The Best American Poetry

Satan the Godfather [by Joe Lehman]

Usually my inspiration comes to me in my dreams. I’ve just awakened in the middle of the night from a fitful one -- one of those dreams that represent a lack of control, a feeling of powerlessness that comes with lost youth. I found myself back taking a college course in which I was tardy in preparing the work. I came across a file folder labeled “February 1973.” In my sleep I then exclaimed “Oh, that’s the month that G. Daniel Walker escaped and was on the loose again.” With that moment of lucidity, I regained consciousness, got out of bed and rushed to my desk and computer to begin jotting down my thoughts. This is happening in real time now.

            Gerald Daniel Walker (left), a career criminal and murderer, is now a ninety-one-year-old lifer in a California penitentiary somewhere, and yet I remain somewhat afraid to mention him for fear that he has a long reach even while incarcerated. (The next scheduled parole hearing is set for 2023). During his time in prison in the mid-1980s, he was alleged to have acquired a large shipment of brucine poison, which he intended to use against the judges and prosecutors who had previously tried and convicted him in the notorious 1973 William Ashlock killing in Tulare County, California. He was also convicted of the rape and brainwashing of Ashlock’s fiancée, Hope Masters. Perhaps it is for fear of his ‘long arm’ that the producers of the 1985 television miniseries A Death in California, based on Joan Barthel’s 1981 true crime best seller of the same name, decided to dub Walker’s character “D. Jordan Williams” and to cast veteran actor Sam Elliot in the role, despite the fact that he looks and sounds nothing like the real Walker. Those same producers made no changes in Hope Masters’ name. They cast Cheryl Ladd of Charlie’s Angels fame, who resembles the real Hope Masters quite well. They did, however, change Bill Ashlock’s name to “Richard Morgan.” So scary a figure is Walker that I find myself speculating that the producers wnet out of their way to avoid Walker’s vindictive wrath. He is now a nonagenarian and yet I fear I am taking a risk by writing about him now, for as long as he still lives and breathes, he breathes danger.

           According to the Barthel book, Walker had told Masters, after raping and tormenting her, “If you want to know more about me, read The Day of the Jackal. I’m the Jackal. I have a code of ethics.” It’s very interesting to me that this rapacious man should have been inspired by Frederick Forsyth’s classic espionage novel, and the movie version that was theatrically released—in 1973, no less—and has been of particular fascination for me since I was about fifteen years old. My father and mentor, the acclaimed author and poet David Lehman, has recently published a retrospective review of the superb assassination-conspiracy movie in The American Scholar.

            In my own understanding, the Jackal epitomizes a specter of amorality. He is a contract killer who works for no one but himself, looks out for his own interests alone, and easily blends into the crowded masses, moving among them undetected. This character is  G. Daniel Walker’s idol, the embodiment of his ambition to criminal fame and glory. Like the Jackal, Walker compulsively steals the identities of people he comes across and then exploits. Both are targets of massive manhunts, something that surely must have stroked Walker’s already inflated ego. Walker carried a treasured copy of the Forsyth book along with him during his travels from Illinois to California.

            The book and miniseries A Death in California focuses mainly on the one episode in G. Daniel Walker’s lengthy and ghastly trail of terror that led to his final lifetime incarceration. It is the strange saga of how, following his escape from penal custody in Illinois, where he was serving time for shooting and severely wounding a state trooper who had pulled him over while driving a stolen vehicle, Walker made his way out west. There, while masquerading as a newspaper reporter, he befriended William Ashlock and Hope Masters, under the pretense of interviewing Ashlock for a featurette on eligible bachelors in southern California. At their ranch house, Walker shot Bill in the back of the head, sexually assaulted Hope repeatedly and managed to convince her to help him cover up the crime for a period of time. How did he get her to play along?

The answer lies in another notable event that occurred in 1973:  the spectacular bank robbery in Stockholm, Sweden, where the hostages famously bonded with their captors, leading to the coinage of the term “Stockholm Syndrome.” A year later, in 1974, the Symbionese Liberation Army kidnapped heiress Patty Hearst and brainwashed her into joining their insurrectional activities. It would seem, though, that while the Swedish bank robbery and the S.L.A. kidnapping cases have entered the broader lexicon of infamous crimes, the strange triangle of Walker, Ashlock, and Masters has been relegated to the archives of true crime lore.

Daniel Walker’s life of crime has been so long and extensive that I imagine there are at least a thousand little stories that could be extracted from his record, some predating the events of A Death in California, others subsequent to the publication of the book and the airing of the miniseries. In 1991, the television show Unsolved Mysteries broadcast a jailhouse interview with Walker, conducted by the late F.B.I. profiler Robert Ressler, who is believed to have originated the term ‘serial killer.’ In the interview, Walker, a poised and articulate man, boasts of having committed many unsolved crimes, for most of which he was never suspected or charged. An author could potentially fill volumes to produce a full biography of the fiend and his exploits. A Death in California therefore represents a microcosm of Walker’s biography. We, as readers, must infer that the crimes in which he was convicted of committing are definitive of his savagery as a whole.

I have written on the subject of psychopathy many times before. The question of what defines evil I find a daunting one. As I revisit the life and crimes of G. Daniel Walker, I turn to Paradise Lost, the seventeenth-century epic poem by John Milton, and I am struck by Walker’s resemblance to Satan, as Milton depicts him

Hope Masters, who became so enamored of Walker’s charismatic personality that he was able to break  her will and seduced her, corresponds to Eve, who is tempted by Satan in  the form of the serpent in the Garden of Eden. Walker, in his heyday, was a distinguished-looking man. Joan Barthel recounts the effect on Hope when she first meets  him under his alias Taylor Wright (a name stolen from a jewelry salesman whom Walker had nearly beaten to death in Michigan):  

“He was tall and very handsome, with dark wavy hair and a deep tan. He was wearing dark slacks, turtleneck sweater with a white shirt over it, and a leather jacket. He was facing Bill [Ashlock], gesturing toward the mountain with a large carved pipe, the other hand thrust into his pocket, the very image of male ease and casual elegance.”

Hope—then a thirty-one-year-old Beverly Hills socialite three times’ divorced and left with three young children—had previously done modeling work and once had a bit role in a television series starring Robert Wagner. It makes perfect sense that she should make the association in her mind between “Taylor” and Robert Wagner, given Walker’s close resemblance to the popular actor and Hope’s early attraction to Wagner on the set of the show.  

Satan, in Paradise Lost, was once the most favored of God’s angels in heaven. In Book I of Paradise Lost Milton writes:

            “Say first, for Heav’n hides nothing from thy view
            Nor the deep tract of Hell, say first what cause
            Moved our grand parents in that happy state,
            Favoured of Heav’n so highly, to fall off
            From their Creator and transgress his will
            For one restraint, lords of the world besides?
           Who first seduced them to that foul revolt?
           Th’ infernal Serpent; he it was, whose guile
           Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived
           The mother of mankind, what time his pride
           Had cast him out from Heav’n, with all his host
           Of rebel angels, by whose aid aspiring
           To set himself in glory above his peers…”

Satan the Serpent fits G. Daniel Walker to a tee. Almost, that is. Satan was an angel, and Walker is all too human -- and supports the idea that evil exists as something in itself and is not necessarily to be explained away as a perversion of the good.

Walker could never have been revered by God the way Satan was at one time. But Walker had a way of manipulating people, especially women, including his one-time radical Legal-Aid attorney. The lawyer facilitated his escape from the prison ward of a hospital in Chicago, where he was faking an illness, and even accompanied him as he robbed a gas station at gunpoint. Prior to these events, Walker had served time for armed robbery in the state of Ohio, and he had seduced and married the prison warden’s private secretary. He won parole from that charge and had a child with her. He even started a successful advertising business, but he continued to compulsively commit theft and other felonies.

Long after Walker’s murder conviction in California and prolonged seduction of Hope Masters, Walker seduced a female prison worker named Olivia, married her and involved her in several escape plots, frivolous lawsuits, as well as his plot to  poison prison and state officials. These women and all the other individuals Walker has manipulated throughout his lifetime bring to mind Satan’s host of rebel angels. And by their aid Walker aspired to set himself in glory above his peers. Satan and Walker have both committed the sin of pride. Walker considered himself above the laws of man, as Satan had considered himself above the laws of God.

Illinois State Police detective Bob Swalwell, in his dogged pursuit of Walker, provides the consummate foil in this cat-and-mouse game, just as the fictional Inspector Claude Lebel of the French police relentlessly pursues the Jackal in the Forsyth bookAs Barthel writes in A Death in California, concerning a letter Walker mails to his lovesick, but conflicted attorney,

“From his own knowledge of Walker, and from his knowledge of the Chicago underworld, Swalwell discounted Walker’s Mafia jargon, ‘going-to-mattress’ and ‘The Man,’ as simply Walker’s braggadocio, his attempt to sound very big time. And he was also dubious about the ‘price tag’ ending, Walker’s unhappiness, although with a guy like Walker, who could say? Fortunately, Swalwell was not assigned to deal with Walker’s soul. But he didn’t doubt for a minute that some of Walker’s friends, both ex-cons and civilians, were helping him and, Swalwell admitted, doing a pretty good job of it so far.”

Luckily, I, a scholar, do have the time and the inclination to look into Walker’s soul. The Godfather, Francis Ford Coppola’s movie, was first released in 1972, the year preceding Walker’s escape. I suspect that, as with The Day of the Jackal, Walker was highly influenced by the films and the novel it was based on, and he was playing the role of a big shot hit man or crime boss for his own audience and that of his associates. He is not Sicilian, and therefore can never literally be ‘made’ as a mafioso.

