hoping to find out more about this music, I drove over to Labyrinth Books and bought Claude Samuel’s Prokofiev (Calder and Boyars 1971). Next I plunged into my email archive and came up with a ten-year-old message from an old college friend telling me he’s been “on a Prokofiev kick” and thinks of him, fondly, as “Rachmaninoff Gone Mad.” After praising “his terrific and terrifically showy, piano music,” my friend says, point blank: “I hate the Classical Symphony.” more

March 5, 2025

By Stuart Mitchner

Now what is love, I pray thee tell?
It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell.

—Sir Walter Raleigh

(may i touch said he how much said she a lot said he)

—e.e. cummings

Raleigh’s poem “A Description of Love” begins and ends Pleasure and Repentance (Pergamon 1976), the Royal Shakespeare Company’s “Lighthearted Look at Love” created and compiled by former RSC Director Terry Hands. The subject of acting and actors, love and lovers brings to mind Sunday night’s Academy Awards, where Morgan Freeman delivered a memorial tribute to Gene Hackman (“Our community lost a giant, I lost a dear friend”) and four Oscars went to Sean Baker’s Anora, a zany throwback to the screwball comedy romances of Hollywood’s Golden Age.

My favorite Hackman film is Arthur Penn’s extraordinary neo-noir Night Moves (1975), which features one of his strongest performances as the driven, benighted, very human private eye Harry Moseley. At the moment, however, I’m remembering him as Harry Caul sitting alone in the wreckage of his room playing tenor sax at the end of Francis Ford Coppola’s The Conversation (1974). more

February 26, 2025

By Stuart Mitchner

When I realized last Saturday was George Washington’s birthday, I looked up former president Bill Clinton’s foreword to Shakespeare in America (Library of America 2013), which refers to Washington leaving the “legislative haggling” at the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia to see a production of The Tempest, which, as editor James Shapiro points out, was “based on the story of the wreck of the Sea Venture off the coast of Bermuda in 1609.” The 42nd president — who remembers a high school assignment requiring him to memorize 100 lines from Macbeth, among them “Life’s but a walking shadow” (“an important early lesson in the perils of blind ambition”) — makes sure to mention the time presidents John Adams and Thomas Jefferson visited Stratford-upon-Avon. Later in the book, as Abigail Adams recalls, Jefferson “fell upon the ground and kissed it” while Adams “cut a relic from a chair claimed to have belonged to Shakespeare himself.”

In the huryburly of February 2025, stories like these suggest a Monty Python sketch in which the current president and his entourage leave a wrestling match between Kit the Kat Marlowe and Will the Shake at the Kennedy Center for a production of Titus Andronicus at the Folger Library, but only if “that’s the play where some loser gets eaten in a pie.” more

February 19, 2025

By Stuart Mitchner

I see life in nothing but the certainty of your Love…

—John Keats to Fanny Brawne,
May 1820

When John Keats wrote about life and love to Fanny Brawne, he had less than a year to live. In a letter from Rome on November 30, 1820, his last, he told his friend Charles Brown, “There is one thought enough to kill me; I have been well, healthy, alert, &c., walking with her, and now — the knowledge of contrast, feeling for light and shade, all that information (primitive sense) necessary for a poem, are great enemies to the recovery of my stomach.”

Decades before eavesdropping on Keats, I was reading about the doomed romance of Abraham Lincoln and Ann Rutledge in a “young adult” biography. Curious to see how John Ford handled the story, I sampled his 1939 film Young Mr. Lincoln on YouTube and found that, thanks to Henry Fonda’s ungainly charm, Ford manages to suggest a romance without actually showing it.

