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B is for Baghdad

In the next millennium, Baghdad was captured by various groups, including the Fatimids, the Mongols, the Ottoman Turks and finally the British.

When I was growing up, Baghdad sounded wonderfully exotic and ancient. After all, it was in Mesopotamia, that area between the Tigris and Euphrates, which is “widely considered to be the cradle of civilization.”

The meaning of the city’s name may be a “Middle Persian compound of Bag ‘god’ + dād ‘given’, translating to ‘God-given’ or ‘God’s gift’…A less probable guess has been Persian compound Bağ ‘garden’ + dād ‘fair’, translating to ‘The fair Garden.’ Regardless of the derivation, I had believed for some time in my youth that there was a literal Garden of Eden at one point, and it was located somewhere around there.

While the city’s roots date back to ancient Babylon, as a settlement as far back as 1800 B.C., in 762 A.D., “the caliph Al Mansur commissioned the construction of the [modern] city… Mansur believed that Baghdad was the perfect city to be the capital of the Islamic empire…In its early years, the city was known as a deliberate reminder of an expression in the Qur’an, when it refers to Paradise.” So it may have been the perfect place in the three major monotheistic religions at different points.

But in the next millennium, Baghdad was captured by various groups, including the Fatimids, the Mongols, the Ottoman Turks, and finally the British in 1917, during World War I. In the spring of 1941, a coup was launched against the pro-British Kingdom, replaced by “a pro-German and pro-Italian government”, but two months later, “the Mayor of Baghdad surrendered to British and Commonwealth forces.

“On 14 July 1958, members of the Iraqi Army under Abdul Karim Kassem staged a coup to topple the Kingdom of Iraq. King Faisal II…and others were brutally killed during the coup. Many of the victim’s bodies were then dragged through the streets of Baghdad.”

Baghdad prospered for a time, but war, first a nearly nine-year struggle with Iran and then a brief conflict in 1991 and a considerably longer war starting in 2003 with the United States and its allies “caused significant damage to Baghdad’s transportation, power, and sanitary infrastructure.” (And no parade for the US troops coming home is imminent.)

There was this 1987 German movie called Bagdad Café, which I saw at the time. “The film is a comedy set in a remote truck-stop café and motel in the Mojave Desert. The plot is centered around two women (Marianne Sägebrecht and C. C. H. Pounder) who have recently separated from their husbands, and the blossoming friendship which ensues…With an ability to quietly empathize with everyone she meets at the café, helped by a passion for cleaning and performing magic tricks, Jasmin gradually transforms the café and all the people in it.” It was a charming film; here’s the principal song from the movie, Calling You by Jevetta Steele, the soundtrack of a Roger Ebert dream about Illinois cornfields after one of his surgeries. The film was made into a short-lived 1990 US TV sitcom starring Jean Stapleton and Whoopi Goldberg.

Somehow, the notion of Baghdad as a place of greater understanding and cooperation appeals to me. I don’t know if the performer here is from Baghdad, but he is from Iraq and has a wonderful, hopeful story. And there’s seldom too much hope.

ABC Wednesday, Round 10

BOOK REVIEW: Life Itself by Roger Ebert

“Most people choose to write a blog. I need to.”

Fairly early on in my reading of film critic Roger Ebert’s memoir, Life Itself, I decided that, if I were ever to write my own autobiography – not that I necessarily would – it should be modeled on this book. Organized thematically, with an overarching, but not strict, chronology, using short chapters (55 in 420 pages).

But I’m probably not going to write mine because I doubt I could be so descriptive. Ebert remembers things from his childhood that would have eluded me writing about mine. More importantly, though, he writes with incredible honesty. The very first line encapsulates the sensation: “I was born inside the movie of my life.” Yet, though known as probably the premiere movie critic of his time, he got the job “out of a clear blue sky,” and without much thought that it would be his life’s work.

Since I’ve started following him on various movie review TV programs, initially co-starring the late Gene Siskel back in the late 1970s, Roger Ebert has had a distinctive and intelligent voice when speaking about the cinema. But since just before the illness that has silenced his speaking voice, and turned him into what he described as looking like the 1925 version of Phantom of the Opera, his commentary on other aspects of life has proven to be extraordinary. And it all started with his blog:

“My blog became my voice, my outlet, my ‘social media’ in a way I couldn’t have imagined. Into it, I poured my regrets, desires, and memories…The comments were a form of feedback I’d never had before, and I gained a better and deeper understanding of my readers. I made ‘online friends’, a concept I scoffed at. Most people choose to write a blog. I need to.”

Ebert writes about family, growing up Catholic, race, and, naturally, a lot about writing. He explains how he collected places, in London, Venice, and elsewhere, that he would come back to again and again; now that he can’t visit physically, he can still experience them in his mind. Alcoholism – his mother’s and his own – is discussed thoroughly; 1979 marked the beginning of his sobriety.

He discusses several Hollywood legends, but my favorite chapters of those are about directors Martin Scorsese, whose first film is a touchstone for Ebert; and Werner Herzog, with whom he has a spiritual bond, though not in a theological sense. Perhaps not coincidentally, they are all about the same age.

Then there’s the chapter about Siskel, his TV partner, with whom he had a complicated but ultimately fraternal relationship of love and respect. It was Siskel’s agent who packaged them together, suggesting that they be seen together, which made their presence more distinctive.

Most HIGHLY recommended! (Great Christmas present.)
***
Reviews by Alan David Doane and Jaquandor.

MOVIE REVIEW: My Week With Marilyn

Thinking of the slender Williams as the voluptuous Monroe was not something I would have considered.