In Paradise Lost:

“He trusted to have equalled the Most High,
If he opposed; and with ambitious aim
Against the throne and monarchy of God
Raised impious war in Heav’n and battle proud
With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power
Hurled headlong flaming from th’ ethereal sky
With hideous ruin and combustion down
To bottomless perdition, there to dwell
In adamantine chains and penal fire,
Who durst defy th’ Omnipotent to arms.

Satan lusts to make war with God in heaven. Walker lusts to be viewed as the Godfather.

The Importance of Martin Guerre -- Part One [by Joe Lehman]

"Martin Guerre: Now and Then; Then and Now" [by Joe Lehman]

PART ONE

“Land to last, as it's passed, man to son, when it's done as planned. Then we'll pray it will stay as good Catholic land.”

After the experience of living through the past four years, this lyric sounds a lot like Make America Great Again. At least, that was the thought that came to mind when I listened to the music of Martin Guerre in the summer of 2018.

I had the privilege of attending one of the original performances of the short-lived musical Martin Guerre when visiting London, England, in late December 1997-early January 1998, when I was fourteen. It has had a troubled existence; rarely has it been revived. I don’t believe it has ever opened on Broadway. As I was so young when I saw Martin Guerre, I didn’t appreciate its meaning. Twenty years went by, and in a dream one night, the memory of the musical came to me. The next morning, I purchased the soundtrack of the original cast recording. The musical, and the story behind it, has held a great significance for me ever since.

The tale of the sixteenth century French peasant Martin Guerre and the imposture conducted by his army buddy Arnaud du Thil was resurrected in the 1982 French-language film The Return of Martin Guerre, as well as in a nonfiction book with the same title by historian Natalie Zemon Davis. Subsequently, the story has been immortalized as a continuing trope in many incarnations, including the 1993 movie Sommersby, starring Richard Gere and Jodie Foster, where the story is transported to post-Civil War and Reconstruction-era Tennessee, and the titular character and his imposter are veterans of the Confederate Army. It has even taken the form of satire in an episode of TV’s “The Simpsons,” where the Vietnam veteran Principal Skinner is revealed to be an imposter, a former comrade-in-arms of the ‘real’ Skinner.

It is in Martin Guerre the musical that the story is placed most prominently in the context of bigotry, nativism, and religious intolerance. The history of Catholic persecution of the Protestant Huguenots figures heavily. The setting is the provincial village of Artigat. Strangely, for reasons unknown to me, the word “Huguenot” is never uttered in the show. What is known is that Artigat is populated by a Catholic majority and a Protestant minority. Martin Guerre and Bertrande de Rols are betrothed to marry at an adolescent age, so that their families will merge in attempt to keep their shared land under Catholic ownership. But Martin is unable to perform sexually and in a fit of wanderlust, finds the only way available for French peasant to gain upward mobility: He leaves the village and Bertrande, and joins the Catholic army.

Seven years pass and when Martin is seemingly felled in battle, Arnaud du Thil travels to Artigat and almost accidentally assumes his identity, his land, and his wife Bertrande, who, despite being the one who knows about the fraud, falls in love with Arnaud, and together they clandestinely convert to Protestantism. Guillaume, an anti-Protestant fanatic who is also a jealous former suitor of Bertrande’s, discovers the truth and becomes Arnaud’s main accuser. Arnaud is arrested, brought to trial, where he continues relentlessly to insist he is the real Martin Guerre. The members of the courtroom are divided across Catholic and Protestant lines, in Arnaud’s favor and against it. The surprise witness who is able to provide the ultimate evidence of Arnaud’s imposture is Martin Guerre himself, who reappears to testify to his true identity. The musical sees Artigat burn down in an orgy of violence and Arnaud murdered at Guillaume’s hands. This version differs from the historical record. In fact, Arnaud’s case was tried, appealed, and tried again before he was found guilty and executed by hanging, while Bertrande was returned to her legal husband’s custody. I can only surmise that this modification was made for dramatic purposes. The show ends with the villagers contemplating the consequences of their hateful actions and praying for forgiveness.

French historian Philippe Erlanger in his book St. Bartholomew’s Night chronicles the bloody history of France during the turbulent century of the Protestant Reformation:

The world was changing at a bewildering pace. The old order was giving way. Men had once placed all their hopes in heaven: now they were beginning to look for happiness here on earth again.

 Erlanger describes the atmosphere of the Reformation and the Renaissance:

A society which for a great while had been preoccupied with local quarrels suddenly beheld the horizon torn wide open before it; and at the same time, it became conscious of curiosities, doubts, and wild irrational beliefs.

It seems to be a constant throughout history that with the coming of liberalization and modernization of people and civilization, comes a reactionary backlash equal in force. Erlanger writes:

Intolerance bred intolerance. Fanaticism increased in the same measure as the struggle for liberation of the minds of men.

Erlanger could very well have been describing the political and racial tribalism and its ensuing chaos that exists in present-day America, where the Proud Boys battle Antifa and Black Lives Matter in vicious street confrontations.

Ed note: this is part one of a two-part article. For part two, click here.
from the archive; first posted February 12, 2021.

"Martin Guerre: Now and Then; Then and Now" [by Joe Lehman]

PART ONE

“Land to last, as it's passed, man to son, when it's done as planned. Then we'll pray it will stay as good Catholic land.”

After the experience of living through the past four years, this lyric sounds a lot like Make America Great Again. At least, that was the thought that came to mind when I listened to the music of Martin Guerre in the summer of 2018.

I had the privilege of attending one of the original performances of the short-lived musical Martin Guerre when visiting London, England, in late December 1997-early January 1998, when I was fourteen. It has had a troubled existence; rarely has it been revived. I don’t believe it has ever opened on Broadway. As I was so young when I saw Martin Guerre, I didn’t appreciate its meaning. Twenty years went by, and in a dream one night, the memory of the musical came to me. The next morning, I purchased the soundtrack of the original cast recording. The musical, and the story behind it, has held a great significance for me ever since.

The tale of the sixteenth century French peasant Martin Guerre and the imposture conducted by his army buddy Arnaud du Thil was resurrected in the 1982 French-language film The Return of Martin Guerre, as well as in a nonfiction book with the same title by historian Natalie Zemon Davis. Subsequently, the story has been immortalized as a continuing trope in many incarnations, including the 1993 movie Sommersby, starring Richard Gere and Jodie Foster, where the story is transported to post-Civil War and Reconstruction-era Tennessee, and the titular character and his imposter are veterans of the Confederate Army. It has even taken the form of satire in an episode of TV’s “The Simpsons,” where the Vietnam veteran Principal Skinner is revealed to be an imposter, a former comrade-in-arms of the ‘real’ Skinner.

It is in Martin Guerre the musical that the story is placed most prominently in the context of bigotry, nativism, and religious intolerance. The history of Catholic persecution of the Protestant Huguenots figures heavily. The setting is the provincial village of Artigat. Strangely, for reasons unknown to me, the word “Huguenot” is never uttered in the show. What is known is that Artigat is populated by a Catholic majority and a Protestant minority. Martin Guerre and Bertrande de Rols are betrothed to marry at an adolescent age, so that their families will merge in attempt to keep their shared land under Catholic ownership. But Martin is unable to perform sexually and in a fit of wanderlust, finds the only way available for French peasant to gain upward mobility: He leaves the village and Bertrande, and joins the Catholic army.

Seven years pass and when Martin is seemingly felled in battle, Arnaud du Thil travels to Artigat and almost accidentally assumes his identity, his land, and his wife Bertrande, who, despite being the one who knows about the fraud, falls in love with Arnaud, and together they clandestinely convert to Protestantism. Guillaume, an anti-Protestant fanatic who is also a jealous former suitor of Bertrande’s, discovers the truth and becomes Arnaud’s main accuser. Arnaud is arrested, brought to trial, where he continues relentlessly to insist he is the real Martin Guerre. The members of the courtroom are divided across Catholic and Protestant lines, in Arnaud’s favor and against it. The surprise witness who is able to provide the ultimate evidence of Arnaud’s imposture is Martin Guerre himself, who reappears to testify to his true identity. The musical sees Artigat burn down in an orgy of violence and Arnaud murdered at Guillaume’s hands. This version differs from the historical record. In fact, Arnaud’s case was tried, appealed, and tried again before he was found guilty and executed by hanging, while Bertrande was returned to her legal husband’s custody. I can only surmise that this modification was made for dramatic purposes. The show ends with the villagers contemplating the consequences of their hateful actions and praying for forgiveness.

French historian Philippe Erlanger in his book St. Bartholomew’s Night chronicles the bloody history of France during the turbulent century of the Protestant Reformation:

The world was changing at a bewildering pace. The old order was giving way. Men had once placed all their hopes in heaven: now they were beginning to look for happiness here on earth again.

 Erlanger describes the atmosphere of the Reformation and the Renaissance:

A society which for a great while had been preoccupied with local quarrels suddenly beheld the horizon torn wide open before it; and at the same time, it became conscious of curiosities, doubts, and wild irrational beliefs.

It seems to be a constant throughout history that with the coming of liberalization and modernization of people and civilization, comes a reactionary backlash equal in force. Erlanger writes:

Intolerance bred intolerance. Fanaticism increased in the same measure as the struggle for liberation of the minds of men.

Erlanger could very well have been describing the political and racial tribalism and its ensuing chaos that exists in present-day America, where the Proud Boys battle Antifa and Black Lives Matter in vicious street confrontations.

Ed note: this is part one of a two-part article. For part two, click here.
from the archive; first posted February 12, 2021.