Played by Pauline Moore, whose next picture was Charlie Chan in Rio, Ann has a basket full of flowers, Abe sniffs one, takes the basket and carries it as they walk along the river talking, she telling him he’s going to be somebody important someday, he poking fun at the idea, until they come to a stop and he takes a good look at her and says, with the tone of quietly awestruck discovery unique to Henry Fonda, “You sure are pretty, Ann.” Uncomfortably pleased, she lowers her eyes, and says “Some people don’t like red hair.” He looks at her and says “I love red hair” with a subtle, tender emphasis on the verb, so you know he’s just told her he loves her even if he doesn’t know it yet, but she knows it, smiling, holding out her hand to him, as if she might fall into his arms. Instead, she takes back her basket, and walks off. As he throws a thoughtful stone into the river, the hesitantly romantic soundtrack becomes dark and stormy, the river turns to snow and ice, and next thing you know he’s kneeling at her grave, putting some flowers on it, talking to her, not like a lover but as a poet communing with his spirit muse.  more

February 12, 2025

By Stuart Mitchner

Not often in the story of mankind does a man arrive on earth who is both steel and velvet, who is as hard as rock and soft as drifting fog, who holds in his heart and mind the paradox of terrible storm and peace unspeakable and perfect.” With these words the poet and Lincoln biographer Carl Sandburg began his address to a joint session of Congress on the 150th anniversary of Abraham Lincoln’s birth, February 12, 1959.

Sandburg made sure to mention some hard truths up front, including the fact that early in his administration, Lincoln “took to himself the powers of a dictator.” As commander of “the most powerful armies till then assembled in modern warfare,” he “enforced conscription of soldiers for the first time in American history. Under imperative necessity he abolished the right of habeas corpus. He directed politically and spiritually the wild, massive, turbulent forces let loose in civil war.” And after failing to get action on compensated emancipation, “he issued the paper by which he declared the slaves to be free under ‘military necessity.’ In the end nearly $4 million worth of property was taken away from those who were legal owners of it, property confiscated, wiped out as by fire and turned to ashes, at his instigation and executive direction.”

On a key date in Black History Month, whether you’re thinking 1959 or 2025, it’s striking to hear emancipated human beings referred to as “property confiscated.” No less striking is the idea of a poet addressing a joint session of Congress in the same room that would be overrun by a lawless (recently “emancipated”) mob during the January 6, 2021 insurrection.  more

February 5, 2025

By Stuart Mitchner

Let the devil play it!

—Franz Schubert (1797-1828)

The finale to Schubert’s Wanderer Fantasy, based on his song “Der Wanderer,” has been described as “technically transcendental” with a “thunderous” conclusion. It was also infamously difficult to play, so deviously demanding that Schubert himself reportedly threw up his hands during a recital and yelled “Let the devil play it!”

I’m beginning this article on Schubert’s birthday, Friday January 31, looking ahead to the Wednesday, February 5 birthday of William Burroughs (1914-1997), who ventured into “Let the devil play it” territory when he linked the killing of his common-law wife Joan Vollmer to “the invader, the Ugly Spirit,” which “maneuvered me into a lifelong struggle, in which I have had no choice except to write my way out.” According to his introduction to Queer (Penguin 1985), Vollmer’s death during the drunken William Tell fiasco of September 6, 1951, opened the way to his breakthrough work Naked Lunch — if you believe him when he says he’d never have become a writer “but for Joan’s death.”

In a January 1965 Paris Review conversation reprinted in Writers at Work: The Third Series (Viking Compass), Burroughs frames the killing in the context of guns and gun violence in Mexico City, recalling it, as if offhandedly, “And I had that terrible accident with Joan Vollmer, my wife. I had a revolver that I was planning to sell to a friend. I was checking it over and it went off — killed her. A rumor started that I was trying to shoot a glass of champagne from her head, William Tell style. Absurd and false.”

He can’t say “I killed her” or even “it killed her.” Just “killed her.” The suggestion that “it just went off” is coming from a lifelong gun owner; witnesses at the scene not only agree about the William Tell scenario but remember Joan jesting just before the shot was fired: “I’m turning my head; you know I can’t stand the sight of blood.” more

January 29, 2025

By Stuart Mitchner

McKinley hollered, McKinley squalled
Doctor said, “McKinley, death is on the wall…”

Bob Dylan put President McKinley back in the national consciousness a few years ago in his song “Key West (Philosopher Pirate),” taking the first line from Charlie McCoy’s “White House Blues,” except in McCoy’s version the second line was “Doc said to McKinley, ‘I can’t find that ball,’ “ meaning the second of two bullets fired at close range into the president’s abdomen on September 6, 1901. It happened at the Temple of Music on the grounds of the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo. McKinley died on September 14, 1901, a hundred years to the week of the September 11, 2001 terrorist attack on the World Trade Center.