My Week with Marilyn was based on a couple of non-fiction books first published in the late 1990s. The Wife and I saw the film last Saturday at the Spectrum Theatre in Albany, NY.

In 1956, Sir Laurence Olivier (Kenneth Branagh) is directing and starring in the movie ‘The Prince and the Showgirl’ in London. He hires American film icon Marilyn Monroe (Michelle Williams) to costar with him. The 30-year-old MM, accompanied by her new, third husband, the playwright Arthur Miller (Dougray Scott), is a sensation to the crowds in England. But artistic differences make the filming frustratingly slow for the director, and stressful for the actress. Marilyn befriends the third assistant director, essentially gofer, 23-year-old Colin Clark (Eddie Redmayne) and he becomes one of the few people she trusts, and ultimately has the title experience.

Thinking of the slender Williams as the voluptuous Monroe was not something I would have considered, but she pulls it off, in no small part, based on an interview I read in EW, of getting The Walk. Interestingly, at the beginning and end of the movie, largely removed from the storyline, Monroe/Williams performs a couple of songs, and she looks even more full-figured.

This was a slight, but sweet story of an actress who was instinctively good at her craft, but wanted to get more skilled, but on her own terms. It was also clear that “Marilyn Monroe” was a role she played, which made her extremely popular but also trapped her. I would be surprised if Michelle Williams was not Oscar-nominated as Best Actress.

Kenneth Branagh may also get a Best Supporting Actor nod as the frustrated director. I was tickled by this casting since both Olivier and Branaugh starred in and directed movie adaptations of Henry V, the Shakespeare play, in 1944 and 1989, respectively.

My Weekend With Marilyn is a surprisingly sweet, even somewhat chaste film, given the subject matter. I enjoyed it.

No Time

post I wrote about murderabilia in this blog some time ago is scheduled to appear in the newsletter of the New Yorkers for Alternatives to the Death Penalty (NYADP) this spring,

I found that this past week or so, I’ve had no free writing time to post to this blog. Part of it was self-inflicted. I saw parts of four football games this past weekend, though I did record them all and fast-forwarded through a lot of them – GO, NEW YORK GIANTS! (The key to pulling that off without accidentally getting the scores is to avoid all media – standard, such as TV and radio, as well as social, such as e-mail and Twitter.)

I also saw two movies with my wife last weekend, including a Golden Globe winner, and read one book (THAT book, Jaquandor), none of which I’ve had time to review. I had an article due for my church’s newsletter. I am also the compiler of a sermon evaluation team, which is part of one of my pastor’s educational requirements.

So I got nothing. Well, you could read my current Flashmob Fridays post about Cleveland, a posthumous book by Harvey Pekar, or the previous posts about Walt Disney’s Donald Duck: Lost in the Andes or The Survivalist by Box Brown.

Or you can read about my takes on:
No more savings bonds of the paper variety
The Internet piracy bills SOPA and PIPA
Going bald
Why the Postal Service is REALLY going broke

Lefty Brown, who was one of the very first bloggers I followed even before I was writing myself, is blogging again, after a 5+ year hiatus. He’s been doing The Married Gamers with his wife Kelly – I am not a gamer – but now he’s back with his own musings. And he answers some of my questions. (Should be ‘believe,’ not ‘belief.’)

I should note that ABC Wednesday is starting up again (psst, at the letter A) and it’s not too late to join. Though, in fact, you don’t HAVE to start with A. (I started with K.)

Here’s something that’s interesting to me. A post I wrote about murderabilia in this blog some time ago is scheduled to appear in the newsletter of the New Yorkers for Alternatives to the Death Penalty (NYADP) this spring, augmented by an interview with me. And another piece about the death penalty may appear in a later issue.

(Had to post this picture, sent to me, as one of the best examples of constantly wrong spelling I have ever seen.)

MOVIE REVIEW: Hugo

Once all the parts are finally in place, it becomes not just a fabulous adventure, but a wonderful piece of history of movies.

I went to the Madison Theatre in Albany Saturday. While it was not on the newspaper listings, my wife told me that Moneyball was back at the cinema according to the theater’s website. Having disappointingly missed it before, I thought I’d finally go see it. Alas, it was not there. But I’d heard some decent stuff about Hugo, so I opted for that.

Ostensibly, Hugo is about a 12-year-old orphan (Asa Butterfield) who lives in the walls of a Paris train station in 1930, taking care of the clocks there in lieu of his MIA uncle (Ray Winstone), while trying to stay out of the way of the station inspector (a surprisingly effective Sacha Baron Cohen). His single link to his late father (Jude Law) is a mysterious mechanical device that the boy tries to get to work, stealing parts from a grumpy old man who sells tinker toys (Ben Kingsley). From all of that, the plot, also involving the old man’s goddaughter (Chloë Grace Moretz), departs.

Much of this I knew. And to tell the truth, it was a little too long getting through the early exposition; maybe a lot too long, and I struggled to see the point of it all. But once all the parts are finally in place, it becomes not just a fabulous adventure, but a wonderful piece of history of the movies. I read one suggestion that it was not marketed that well, and I can’t disagree, but I don’t quite know how to describe it myself without giving away key plot elements that ought to be experienced first hand. I will reveal that there are lots of “tips of the hat” to other filmmakers, such as Harold Lloyd (see the poster).

I think people will watch it on video, see that it is visually stunning, but will be bored and not bother to finish it; that would be a mistake. It turns out to be a lovely and moving essay on loss and discovery, and of film itself.

I should note that I saw the 3D version, and while I generally hate 3D – it reminds me of the Viewfinder I used to play with as a kid – it was well utilized by director Martin Scorcese, making his first family-friendly film, one his tween daughter can see, in lieu of Goodfellas, for instance.