"Why 'Nixonland' Matters" [by Joe Lehman]

When I was twenty-five, backpacking through Australia, I carried with me my hardcover copy of Rick Perlstein’s Nixonland: The Rise of a President and the Fracturing of America. It absorbed me for all seven months of my journey. I took flight to the land of Oz in late October 2008. Nixonland hit the stores in May of that fateful year of financial crisis. Having recently taken it off my bookshelf, I can report that the book holds up well and has a special relevance for us today. It is that rare thing, a thick history book suitable for a college class that is a most pleasurable page-turner.

For those of us born after the end of the ‘60s (I was born in 1983), we have long been used to the romanticized mythology of the era. We conjure up an image of bell-bottom-wearing long-haired hippies, driving around in psychedelic-painted VW buses, getting high on LSD and marijuana, protesting the war in Vietnam, and practicing free love.

Written from a left-of-center perspective, Nixonland has no illusions about the title figure and his presidential predecessor, yet rips the mask off the pastoral vision of acid-tripping dropouts and collegiate idealists to reveal a less pretty picture of moral anarchy, ruined lives, and gun violence. Read this book and your views of that era will lose their rosy hue. Perlstein paints a radical picture of a country gone insane with political brutality, cultural discord, and social decay. Flower people were not always loveable innocents:

           <<<< Love was in the eye of the beholder. At first downtown merchants welcomed the hippie district that sprang up on Plumb Street in Detroit; it was attracting people to their stores. Then they realized that the hippies liked their stores so much because they could panhandle from paying customers (“I wish we could have had the hippies without the dope,” said one merchant, after the forty-three shops on Plumb Street had shrunk down to six.) (185)  >>>>

Nixonland reads like one big Roman chariot race through hell. Stories of race riots, assassinations, bombings, a divisive war in Vietnam, infighting between (and within) left and right, and the reign of a Machiavellian president occupy every page.

One month before my departure to Australia the U.S. economy had come to the brink of collapse, and the Great Recession was in its early stages. On the first Tuesday in November, just over a week after I landed down under, America ushered in the election of the first African-American president. It was, despite the financial calamity, a hopeful moment. In the time since, however, the country has suffered riots, protests, mass shootings, a polarized populace, and a coronavirus sweeping through like a medieval plague. And as I leaf through my worn copy of Nixonland once more, I realize that I am no longer standing apart from the happenings of a chaotic world. The outbreak of COVID-19 did nothing to unify a polarized society. If anything the crisis in civility and the rise of discord have worsened. On Facebook, friendships terminate because of petty political disagreements, and the general tone of debate demonstrates that virtual bullying is as brutal as the physical kind. The Roman Chariot race through Hell that is described in Nixonland seems far more pressing today than it did upon its hardcover publication in 2008.

A history of America from 1964 to 1972, Nixonland goes from “all the way with LBJ” in 1964 to “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?” in 1968; and from there to the resurrection of Richard Nixon and his reelection four years later despite a third-rate burglary on the offices of the political opposition at a previously obscure apartment complex called Watergate. In these eight years America went through what Perlstein bluntly calls a “second civil war.” Just as now, factions of left and right were continually feuding. Vietnam cut the population into two opposing camps. Young people declared war on people over thirty, and the reaction came swiftly enough from folks who pledged allegiance to Bob Hope, “God Bless America,” and Sousa marches on July 4th. “Nixon acted not despite the Silent Majority he described as so pure and decent, but in a sense on their behalf, and even at their request,” Perlstein writes. “His paranoia and dread were their own. Across the state of mind known as Middle America, a subterranean viciousness was bubbling ever closer to the surface.” (519)

Perlstein traces Nixon’s ascent to the presidency from the “wilderness” period when, after being prematurely written off, he scraped together the allegiances and alliances that gained him the 1968 Republican nomination for president. During his first term, he aspired to wind down the Vietnam War, engage in détente with the Soviet Union, and open relations with Red China. In two of those aims he may be said to have succeeded; Nixon was a canny politician and had the benefit of an extraordinary secretary of state. Peace “with honor” proved elusive. The ugly war dragged on. It is likely that on his own Nixon would never have committed half a million soldiers to an unwinnable war in Southeast Asia, as Johnson, McNamara, Rusk, and the Bundy brothers did. But how to end it?

The foreign policy successes did not lessen the amount of civil unrest in the nation. Perlstein juxtaposes the narrative of Nixon’s rise, his wielding of power, and his overwhelming defeat of Senator George McGovern in 1972, with descriptions of horrific crimes committed during the same period. These include massacres committed by the Manson Family in 1969 and Richard Speck’s slaughter of eight student nurses three years earlier. Perlstein also notes the shift in the civil rights and antiwar movements from nonviolence to militancy. “This was,” according to Perlstein “something Richard Nixon, with his gift for looking below social surfaces to see and exploit the subterranean truths that roiled underneath, understood: the future belonged to the politician who could tap the ambivalence–the nameless dread, the urge to make it all go away; to make the world placid again, not a cacophonous mess.” As for the personality of Richard Nixon, here was a man who could wake up the day after winning forty-nine of the nation’s fifty states and feel depressed.

Perlstein charts the period through an inspection of changes in pop culture. For example, he contrasts the reactions of liberals and conservatives to movies with polar opposite themes. In 1967, the right flocked to see John Wayne sound the fighting charge in the jingoistic Vietnam film The Green Berets. The New York Times critic panned the movie. Perlstein quotes the arch-segregationist Senator Strom Thurmond:

“I have not yet had the opportunity to see this movie,” he drawled. But “I have become convinced that this must be one of the most admirable movies of our generation, after reading the review which appeared last week in the New York Times. . . That set me to wondering what on earth the standards of criticism are that are current in the New York Times for a film that is patriotic and pro-American.” (278)

Meanwhile, the left was infatuated with images of Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway blowing away civilians and officers of the law until they meet their own gruesome fate in Bonnie & Clyde. Perlstein defines the reasoning of the movie’s instant fans: “They weren’t bad folks, went the movie’s moral logic, until an evil system forced them to extremity: robbing banks that repossessed farms, killing only when the System was closing in all around them… Bonnie and Clyde made those around them feel alive – all except the squares who were chasing them, who were already more or less dead anyway, with their sucker obsession with honest toil.” (209)

Apparently cinema is the mirror reflecting both sides’ sense of values.

Perlstein describes the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy, the attempt on George Wallace, and the bitterness that ensued. There were other eye-opening events that presage a scary future. In the “planned riot” in Cleveland in 1968, snipers from the “Black Nationalists of New Libya” executed several police officers; in 1971, during the Attica prison uprising in upstate New York, both convicts and guard-hostages were killed in an assault by state troopers. Perlstein illustrates, too, how the chaos in America dovetailed with violence abroad, such as the 1972 massacre of the Israeli Olympic athletes in Munich, Germany, at the hand of Palestinian terrorists. His reportage covers both the liberal and reactionary responses of ordinary citizens. A perfect example of an out-of-touch media occurred during the siege of Attica, when New York Times reporter Tom Wicker addressed a group of relatives of the captive prison guards. Wicker launched into an impassioned speech about the hostage-takers’ solidarity over their brutal treatment by the corrections authorities. The relatives responded by hurling insults and epithets at Wicker, protesting his obvious sympathy for the convicts.

Perlstein is able to draw an indissoluble connection between the events on the ground and the complex personality of Richard Nixon, with his uncanny ability to tap into the passions and political desires of the “Silent Majority” of Americans, who yearned for law and order amid the turmoil. These included the northern “hardhats” and the southern “rednecks.” Perlstein argues that Nixon saw the world in terms of the conflict between two student groups from his university days: the Franklins and the Orthogonians. The former consisted of the rich kids, polished and well-bred, who seemed to have the path to success paved for them. The latter group consisted of outsiders and striving underdogs from the lower-middle and working classes. Nixon himself was an Orthogonian; he rose from a hardscrabble background as the son of a California grocer. John F. Kennedy, his arch political rival, was the epitome of a Franklin; a millionaire’s son with matinee idol looks, a good war record, and the habits of a playboy.  According to Perlstein, for Nixon this dichotomy extends to every group of people. Perhaps surprisingly, the Washington Post’s Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein qualify as the Orthogonians of the newsroom. They are plucky questers, piecing together the facts of the Watergate scandal, with shoe-leather reporting, whereas the Franklins of the newsroom are the well-heeled veteran White House correspondents.

Nixonland is the second entry in Rick Perlstein’s quartet of books covering the emergence of the New Right. Before the Storm (2001) chronicled Barry Goldwater’s doomed GOP Presidential campaign of 1964; The Invisible Bridge (2014) follows Nixon's resignation through Ronald Reagan’s challenge to incumbent President Gerald Ford in 1976. Most recently, Reaganland tells the tale of the much-maligned Jimmy Carter presidency and Reagan’s emergence in 1980.

What struck me about Nixonland in 2008 and continues to resonate in 2021 is the way Perlstein captures the idealistic cluelessness of the liberal side versus the cold Machiavellianism of the right. Just as Tom Wicker was blindsided by the reaction of his audience at Attica, the 1972 Democratic presidential candidate Senator George McGovern was blindsided by the reactions he faced from the voting public. In one campaign stop, McGovern played a reel of gory photographs of wounded civilians in Vietnam, hoping perhaps to guilt-trip Americans into voting for him as the peace candidate. This was a misfire if only because the vast number of Americans are motivated not by sentimental appeals to their consciences but by practical self-interest. Richard Nixon clearly understood this, as he promised to pull out from the war “with honor” and appealed to patriotic and sometimes nationalistic impulses in the voters’ minds. Meanwhile the Democrats were busy shooting themselves in the foot, nominating Senator Thomas Eagleton for vice president, then ditching him post-convention when it turned out that he was a depressive who had seen shrinks and gone through shock therapy. Yet even in landslide victory, Nixon noted that his congressional coattails were shorter than he had hoped for, and he obsessed about his foes. Foes he certainly had. Nixon’s whole political career demonstrates the saying that even paranoids have enemies.