A New York City surgeon named Charles McBurney, whose discovery of the diagnostic spot for appendicitis is known as McBurney’s Point, was blamed for misleading the press and public with his claim on September 10 that McKinley was “out of danger.” McCoy lets him off the hook by simply having the Doc say “Mr. McKinley, better pass in your checks / You’re bound to die, bound to die.”

After the current president put McKinley’s name back in play on January 20, I checked history.com, which says the highest peak in North America was actually first named Mount McKinley in 1896 by a gold prospector celebrating McKinley’s recent capture of the Republican nomination for president; the name stuck and became official in 1917. In 2015, the Obama administration renamed the mountain Denali, a name the Alaskans had historically championed, which translates “roughly to ‘The Great One.’ “ more

January 22, 2025

By Stuart Mitchner

There’s a big hole in the world now that he’s no longer with us. But, as he would say, “Keep your eye on the donut and not on the hole. It’s a beautiful day with golden sunshine and blue skies all the way.”

—from the announcement of David Lynch’s death

If David Lynch were still delivering daily weather reports on his YouTube channel, and if he’d lived to see Inauguration Day, his January 20 forecast would have ended with his usual cheery, heartfelt “golden sunshine and blue skies all the way” closing line, topped off with a smile and a vigorous salute, regardless of the actual weather in L.A. or D.C. Unfortunately, actual earthly weather in the form of the Santa Ana winds driving the wildfires devastating his city forced the mandatory evacuation of Lynch’s home on the night of Wednesday, January 8. The timing and the circumstances were, as some online bloggers have noted, “Lynchian.” Not only was the director of Mulholland Drive living adjacent to the street that gave his most celebrated film its title, he was homebound, seriously ill with emphysema, and in need of “supplemental oxygen for most activities.” Even though the evacuation order was rescinded the next morning, the damage had apparently been done. Less than a week later, Lynch’s family announced his January 15 death.

Smoking

David Lynch may not have been the master of his fate, but he clearly understood that the cause of his poor health had to do with something more personal than weather. “Smoking was something that I absolutely loved but, in the end, it bit me,” he told Sight and Sound magazine in September 2024. “It was part of the art life for me: the tobacco and the smell of it and lighting things and smoking and going back and sitting back and having a smoke and looking at your work, or thinking about things; nothing like it in this world is so beautiful…. Meanwhile, it’s killing me.” more

January 15, 2025

By Stuart Mitchner

Blowing through the buttons of our coats / Blowing through the letters that we wrote / Idiot wind / Blowing through the dust upon our shelves….” The next lines, and the last, of Bob Dylan’s song are “We’re idiots, babe / It’s a wonder we can even feed ourselves.”

If the Dylan of Rough and Rowdy Ways truly contains multitudes, “we’re idiots” means everybody. In his 2004 memoir, Chronicles: Volume One, Dylan claims that his 1975 album Blood On The Tracks was “based on Chekhov short stories,” a reference that resonates in the Chekhovian sensibility behind that line. It’s said that Dylan’s revised the lyric over the years, but however you read it, the wording covers a lot of beautiful and unbeautiful universal ground, not just the relationship between the singer and his wife.

Meanwhile the idiot writing this column has been busy for days on an article about the new film A Complete Unknown. Besides being fixated on New York in January 1961 when the city was buried in snow and you could ski on lower Fifth Avenue, I’ve been staring over my shoulder at the devastation the idiot winds of Santa Ana have inflicted on my wife’s Pacific Palisades homeland. more

January 8, 2025

By Stuart Mitchner

I was crazy about The Great Gatsby, Old Gatsby. Old sport. That killed me.

—from The Catcher in the Rye

I woke up from a nap five minutes before midnight, turned on the TV, and there was Times Square packed with Happy 2025-top-hatted, rainwear-cloaked revelers under a delirium of color that swarmed into futuristic formations every time I blinked my eyes. At first the signs were meaningless, nameless, wordless, New Year’s Eve on Mars, like a vision of the place I loved as a 14-year-old seen through the eyes of old Rip Van Winkle emerging from a showing of A Star Is Born on a rainy night in 1954. What does it mean, all this dazzling stuff? Where’s a familiar face? Where’s Judy Garland? Where’s any legible meaningful remnant of lost New York? Then, wonder of wonders, a floodlit sign for The Great Gatsby comes into view on the first day of the novel’s 100th year, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s masterpiece is in lights, and Broadway makes 20th-century sense again….

Now it’s as if Times Square is being submerged in Francis Cugat’s hallucinatory cover art for the first edition of Gatsby, that deep all-consuming blueness descending on the rainy chaos of celebration, two narrow witchy eyes with golden neon pupils peering above an emerald teardrop and the red lips of a siren, luring us between the covers to one of Gatsby’s epic parties where “men and girls” are coming and going “like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars” while “the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors and hair bobbed in strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile.”  more

January 1, 2025

By Stuart Mitchner

I am forced to the appalling conclusion that I would have never become a writer but for Joan’s death…

—William S. Burroughs

A book of great beauty and maniacally exquisite insight with a wild and deadly humor

—Norman Mailer on The Naked Lunch

Joan Adams Vollmer. (Wikipedia)

Dreaming of another fantastical New Year’s Eve party like the Harpo Marx/Charlie Parker/Times Square centenary blast I arranged for 1911/2011, I checked celebrity births for 1924 on the Notable Names Database (NNDB: “Tracking the Entire World”), and found a star-studded cast headed by Marlon Brando, Lauren Bacall, and James Baldwin, with supporting players like presidents George H.W. Bush and Jimmy Carter sharing a table next to one occupied by country singers Chet Akins and Slim Whitman. For comic relief, you’ve got Brando’s buddy for life Wally Cox (Mr. Peepers), Carroll O’Connor’s Archie Bunker (All in  the Family), Dr. Strangelove’s Terry Southern, and Twilight Zone’s Rod Serling, not to mention Bill Dana (“My name José Jiménez”) and Don Knotts (“Are you nervous?”) from the Steve Allen Show, plus Norm Alden, the coach who drowned in a bowl of chicken noodle soup on Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman.

Okay, let’s set this year’s party at Birdland just up Broadway from the Royal Roost, site of the 2011 celebration. Among jazz stars born in ‘24, there’s alto saxophonist Paul Desmond (runner up to Charlie Parker in the 1954 Downbeat poll), trombonist J.J. Johnson, pianist Bud Powell, drummer Max Roach, trumpeter and arranger Shorty Rogers, and tenor man Sonny Stitt, plus songs by Dinah Washington, the Divine Sarah Vaughan, and Doris Day, who got her start singing with Les Brown’s Band of Renown. At the ringside table with Brando and Cox are  Marlon’s co-stars Katy Jurado (One-Eyed Jacks) and Eva Marie Saint (On the Waterfront). Fresh from Paris and Rome, respectively, Charles Aznavour (Shoot the Piano Player) and Marcello Mastroianni (La Dolce Vita) are being interviewed by Truman (In Cold Blood) Capote, who is covering the Farewell ‘54 celebration for The New Yorker.  more

December 25, 2024

By Stuart Mitchner

One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time.

—F. Scott Fitzgerald

My preferred Santa of the moment is the one trudging up the Union Square subway stairs on the cover of the December 16 New Yorker, a heavy red bag slung over his shoulder, one hand on the railing, snow falling. I like the noirish urban darkness of Eric Drooker’s image, the way the Con Ed building is framed, the fading portrait of a beloved city against a blank sky. I also like the touch of mortal menace. Will Santa make it to his next stop before he’s mugged or run down by a drunken driver?