Today the insurgent progressive left of the Democratic Party seems to have perfected political guilt-tripping almost to a science. As a result, its losses are catastrophic (2016) and its wins often pyrrhic (2020). During the early years of the Obama presidency, I observed that Obama would have fewer problems if he learned the lessons of Nixonland. One lesson is that when facts are overtaken by narrative, it is difficult to overcome the narrative. For McGovern, it was impossible to defeat the label of being the candidate of “Acid, Amnesty, and Abortion.” Whether Obama’s Democratic successor Biden has ever taken the time to read Nixonland or not, I do not know. He should. It just may improve his chances for a successful presidency.

Click here to read Joe Lehman on "The Return of Martin Guerre."
from the archive; first published May 15, 2021

For those of us born after the end of the ‘60s (I was born in 1983), we have long been used to the romanticized mythology of the era. We conjure up an image of bell-bottom-wearing long-haired hippies, driving around in psychedelic-painted VW buses, getting high on LSD and marijuana, protesting the war in Vietnam, and practicing free love.

Written from a left-of-center perspective, Nixonland has no illusions about the title figure and his presidential predecessor, yet rips the mask off the pastoral vision of acid-tripping dropouts and collegiate idealists to reveal a less pretty picture of moral anarchy, ruined lives, and gun violence. Read this book and your views of that era will lose their rosy hue. Perlstein paints a radical picture of a country gone insane with political brutality, cultural discord, and social decay. Flower people were not always loveable innocents:

           <<<< Love was in the eye of the beholder. At first downtown merchants welcomed the hippie district that sprang up on Plumb Street in Detroit; it was attracting people to their stores. Then they realized that the hippies liked their stores so much because they could panhandle from paying customers (“I wish we could have had the hippies without the dope,” said one merchant, after the forty-three shops on Plumb Street had shrunk down to six.) (185)  >>>>

Nixonland reads like one big Roman chariot race through hell. Stories of race riots, assassinations, bombings, a divisive war in Vietnam, infighting between (and within) left and right, and the reign of a Machiavellian president occupy every page.

One month before my departure to Australia the U.S. economy had come to the brink of collapse, and the Great Recession was in its early stages. On the first Tuesday in November, just over a week after I landed down under, America ushered in the election of the first African-American president. It was, despite the financial calamity, a hopeful moment. In the time since, however, the country has suffered riots, protests, mass shootings, a polarized populace, and a coronavirus sweeping through like a medieval plague. And as I leaf through my worn copy of Nixonland once more, I realize that I am no longer standing apart from the happenings of a chaotic world. The outbreak of COVID-19 did nothing to unify a polarized society. If anything the crisis in civility and the rise of discord have worsened. On Facebook, friendships terminate because of petty political disagreements, and the general tone of debate demonstrates that virtual bullying is as brutal as the physical kind. The Roman Chariot race through Hell that is described in Nixonland seems far more pressing today than it did upon its hardcover publication in 2008.

A history of America from 1964 to 1972, Nixonland goes from “all the way with LBJ” in 1964 to “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?” in 1968; and from there to the resurrection of Richard Nixon and his reelection four years later despite a third-rate burglary on the offices of the political opposition at a previously obscure apartment complex called Watergate. In these eight years America went through what Perlstein bluntly calls a “second civil war.” Just as now, factions of left and right were continually feuding. Vietnam cut the population into two opposing camps. Young people declared war on people over thirty, and the reaction came swiftly enough from folks who pledged allegiance to Bob Hope, “God Bless America,” and Sousa marches on July 4th. “Nixon acted not despite the Silent Majority he described as so pure and decent, but in a sense on their behalf, and even at their request,” Perlstein writes. “His paranoia and dread were their own. Across the state of mind known as Middle America, a subterranean viciousness was bubbling ever closer to the surface.” (519)

Perlstein traces Nixon’s ascent to the presidency from the “wilderness” period when, after being prematurely written off, he scraped together the allegiances and alliances that gained him the 1968 Republican nomination for president. During his first term, he aspired to wind down the Vietnam War, engage in détente with the Soviet Union, and open relations with Red China. In two of those aims he may be said to have succeeded; Nixon was a canny politician and had the benefit of an extraordinary secretary of state. Peace “with honor” proved elusive. The ugly war dragged on. It is likely that on his own Nixon would never have committed half a million soldiers to an unwinnable war in Southeast Asia, as Johnson, McNamara, Rusk, and the Bundy brothers did. But how to end it?

The foreign policy successes did not lessen the amount of civil unrest in the nation. Perlstein juxtaposes the narrative of Nixon’s rise, his wielding of power, and his overwhelming defeat of Senator George McGovern in 1972, with descriptions of horrific crimes committed during the same period. These include massacres committed by the Manson Family in 1969 and Richard Speck’s slaughter of eight student nurses three years earlier. Perlstein also notes the shift in the civil rights and antiwar movements from nonviolence to militancy. “This was,” according to Perlstein “something Richard Nixon, with his gift for looking below social surfaces to see and exploit the subterranean truths that roiled underneath, understood: the future belonged to the politician who could tap the ambivalence–the nameless dread, the urge to make it all go away; to make the world placid again, not a cacophonous mess.” As for the personality of Richard Nixon, here was a man who could wake up the day after winning forty-nine of the nation’s fifty states and feel depressed.

Perlstein charts the period through an inspection of changes in pop culture. For example, he contrasts the reactions of liberals and conservatives to movies with polar opposite themes. In 1967, the right flocked to see John Wayne sound the fighting charge in the jingoistic Vietnam film The Green Berets. The New York Times critic panned the movie. Perlstein quotes the arch-segregationist Senator Strom Thurmond:

“I have not yet had the opportunity to see this movie,” he drawled. But “I have become convinced that this must be one of the most admirable movies of our generation, after reading the review which appeared last week in the New York Times. . . That set me to wondering what on earth the standards of criticism are that are current in the New York Times for a film that is patriotic and pro-American.” (278)

Meanwhile, the left was infatuated with images of Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway blowing away civilians and officers of the law until they meet their own gruesome fate in Bonnie & Clyde. Perlstein defines the reasoning of the movie’s instant fans: “They weren’t bad folks, went the movie’s moral logic, until an evil system forced them to extremity: robbing banks that repossessed farms, killing only when the System was closing in all around them… Bonnie and Clyde made those around them feel alive – all except the squares who were chasing them, who were already more or less dead anyway, with their sucker obsession with honest toil.” (209)

Apparently cinema is the mirror reflecting both sides’ sense of values.

Perlstein describes the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy, the attempt on George Wallace, and the bitterness that ensued. There were other eye-opening events that presage a scary future. In the “planned riot” in Cleveland in 1968, snipers from the “Black Nationalists of New Libya” executed several police officers; in 1971, during the Attica prison uprising in upstate New York, both convicts and guard-hostages were killed in an assault by state troopers. Perlstein illustrates, too, how the chaos in America dovetailed with violence abroad, such as the 1972 massacre of the Israeli Olympic athletes in Munich, Germany, at the hand of Palestinian terrorists. His reportage covers both the liberal and reactionary responses of ordinary citizens. A perfect example of an out-of-touch media occurred during the siege of Attica, when New York Times reporter Tom Wicker addressed a group of relatives of the captive prison guards. Wicker launched into an impassioned speech about the hostage-takers’ solidarity over their brutal treatment by the corrections authorities. The relatives responded by hurling insults and epithets at Wicker, protesting his obvious sympathy for the convicts.

Perlstein is able to draw an indissoluble connection between the events on the ground and the complex personality of Richard Nixon, with his uncanny ability to tap into the passions and political desires of the “Silent Majority” of Americans, who yearned for law and order amid the turmoil. These included the northern “hardhats” and the southern “rednecks.” Perlstein argues that Nixon saw the world in terms of the conflict between two student groups from his university days: the Franklins and the Orthogonians. The former consisted of the rich kids, polished and well-bred, who seemed to have the path to success paved for them. The latter group consisted of outsiders and striving underdogs from the lower-middle and working classes. Nixon himself was an Orthogonian; he rose from a hardscrabble background as the son of a California grocer. John F. Kennedy, his arch political rival, was the epitome of a Franklin; a millionaire’s son with matinee idol looks, a good war record, and the habits of a playboy.  According to Perlstein, for Nixon this dichotomy extends to every group of people. Perhaps surprisingly, the Washington Post’s Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein qualify as the Orthogonians of the newsroom. They are plucky questers, piecing together the facts of the Watergate scandal, with shoe-leather reporting, whereas the Franklins of the newsroom are the well-heeled veteran White House correspondents.

Nixonland is the second entry in Rick Perlstein’s quartet of books covering the emergence of the New Right. Before the Storm (2001) chronicled Barry Goldwater’s doomed GOP Presidential campaign of 1964; The Invisible Bridge (2014) follows Nixon's resignation through Ronald Reagan’s challenge to incumbent President Gerald Ford in 1976. Most recently, Reaganland tells the tale of the much-maligned Jimmy Carter presidency and Reagan’s emergence in 1980.

What struck me about Nixonland in 2008 and continues to resonate in 2021 is the way Perlstein captures the idealistic cluelessness of the liberal side versus the cold Machiavellianism of the right. Just as Tom Wicker was blindsided by the reaction of his audience at Attica, the 1972 Democratic presidential candidate Senator George McGovern was blindsided by the reactions he faced from the voting public. In one campaign stop, McGovern played a reel of gory photographs of wounded civilians in Vietnam, hoping perhaps to guilt-trip Americans into voting for him as the peace candidate. This was a misfire if only because the vast number of Americans are motivated not by sentimental appeals to their consciences but by practical self-interest. Richard Nixon clearly understood this, as he promised to pull out from the war “with honor” and appealed to patriotic and sometimes nationalistic impulses in the voters’ minds. Meanwhile the Democrats were busy shooting themselves in the foot, nominating Senator Thomas Eagleton for vice president, then ditching him post-convention when it turned out that he was a depressive who had seen shrinks and gone through shock therapy. Yet even in landslide victory, Nixon noted that his congressional coattails were shorter than he had hoped for, and he obsessed about his foes. Foes he certainly had. Nixon’s whole political career demonstrates the saying that even paranoids have enemies.

Today the insurgent progressive left of the Democratic Party seems to have perfected political guilt-tripping almost to a science. As a result, its losses are catastrophic (2016) and its wins often pyrrhic (2020). During the early years of the Obama presidency, I observed that Obama would have fewer problems if he learned the lessons of Nixonland. One lesson is that when facts are overtaken by narrative, it is difficult to overcome the narrative. For McGovern, it was impossible to defeat the label of being the candidate of “Acid, Amnesty, and Abortion.” Whether Obama’s Democratic successor Biden has ever taken the time to read Nixonland or not, I do not know. He should. It just may improve his chances for a successful presidency.

Click here to read Joe Lehman on "The Return of Martin Guerre."
from the archive; first published May 15, 2021

Hans Christian Andersen’s "Tin Soldier" as Adapted by Jon Voight [by Joe Lehman]

In the early summer of 1996, just before I turned thirteen and a few years before the Internet conquered the world, I used to frequent several independently-owned video rental stores. One evening I rented a recently released VHS film titled The Tin Soldier, the only film that Jon Voight has directed as well as held the starring role.  It was apparent from its cover that the movie’s theme was geared toward someone exactly as old and in need of a lesson as I. Its official tagline read: “A modern-day fairy tale about old-fashioned courage.” 

Jon Voight found his inspiration in the classic Hans Christian Andersen tale The Steadfast Tin Soldier. In a child’s toy collection, a tin soldier with a hobbled leg falls in love with the paper ballerina placed nearby. The soldier falls from an open window and from then on must face a series of overwhelming obstacles as he attempts to return home to his ‘true love,’ the ballerina. 

The movie is not a direct adaptation. It contains the key elements of Andersen’s fable: a toy collection, featuring a one-legged tin soldier and a beautiful toy ballerina. But instead of Andersen’s nineteenth century Denmark, it is set in 1990s’ Los Angeles. As in the Andersen story there is a young boy, only here he has a name and a pensive personality. He is twelve-year-old Billy McClusky (Trenton Knight), a working class transplant from Detroit to L.A., whose recently widowed mother (Ally Sheedy) is a struggling waitress. The father’s death has caused a rift between mother and son. The two are sitting across from each other at the breakfast table. They are brooding silently.

It is Billy’s first day at the new middle school. Two youth gangs occupy turf in the school: Pack 13, which seems  predominantly made up of white ethnic kids, and the rival  Snakes, largely black, who are antagonistic toward Billy from the get-go.   Pack 13’s de facto leader, a burly thirteen-year-old, Clyde (Aeryk Egan), quickly recognizes Billy as plucky and resolute in spite of his being physically small. Clyde insists on recruiting Billy into his gang on a trial basis.

Billy wants to join the science club and to impress a pretty girl named Toni (Bethany Richards), who is equally attracted to him but disapproves of the gang. Upon school’s dismissal that first day, Snakes’ most volatile member, a boy nicknamed “Psycho” (Travis Perkins) chases Billy down the streets into a neighborhood antique toy store owned and operated by the kindly and eccentric Mr. Fallon (Dom DeLuise). Fallon immediately shoos Psycho off the premises  while Billy hides in a corner.

At the toy store, where the toy tin soldier and ballerina lie dormant on the shelves, Fallon lectures Billy on the virtue of showing respect for his elders. He encourages the boy to borrow the tin soldier, telling him that he might learn a few lessons about honesty, integrity and courage from possessing it for a while, as these are the principles the antiques represent. Billy reluctantly accepts the loaner.

At this point the movie takes an enchanted turn. Billy wakes up in the middle of the night to discover, much to his disbelief, that the toy has morphed into a real-life medieval knight named Yarik (Jon Voight), who speaks in Chaucer-style English and professes chivalry and righteousness. The fairy tale, which Hans Christian Andersen wrote in the nineteenth century, reflects a similar code of chivalric conduct and honor.

                  It is concerivable that there are super myths common to fairy tales, folk tales, and children's literature of whatever provenance. The theme of chivalric virtue is a central theme in both the fairy tale and the movie, and this made me turn to the pages of the medieval Song of Roland to seek out what are the traits of a noble knight. The medieval knight’s code of chivalry includes seventeen imperatives. Among them are to fear God and maintain His Church;  to serve the liege lord in valor and faith; to protect the weak and defenseless; to live by honor and for glory;  never to refuse a challenge from an equal; and never to turn the back upon a foe.

         The living and breathing tin soldier presents himself to Billy as a knight “of the Order of Fallon.” Billy is henceforth Yarik’s young squire. Only Billy can see Yarik. Like the tin soldier of the Hans Christian Andersen story, Yarik has come to life with an injured leg.

           At first, neither Billy nor Yarik has an idea of what Yarik’s purpose is. The shining knight looms invisibly over Billy at school suggesting correct answers to a teacher’s questions. But this seems hardly reason enough for Yarik’s presence.

           It is when Billy reveals to Yarik his crush on the lovely and sweet girl Toni that Yarik senses a common mission between them. Both lad and knight yearn for the love of a female. Yarik covets the ballerina Fallon has named Katrina and can sense the growing affection between Billy and Toni. Yarik’s quest is to connect the two adolescents.

           In Andersen’s original story, the tin soldier declares, “that is the wife for me. But she is too grand, and lives in a castle, while I have only a box to live in; [there are] five-and-twenty of us [soldiers] altogether, that is no place for her. Still I must try and make her acquaintance.” Andersen is incorporating the old ideals of chivalry and courtly love in this declaration, for these concepts require a seemingly unattainable romantic devotion.

           In The Steadfast Tin Soldier, the toy survives numerous existential threats. The children place it in a paper boat, where it is swept away at sea, swallowed by a large fish, and eventually is recovered by his owners when the fish is caught and cut open. As Andersen describes the scene: “The flames lighted up the tin soldier, as he stood, the heat was very terrible, but whether it proceeded from the real fire or from the fire of love he could not tell.” A cinder from the stove blows onto the paper ballerina and burns her up too. And so ends Andersen’s tale.


       In the movie, however, the sooner Yarik can complete his quest to unite the two kids, the sooner he will return to his toy-sized metal form and be reunited with his own love Katrina. Just as the steadfast tin soldier of Hans Christian Andersen’s imagination surmounts whatever obstacles fate throws his way, the movie’s knight Yarik must guide his squire through the pangs of adolescence, heavily complicated by his dilemma of avoiding the lure of the youth gangs. “The important thing is to choose your friends, and don’t let them choose you,” is Yarik’s counsel.

         Each supporting character has a crucial role to play. There is Toni, Billy’s love interest, who represents nobility and honor. Clyde is the bully, who represents unchecked power. Street smart and brash, he has ambitions of his own, even if those ambitions are self-defeating. “You know, the only place you can get respect is on the streets, and if you don’t have that, you don’t have anything.” And adults who act alarmist over the presence of gangs, to Clyde, are hypocrites who turn to “their precious booze and pills.”

         If Toni represents the virginal, seemingly unattainable object of courtly love for Billy the squire, then it is just as believable that Billy’s wounded mother, who is left unnamed, once played the same role for his late father, a failure to her and their son. When Billy asks her “do you think Dad was anything like me when he was my age,” she replies, “No, you’re nothing like your father. You’re going to make something out of your life.” She is quite young, a sure indication that she was in her teens or early twenties when she had her son. She clings to a tremendous concern for the safety and the passage of her son into young adulthood. They just cannot communicate.

          If Yarik is successfully to advise Billy using 14^th Century values of chivalry, then he must school the squire in self-defense tactics. He shows him how to fight bareknuckle.

          Billy, while wearing Pack 13 ‘colors,’ saves the life of a young African-American boy, a member of the Snakes, pulling him up from the edge of a scaffold. Billy’s sudden heroism confuses the other Snakes, and in order to restore their feeling of stolen honor, they challenge Billy to a one-on-one fight against the rival Psycho. The match is to be held the next night at an abandoned warehouse. Though Yarik disapproves of Billy’s gang activity to begin with, the codfe of chivalry instructs him never to refuse a challenge from an equal and never to turn the back upon a foe.

           Once the task of guiding the boy is completed, Billy realizes that the only paternal figure he has left in his life—Yarik—will soon be returning to his miniature form, Billy sees Pack 13 as the only fraternal organization that cares for him. and Yarik will disappear soon. “Why do you have to go too? You taught me to do things. To be brave. To be a man,” Billy asks Yarik tearfully.

            When, near the denouement of the film, Billy and Psycho go hand-to-hand in a brutal fight, Billy ultimately recognizes the futility of the chaotic rumble that Pack 13 and Snakes have ensnared him in. Toni, having kissed Billy on the cheek for luck, knows she cannot talk him out of fighting when his “honor is at stake.” With Toni and her friends as hidden spectators and the invisible Yarik standing overhead, the two combatants have given each other a hell of a beating. Billy has Psycho pinned down and the rest of Pack 13 is egging him on to finish him off with a hockey stick. Billy suddenly withdraws, shouting “What’s the matter with you people? Am I the only one who can see how stupid this is? This isn’t a fight about honor. This isn’t a fight about respect or space.” He reveals to everyone that his father died in a street fight just like this one. “And it didn’t bring him honor. It didn’t bring him anything. I didn’t fight for my honor today. I saved it by stopping.”