The Poetry of Gatsby

The epigraph I’ve used here comes from F. Scott Fitzgerald and may sound routinely autobiographical, but is actually crucial to The Great Gatsby, which will celebrate its centenary next year. Nick Carraway’s line about coming home from college at Christmas sets the stage for the concluding reference to Gatsby’s dream, “which must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.” That’s where the poem that is The Great Gatsby truly ends; the two short paragraphs that follow, about the “orgastic future” and “boats against the current,” are prosaic and workmanlike by comparison.  more

December 18, 2024

By Stuart Mitchner

One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other.

—Jane Austen (1775-1817), from Emma

According to A Book of Days for the Literary Year, the week of December 15 begins with the publication of Emma, a day before Jane Austen’s 40th birthday in 1815. Emma Woodhouse’s comment about a divided understanding of the world’s pleasures, spoken soon after she herself disastrously misunderstands a courtship charade, has me thinking about Authors, the card game that my parents and I played when I was a boy. The fact that Jane Austen had been overlooked by the creators of the game (the only female being Louisa May Alcott) naturally didn’t occur to me, although when my wife and I played Authors with our son decades later, her absence was front and center. How could they leave her out, a question that had serious resonance on the Christmas morning I gave my wife illustrated editions of Persuasion and Mansfield Park.  more

December 11, 2024

By Stuart Mitchner

If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.

—Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

In the opening sentence of Franz Kafka’s unfinished novel Amerika (New Directions), the Statue of Liberty is holding aloft a sword instead of a torch. There are disputes online about whether this was unintended or intentional. Not to worry. With a writer as infinitely suggestive as Kafka, errors can have prophetic consequences, and since he has, in effect, arrived in post-election America for a centenary exhibit at the Morgan Library & Museum, some interesting connections are already in play, notably Barry Blitt’s New Yorker cover depicting a very nervous, verge-of-vertigo Lady Liberty walking a tightrope.

It’s also worth mentioning that the November 11 issue is centered on “The Home Front,” an article subtitled, “Some Americans are preparing for a second civil war.” A few days ago my wife and I watched Alex Garland’s dystopian fantasy Civil War. The week before, we saw London being spectacularly bombed in Steve McQueen’s no less devastating Blitz just as we were also finishing Josh Zetumer’s Say Nothing, a searing miniseries about “the Troubles” in Northern Ireland. more

December 4, 2024

By Stuart Mitchner

While England endeavors to cure the potato-rot, will not any[one] endeavor to cure the brain-rot, which prevails so much more widely and fatally?

—Henry David Thoreau,
from Walden (1854)

The epigraph comes by way of the first Arts page in Monday’s New York Times. At least once or twice every year, the Newspaper of Record throws out a line that hooks me. Picture a Dr. Seuss-style fisherman, perhaps the Cat in the Hat, dandling a brain-rot lure as a Dr. Seuss fish leaps out of the water, grinning idiotically while I’m thinking “This is not how I meant to begin a December 4 column on Franz Kafka; no, this is not what I meant to do, not at all, not at all.”

Probably Kafka would love it. As would Frank Zappa, who died on December 4, 1993, having accomplished among many more notable wonders a track called “The Chrome Plated Megaphone of Destiny” on the Mothers of Invention’s third album, We’re Only In It for the Money (a travesty of Sgt. Pepper that memorably pictured four grossly alluring “Mothers” instead of John, Paul, George, and Ringo). In his liner notes, Zappa claims that “The Chrome Plated Megaphone of Destiny,” with its electronic crackling and screeching, is intended to give “a musical approximation” of Kafka’s “In The Penal Colony.” more

November 27, 2024

By Stuart Mitchner

The day after I wrote an article on Elon Musk referencing his first and foremost “life lesson,” that “empathy is not an asset,” the New York Times came up with a front page that instantly connected with my post-election state of mind. Lead head: “Chop First and Fix Later: How Musk Tames Costs.” The story directly beneath: “Trump Stands by Defense Pick Who Denies Sex Assault Claim.” Directly under that: “Robots Still Lack Human Touch in Warehouses.” And just below came two smaller heads previewing stories in the Business section: “Social Media Veers Right” and “Spirit Files for Bankruptcy.”