          As Billy leaves the warehouse Clyde sneers, “He wasn’t part of Pack 13 anyway.” And because the fight didn’t end the way the gangs had planned, the rest of the kids stay behind and duke it out, but not before Yarik’s voice materializes in Clyde’s ear, inspiring him to exclaim:  “Anyone who wants to leave can do so right now.” Clyde is surprised to hear himself utter these words. He then qualifies himself by saying, “but anyone who wants to stay and finish this, can stay and fight right now!” The warehouse descends into chaos, but not before a few of the kids decide to heed Billy’s warning and put away their colors and walk away. “Sometimes it takes far more courage to sheathe a sword than to wield it,” Yarik tells Billy as he congratulates him.

           In the end, Billy proves himself to Toni and then he reconciles with his worried mother, and Yarik elevates Billy to the rank of knighthood. Just as the Hans Christian Andersen story ends with the tin knight and the toy ballerina enduring a final goodbye as they burn into the melting pot, in the movie Yarik disappears after Katrina the ballerina appears to take his hand in one final magical dance in the moonlight. He has reverted back into doll form. Billy next returns the tin soldier to Mr. Fallon, who offers the boy a job at his antique toy store, which Billy enthusiastically accepts. Mr. Fallon marvels at how Billy immediately knows where the knight wants to be placed. Right next to the ballerina. “He has his lady, and I have mine.” The film fades to black as Billy and Toni, hands clasped together, walk away from the store down the street, and Mr. Fallon waves farewell for now.

National ‘Caveman’ Day: A Look Back at "The Boys Next Door" [by Joe Lehman]

The philosopher Thomas Hobbes wrote that in a state of nature the life of man would be “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.” Unlike Rousseau, who felt that man in his natural state was noble and that society was to blame for his ills, Hobbes believed that human nature, left unchecked, would result in a lawless world, every man for himself. This was how Hobbes saw America in the seventeenth century.

Hobbes believed in the creation and preservation of a lawful society, one dedicated to establishing the safety and security of peoples. If man, left to his own natural primitive devices, is vainglorious (and vicious), a sovereign authority is necessary to police him. How else to react to sociopathic behavior?

As one who has often pondered the question of the malcontent individual’s place in an enlightened society, I maintain that 1985’s The Boys Next Door, an independent cult classic, is a movie that is worth a fresh look for the light it throws on the problem that boys in America face -- and the problems they create.

The Boys Next Door is a Hobbesian parable. It emphasizes that hostile individuals are among us, acting upon their homicidal tendencies whether because of greed, out of frustration, or on a random impulse. Society requires a capable police department, composed of officers that protect innocent people from predators.

Penelope Spheeris directed The Boys Next Door, one of her first films, starring a young Charlie Sheen and Maxwell Caulfield as Bo Richards and Roy Alston, two high school graduates-turned spree murderers in mid-1980s Los Angeles.

The opening credits display dossier photographs of notorious serial killers and mass murderers accompanied by voiceovers emphasizing the seeming “normality” of the killers, and how well they blend into society. This throws the concept of "normality" into question. Is the psychopath "a natural-born killer" or has the social system helped transmogrify him? No doubt there has been a decline in social norms and moral standards. It is nevertheless the individual who must bear full responsibility for his behavior.

The Boys Next Door has a loud heavy-metal soundtrack playing throughout, as well as quick cinematography. The camera angles are widely and intensely shot. This speaks to how rapidly events are spiraling out of control, and the escalating ugliness of the boys’ violent behavior. 

Bo and Roy’s grand ambitions are incompatible with the hard-pressed reality of the future they face. As the trailer’s narrator says, “they’re trapped, and they don’t fit in.” The boys come from dysfunctional families. They are destined to stay in their small town, working at menial jobs, and perhaps raising dysfunctional families of their own. The narrator asks the rhetorical question, “What happens when there is no way out?” What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?

The film begins with a typical high school prank. Roy traces a chalk outline of Bo on the pavement outside the school, and then the next morning the boys watch in awe as the other students mill about, speculating about what kind of “crime” could have occurred. A female student carries a book with the initials “JFK” on the cover. It is possible that the naming of the school after John F. Kennedy signifies the slow decline of Kennedy-style idealism (“Ask what you can do for your country”) that once prevailed in the national sentiment. The New Frontier has died, and in its place are two violent members of Generation X, who exist in order to wreak havoc on their country. 

The bald, bow-tie wearing teacher congratulates the graduating class by speaking of what bright futures they have ahead of them. "You have got a unique opportunity to ride the crest of the third wave,” he says. Roy and Bo just roll their eyes, and make ‘jerking off’ motions; they know their futures are bleak. After class, Roy scoffs, “What the fuck does he know about humanity? What the fuck does he know about anything?” As far as the boys are concerned, they are too cool for school if only because school has nothing to do with "humanity." They radiate disdain. It doesn’t help them that the other students despise them back.

Roy considers joining the marines. This would be a healthy outlet for his pent-up rage. But the potential recruiter notes politely that Roy “doesn’t seem interested in the corps, he’s just curious.” After Roy asks, “have you ever killed anyone?” The officer sees the eager expression in Roy's eyes and understands that Roy isn't interested in the ideals the corps stands for. The marines, who consider themselves the most disciplined and honorable of people, would be an unsuitable option for a budding psychopath.

As they begin their odyssey to Los Angeles, the guys stop outside the factory where they are designated to begin working on Monday. Roy laments: “We’ll run the drill press the rest of our lives.”  Bo answers: “It could be worse. We could have no jobs at all.” Both agree: “Either way we’re screwed.”

Although these teenage slackers have probably never heard of Thomas Hobbes, they hold fantasies of living in a Hobbes-defined state of nature. “I mean wouldn’t it be great, if the government declared an official ‘caveman’ day,” Bo says, “I mean you could just knock girls over the head, drag them back to your house, and just completely drill their socks off. You could do anything. You could throw rocks at people. Run around naked. Take a shit, in the middle of the street. Just be totally prehistoric.” Imagine a seventeenth-century America, in which there is no law and order and Bo and Roy can find themselves at home, unrestrained in their appetite for mayhem.

While their small California hometown is almost entirely racially homogeneous, Los Angeles captivates the boys with its multiethnic diversity. In one sense, they are like fish out of water, but somehow they feel right at home in the weirdness of Hollywood. Here, with relative anonymity, they can act without any impulse control or self-restraint. Their roster of victims represents a cross section of different racial and social subsets. One man they viciously beat is an Iranian gas station attendant. They throw a beer bottle at the head of an old woman who is complaining about the Rastafarians smoking dope on the beach in front of all the young people – an act that represents the assassination of a conservative-minded older generation. They murder a homosexual young urban professional, a WASPish-looking teenage couple, and a flighty female astrology buff. 

That Bo and Roy do aspire beyond the drudgery they seem to be destined for is reflected in a scene where Bo stands over the beach, reciting lines from Edgar Allen Poe's poem “Annabel Lee.” The moment is spoiled when the cruder Roy abruptly cuts Bo off from this recitation, telling him to shut the fuck up. He has no patience for great poetry.

The boys are not entirely unaware of their inner demons. Roy confidentially tells Bo that he has a fury inside him that makes him want to kill people, but he hasn’t had the opportunity to act on his impulses until now. Roy justifies his desire to kill by saying after the gunshot murder of a teenaged couple in their convertible, “I gave her two seconds of pain. Girls like that would have given us eighteen years of pain.” Roy is the dominant partner, while Bo is submissive to his rage. Where Roy commits the physical attacks of maiming and killing, Bo makes half-hearted attempts to dissuade Roy from continuing his endless crusade of wanton destruction. He appears genuinely conflicted about the murders of women and girls, to whom he is attracted, and his dependence on keeping Roy’s friendship. In the eyes of the law, of course, both are equally guilty.

After the thugs’ attack on the Middle Eastern gas station attendant, a phony witness comes forward to claim that the crime was perpetrated by two blacks and a Mexican. The falsity of this statement underscores the discrepancy between people’s assumptions of who are responsible for committing crimes and the reality. It would be convenient to suppose that only minorities are violent people, not Caucasian American kids.

In the aftermath of this attack the two detectives from the LAPD’s robbery-homicide bureau enter the picture. The elder is grizzled veteran Detective Ed Hanley (Hank Garrett), who expresses profound disgust at the wanton cruelty inflicted upon the Iranian, and for what? A dispute over a lousy two dollars (“un-fucking believable”). “I can’t calm down. I feel so fucking useless”, says Mark Woods (Christopher McDonald), the younger detective. So affected is he by the escalating body count that, after the shooting deaths of the teenaged couple in the convertible, he equates the criminal situation with an epidemic. Unlike cops as depicted in some currently popular narratives, these detectives exhibit the futility of their own rage as well as compassion for the victims. Following the murder of a homosexual accountant whom Bo and Roy follow home from a bar, Hanley pushes a bigoted colleague up against the wall, snarling that he “has a mouth like a toilet!”

The killing of Chris, the doomed gay yuppie, signals that Roy might be repressing homosexual impulses himself. Bo and Roy had naively entered a gin mill, not realizing that it was a gay bar. When Chris invites Bo and Roy up to his apartment, Roy, panic-stricken, beats Chris and throws him through a glass table. The deadly duo then steal Chris’s 38 caliber pistol and they use it to fire a fatal shot into Chris. Now that they are armed as well as dangerous, Roy’s bloodlust and Bo’s acquiescence to that bloodlust are fully awakened.