While the “spirit” in the story is a low-fare airline, what stands out in the current news cycle is the primary meaning of the word as understood by James Agee, who was born on this day in 1909. In his biography James Agee: A Life (Penguin 1985), Laurence Bergreen underscores Agee’s “eloquent” response to the April 12, 1945 death of President Roosevelt. Writing in The Nation, Agee celebrated Roosevelt as someone whose passing would inspire men with a “metaphysical yet very literal faith” in a “unanimity and massiveness of spirit.” Bergreen adds that Agee “perceived the same massiveness of spirit among Southern blacks.” more

November 20, 2024

By Stuart Mitchner

The television adaptation of Elena Ferrante’s My Brilliant Friend (Europa 2012) made its HBO debut on November 18, 2018. After watching the concluding episode of the fourth and final season on November 11, 2024, my wife and I sat in stunned silence, feeling as if we’d just seen an unquestionably great film in spite of a pandemic-mandated two-year “intermission.” It didn’t matter that we’d had to rewatch some of the third season to catch up with the tangential characters, events, and relationships. What made it possible to appreciate the film as a single unified work of cinematic art was the evolution of the extraordinary friendship suggested by the title. All the other characters and plotlines and subplots were ultimately and necessarily secondary, “supporting” in every sense of the word. Postwar Italian history, politics, communism, fascism, drugs, family life, black marketeers, local color — nothing compared in significance to the relationship between Rafaella “Lila” Cerullo and Elena “Lenù” Greco. more

November 13, 2024

By Stuart Mitchner

On Election Day, I began reading Walter Isaacson’s biography of Elon Musk (Simon & Schuster 2023) along with The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, which Samuel Taylor Coleridge first conceived during a walk with William Wordsworth on November 13, 1797.

Early Reading

Coleridge’s tale came to mind while I was reading the chapter about Musk’s early reading habits. As a teenager pondering “the meaning of life and the universe,” Musk found nothing helpful in philosophers like Nietzche, Heidigger, and Schopenhauer (“I don’t recommend reading Nietzche as a teenager”). His salvation was science fiction, novels like Robert Heinlein’s The Moon Is a Hard Mistress and Isaac Asimov’s Foundation Series, about sending settlers to a distant region of the galaxy “to preserve human consciousness in the face of an impending dark age.” More than 30 years later Musk claimed that the Foundation Series was fundamental to the creation of SpaceX, whose stated goal is “to build the technologies necessary to make life multiplanetary.” Says SpaceX Chief Engineer Musk, “This is the first time in the four-billion-year history of Earth that it’s possible to realize that goal and protect the light of consciousness.”  more

November 6, 2024

By Stuart Mitchner

Writing on Sunday, November 3, I’m trying not to worry about the state of the nation on Wednesday, November 6. The backyard is painted yellow gold with leaves; the bird baths, front and back, are thriving; the new birdfeeders are wildly popular, and we’ve had a month of classic autumn weather — if you don’t count the drought. But I might as well be on “Dover Beach” with Matthew Arnold, the night-wind on my face on a sunny afternoon, the closing lines like one long sentence — “the world which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, not certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; and we are here as on a darkling plain swept with confused alarms of struggle and light, where ignorant armies clash by night.”

How about going with something a little lighter but dark around the edges, like Bob Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower” (“let us stop talking falsely now, the hour’s getting late”) — or else “Desolation Row,” even if Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot are “fighting in the captain’s tower.” Funny, as much as Allen Ginsberg admires Dylan, he complains about that line on allenginsberg.org because “Eliot and Pound were friends.” Hey, this is Bob Dylan, this is what he does, he mixes things up, so does Pound, who didn’t ride to the rescue of The Waste Land with gentle suggestions: he struck the lance of his pen deep into the heart of the first page. Otherwise we’d have something called  He Do The Police In Different Voices.

OK, we’ll mix vintage Ezra with some buoyant electric bass from the Grateful Dead’s Phil Lesh, who died late last month. Lesh’s playing on “Dark Star” and “Alligator” kept me going as I tried to read The Cantos and early troubadour poems like “Na Audiart,” which reads like a verse translation of Lesh’s bassline, with the Dead putting the pulse of life into Pound’s refrain “Audiart, Audiart.” more