The rage that drives Roy’s madness reaches its apex in the final homicide, when he reaches out and grabs a young astrology aficionado named Angie in the middle of her lovemaking session with Bo. Over Bo’s protests, Roy beats Angie and breaks her neck, yelling at Bo, “you fucked that?!!!” It is as though Angie’s and Bo’s intimacy had unwittingly exposed Roy’s latent homosexual attraction to his best friend, and he cannot tolerate letting any woman coming between them.

In the last killing, Bo finally takes a shot with the stolen 38. Ironically or fittingly, Roy is the victim. In the aftermath of a grueling police car chase and then a chaotic foot pursuit through a closed shopping mall, Bo turns the gun on his accomplice, saying “you’re my best friend, Roy.” The frozen look on Roy’s face is one of sheer disbelief, and then instant death: “two seconds of pain, Roy,” is what Bo mutters before Detectives Hanley and Woods, and a phalanx of uniformed officers and mall security guards surround Bo.

“Why did you kill your friend?” Woods barks at Bo as he is taken into custody.

Bo answers hesitantly “because I had to.” But we think of what Roy had said earlier about "two seconds of pain" as a release from "eighteen years" of suffering.

Perhaps, then, Bo’s releasing Roy’s demonic spirit from his body is a merciful gesture. Everything comes full circle when the police trace a chalk outline around Roy’s now-deceased body, an echo of the the prank he and Bo commit in the opening scene. What a hell of a way to spend the weekend.

The case for "Blow Out": 40 years later -- on 7/4/21 [by Joe Lehman]

Brian De Palma directed Blow Out (1981) at the height of his ‘Hitchcock’ period,  during which he helmed such films as Sisters, Obsession, Dressed to Kill, and Body Double. All these movies contained homages to Alfred Hitchcock. The film critic Roger Ebert, in his review of the movie, suggested  that Blow Out is a mirror image of mid-to-late twentieth century American history. In his view, Blow Out achieved originality in spite (or perhaps because) of the “cross-references” it makes to other films and to historic events.

Blow Out pays homage to the 1966 Michelangelo Antonioni classic Blow-Up, the story of a fashion photographer who believes he has inadvertently captured the image of a murder in one of his shots. Jack (John Travolta), the hero of Blow Out, is in the same position.

The prologue of the film is the screening of a low-budget slasher movie set at a college sorority house, filmed from the demented killer’s point of view -- much like the beginning of 1978’s Halloween. The scene concludes with the killer brandishing a butcher knife at a helpless young woman in the shower (as in Hitchcock’s Psycho [1960]). De Palma had included memorable shower scenes in previous hits such as Carrie (1976) and Dressed to Kill (1980). He subsequently parodied the whole gambit in Body Double (1984). In the shower scene in Blow Out, there is one complication: the actress playing the slashing victim is unable to provide a sufficiently terrified scream. It is at this moment that viewers realize they’re watching the filming of a movie within the movie.

At the center of Blow Out is a car crash off a bridge into a river. The scene made the movie’s initial viewers recall the Chappaquiddick scandal. Around midnight Friday, July 18, 1969, when the rest of the world was waiting for the rocket carrying the first men on the moon to reach their destination, Senator Ted Kennedy (allegedly intoxicated) drove off the bridge of that name at Martha’s Vineyard, leaving his passenger Mary Jo Kopechne to drown. Kennedy did not report the accident for several hours; he consulted his advisers instead. Had he notified the police, a diver may have been able to rescue Kopechne. A mere decade later, Kennedy challenged incumbent President Jimmy Carter for the 1980 Democratic presidential nomination, but the effort backfired when Roger Mudd quizzed Kennedy on recounting the events of Chappaquiddick in a televised interview. Kennedy also flubbed the softball question Mudd tossed: “Why do you want to be president?

In a way, Blow Out’s crash is a reversal of the events of Chappaquiddick. Instead of the politician escaping the accident, it is the passenger who climbs free – Sally (Nancy Allen), who is what we have been taught to call a sex worker. Jack, the witness to the crash, dives into the river, but is able only to recover Sally. Jack, who happens to be a professional sound effects man for movies, has serendipitously made an audio recording of the accident. Listening to it over and over, he becomes convinced that he heard a gunshot precede the blow out of the limousine’s tire, and that the shot caused the crash. Hence, it was no accident. It was coldblooded murder. Meanwhile, the governor’s own chief of staff, Henry (John McMartin), is hell-bent on covering up the incident, so as not to embarrass the governor’s wife and children. Both sides of the presidential primary race are slimy. But such is the nature of politics. The conspiracy is the truth, and the truth is disadvantageous to all parties.

Blow Out tells the story of a political assassination that almost wasn’t. That is to say, the intent of the conspirators is in dispute. Did they want the governor to be killed, or merely just humiliated—caught messing around with a mistress—and knocked out of the presidential race? This discrepancy of motives is revealed in a telephone conversation between Burke the gunman (John Lithgow) and his immediate superior Manners (Maurice Copeland). Except for Jack, the film’s characters are unwilling to pursue the crimes to a satisfactory conclusion. But Jack perseveres.

Much like the act of peeling layers off an onion, Jack is able to peel the layers of the conspiracy off to reveal more shocking crimes and events that are spinning out of everyone’s control.  And as each layer is peeled off, the onion’s sting grows stronger and is cause for more tears and pain. Burke has snuck into the evidence warehouse and removed the bullet from the busted tire, so as to eliminate any suspicion that a gun was fired. He then proceeds to murder a pair of sex workers, both of whom resemble Sally, to create the appearance of a serial killer on the prowl . Dispatching her in this manner would remove all evidence of the initial crime. The series of three is a staple of murder mysteries, so Blow Out can be seen not only as a political thriller but as a salute to Hitchcock’s handling of the mystery genre.

Just as Hitchcock used such landmark settings as the UN Building and Mount Rushmore in North by Northwest (1959), de Palma uses Philadelphia’s patriotic imagery.  The City of Brotherly Love had been a host of the nation’s 1976 bicentennial celebration. Displayed in many scenes of Blow Out are paintings of Benjamin Franklin, Betsy Ross-style American flags waving on street corners, and most prominently, shots of the Liberty Bell, which the audience learns is about to be ceremonially rung for the first time in a hundred years. All this suggests that there are sinister currents beneath the surface of innocent Americana.

The making of the horror movie, which frames the movie, parodies the “slasher” craze of the late 1970s and early ‘80s, which itself reflected the scary uncertainty of of American society at the time, when the country was plagued by inflation, rising crime, and an energy crisis. Spoiler alert: In the film’s final scene, Jack obtains the “scream” he needs for his unfinished slasher movie. It happens to be Sally’s death scream recorded as Burke strangles her. Throughout the film, Jack’s face seems jittery, worn, stressed and ultimately distressed.  In fact, John Travolta was reportedly suffering from insomnia while playing the role. This was certainly an advantage to his method acting talent.

If you want to see a movie that demonstrates how narrative can often overtake truth, and how life and artifice can change places, I recommend Brian De Palma’s Blow Out. All the mayhem—the many murders and mistruths— occurs during the great patriotic Liberty Bell celebration. I write these words on July 4^th. God bless America.

"Why 'Nixonland' Matters" [by Joe Lehman]

When I was twenty-five, backpacking through Australia, I carried with me my hardcover copy of Rick Perlstein’s Nixonland: The Rise of a President and the Fracturing of America. It absorbed me for all seven months of my journey. I took flight to the land of Oz in late October 2008. Nixonland hit the stores in May of that fateful year of financial crisis. Having recently taken it off my bookshelf, I can report that the book holds up well and has a special relevance for us today. It is that rare thing, a thick history book suitable for a college class that is a most pleasurable page-turner.

For those of us born after the end of the ‘60s (I was born in 1983), we have long been used to the romanticized mythology of the era. We conjure up an image of bell-bottom-wearing long-haired hippies, driving around in psychedelic-painted VW buses, getting high on LSD and marijuana, protesting the war in Vietnam, and practicing free love.

Written from a left-of-center perspective, Nixonland has no illusions about the title figure and his presidential predecessor, yet rips the mask off the pastoral vision of acid-tripping dropouts and collegiate idealists to reveal a less pretty picture of moral anarchy, ruined lives, and gun violence. Read this book and your views of that era will lose their rosy hue. Perlstein paints a radical picture of a country gone insane with political brutality, cultural discord, and social decay. Flower people were not always loveable innocents:

           <<<< Love was in the eye of the beholder. At first downtown merchants welcomed the hippie district that sprang up on Plumb Street in Detroit; it was attracting people to their stores. Then they realized that the hippies liked their stores so much because they could panhandle from paying customers (“I wish we could have had the hippies without the dope,” said one merchant, after the forty-three shops on Plumb Street had shrunk down to six.) (185)  >>>>

Nixonland reads like one big Roman chariot race through hell. Stories of race riots, assassinations, bombings, a divisive war in Vietnam, infighting between (and within) left and right, and the reign of a Machiavellian president occupy every page.

One month before my departure to Australia the U.S. economy had come to the brink of collapse, and the Great Recession was in its early stages. On the first Tuesday in November, just over a week after I landed down under, America ushered in the election of the first African-American president. It was, despite the financial calamity, a hopeful moment. In the time since, however, the country has suffered riots, protests, mass shootings, a polarized populace, and a coronavirus sweeping through like a medieval plague. And as I leaf through my worn copy of Nixonland once more, I realize that I am no longer standing apart from the happenings of a chaotic world. The outbreak of COVID-19 did nothing to unify a polarized society. If anything the crisis in civility and the rise of discord have worsened. On Facebook, friendships terminate because of petty political disagreements, and the general tone of debate demonstrates that virtual bullying is as brutal as the physical kind. The Roman Chariot race through Hell that is described in Nixonland seems far more pressing today than it did upon its hardcover publication in 2008.

A history of America from 1964 to 1972, Nixonland goes from “all the way with LBJ” in 1964 to “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?” in 1968; and from there to the resurrection of Richard Nixon and his reelection for years later despite a third-rate burglary on the offices of the political opposition at a previously obscure apartment complex called Watergate. In these eight years America went through what Perlstein bluntly calls a “second civil war.” Just as now, factions of left and right were continually feuding. Vietnam cut the population into two opposing camps. Young people declared war on people over thirty, and the reaction came swiftly enough from folks who pledged allegiance to Bob Hope, “God Bless America,” and Sousa marches on July 4th. “Nixon acted not despite the Silent Majority he described as so pure and decent, but in a sense on their behalf, and even at their request,” Perlstein writes. “His paranoia and dread were their own. Across the state of mind known as Middle America, a subterranean viciousness was bubbling ever closer to the surface.” (519)

Perlstein traces Nixon’s ascent to the presidency from the “wilderness” period when, after being prematurely written off, he scraped together the allegiances and alliances that gained him the 1968 Republican nomination for president. During his first term, he aspired to wind down the Vietnam War, engage in détente with the Soviet Union, and open relations with Red China. In two of those aims he may be said to have succeeded; Nixon was a canny politician and had the benefit of an extraordinary secretary of state. Peace “with honor” proved elusive. The ugly war dragged on. It is likely that on his own Nixon would never have committed half a million soldiers to an unwinnable war in Southeast Asia, as Johnson, McNamara, Rusk, and the Bundy brothers did. But how to end it?

The foreign policy successes did not lessen the amount of civil unrest in the nation. Perlstein juxtaposes the narrative of Nixon’s rise, his wielding of power, and his overwhelming defeat of Senator George McGovern in 1972, with descriptions of horrific crimes committed during the same period. These include massacres committed by the Manson Family in 1969 and Richard Speck’s slaughter of eight student nurses three years earlier. Perlstein also notes the shift in the civil rights and antiwar movements from nonviolence to militancy. “This was,” according to Perlstein “something Richard Nixon, with his gift for looking below social surfaces to see and exploit the subterranean truths that roiled underneath, understood: the future belonged to the politician who could tap the ambivalence–the nameless dread, the urge to make it all go away; to make the world placid again, not a cacophonous mess.” As for the personality of Richard Nixon, here was a man who could wake up the day after winning forty-nine of the nation’s fifty states and feel depressed.

Perlstein charts the period through an inspection of changes in pop culture. For example, he contrasts the reactions of liberals and conservatives to movies with polar opposite themes. In 1967, the right flocked to see John Wayne sound the fighting charge in the jingoistic Vietnam film The Green Berets. The New York Times critic panned the movie. Perlstein quotes the arch-segregationist Senator Strom Thurmond:

“I have not yet had the opportunity to see this movie,” he drawled. But “I have become convinced that this must be one of the most admirable movies of our generation, after reading the review which appeared last week in the New York Times. . . That set me to wondering what on earth the standards of criticism are that are current in the New York Times for a film that is patriotic and pro-American.” (278)

Meanwhile, the left was infatuated with images of Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway blowing away civilians and officers of the law until they meet their own gruesome fate in Bonnie & Clyde. Perlstein defines the reasoning of the movie’s instant fans: “They weren’t bad folks, went the movie’s moral logic, until an evil system forced them to extremity: robbing banks that repossessed farms, killing only when the System was closing in all around them… Bonnie and Clyde made those around them feel alive – all except the squares who were chasing them, who were already more or less dead anyway, with their sucker obsession with honest toil.” (209)

Apparently cinema is the mirror reflecting both sides’ sense of values.

Perlstein describes the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy, the attempt on George Wallace, and the bitterness that ensued. There were other eye-opening events that presage a scary future. In the “planned riot” in Cleveland in 1968, snipers from the “Black Nationalists of New Libya” executed several police officers; in 1971, during the Attica prison uprising in upstate New York, both convicts and guard-hostages were killed in an assault by state troopers. Perlstein illustrates, too, how the chaos in America dovetailed with violence abroad, such as the 1972 massacre of the Israeli Olympic athletes in Munich, Germany, at the hand of Palestinian terrorists. His reportage covers both the liberal and reactionary responses of ordinary citizens. A perfect example of an out-of-touch media occurred during the siege of Attica, when New York Times reporter Tom Wicker addressed a group of relatives of the captive prison guards. Wicker launched into an impassioned speech about the hostage-takers’ solidarity over their brutal treatment by the corrections authorities. The relatives responded by hurling insults and epithets at Wicker, protesting his obvious sympathy for the convicts.

Perlstein is able to draw an indissoluble connection between the events on the ground and the complex personality of Richard Nixon, with his uncanny ability to tap into the passions and political desires of the “Silent Majority” of Americans, who yearned for law and order amid the turmoil. These included the northern “hardhats” and the southern “rednecks.” Perlstein argues that Nixon saw the world in terms of the conflict between two student groups from his university days: the Franklins and the Orthogonians. The former consisted of the rich kids, polished and well-bred, who seemed to have the path to success paved for them. The latter group consisted of outsiders and striving underdogs from the lower-middle and working classes. Nixon himself was an Orthogonian; he rose from a hardscrabble background as the son of a California grocer. John F. Kennedy, his arch political rival, was the epitome of a Franklin; a millionaire’s son with matinee idol looks, a good war record, and the habits of a playboy.  According to Perlstein, for Nixon this dichotomy extends to every group of people. Perhaps surprisingly, the Washington Post’s Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein qualify as the Orthogonians of the newsroom. They are plucky questers, piecing together the facts of the Watergate scandal, with shoe-leather reporting, whereas the Franklins of the newsroom are the well-heeled veteran White House correspondents.

Nixonland is the second entry in Rick Perlstein’s quartet of books covering the emergence of the New Right. Before the Storm (2001) chronicled Barry Goldwater’s doomed GOP Presidential campaign of 1964; The Invisible Bridge (2014) follows Nixon's resignation through Ronald Reagan’s challenge to incumbent President Gerald Ford in 1976. Most recently, Reaganland tells the tale of the much-maligned Jimmy Carter presidency and Reagan’s emergence in 1980.

What struck me about Nixonland in 2008 and continues to resonate in 2021 is the way Perlstein captures the idealistic cluelessness of the liberal side versus the cold Machiavellianism of the right. Just as Tom Wicker was blindsided by the reaction of his audience at Attica, the 1972 Democratic presidential candidate Senator George McGovern was blindsided by the reactions he faced from the voting public. In one campaign stop, McGovern played a reel of gory photographs of wounded civilians in Vietnam, hoping perhaps to guilt-trip Americans into voting for him as the peace candidate. This was a misfire if only because the vast number of Americans are motivated not by sentimental appeals to their consciences but by practical self-interest. Richard Nixon clearly understood this, as he promised to pull out from the war “with honor” and appealed to patriotic and sometimes nationalistic impulses in the voters’ minds. Meanwhile the Democrats were busy shooting themselves in the foot, nominating Senator Thomas Eagleton for vice president, then ditching him post-convention when it turned out that he was a depressive who had seen shrinks and gone through shock therapy. Yet even in landslide victory, Nixon noted that his congressional coattails were shorter than he had hoped for, and he obsessed about his foes. Foes he certainly had. Nixon’s whole political career demonstrates the saying that even paranoids have enemies.

Today the insurgent progressive left of the Democratic Party seems to have perfected political guilt-tripping almost to a science. As a result, its losses are catastrophic (2016) and its wins often pyrrhic (2020). During the early years of the Obama presidency, I observed that Obama would have fewer problems if he learned the lessons of Nixonland. One lesson is that when facts are overtaken by narrative, it is difficult to overcome the narrative. For McGovern, it was impossible to defeat the label of being the candidate of “Acid, Amnesty, and Abortion.” Whether Obama’s Democratic successor Biden has ever taken the time to read Nixonland or not, I do not know. He should. It just may improve his chances for a successful presidency.

Click here to read Joe Lehman on "The Return of Martin Guerre."

The Importance of Martin Guerre, part two [by Joe Lehman]

Ed. note: Part one of this discussion of "Martin Guerre" was posted here on February 12.

I have been poring through the lyrics of the various songs from Martin Guerre the musical. The moment that has most directly affected me emotionally, is where Arnaud takes the stand in court and proclaims:

I'm a Protestant, yes
Of this I am proud
But to bring down your lives
This is not what I vowed
I vowed to love the Lord. 

I won't stand and see destroyed
the precious times we've all enjoyed…

I could easily substitute “Zionist” for “Protestant” to describe my own identity and how it has become seen as heretical to many of my friends and acquaintances on the Left. “I’m a Zionist, yes. Of this I am proud…” has a welcome ring to it. Imagine, then, a young Jewish adult obliged to proclaim his conviction in the belief of individual rights and freedoms, while simultaneously defending the existence and prosperity of the State of Israel, only to be turned away and called a racist pig, by the same progressive-minded individuals who lay claim to ownership of the belief of individual rights and freedoms.

The character of Guillaume is the consummate prejudiced demagogue of the show. He certainly has the most forceful lines:

Stand up and be counted, rise above the crowd
Say this in their memory, I will make you proud
Look around, can't you see what the world has become?
It is time we were cleansed of this Protestant scum!
By the blood of the martyrs, we will take up the sword
We will root out this cancer in the name of the Lord!
Everywhere is chaos, everywhere is doubt
Everywhere are heretics, the time has come to burn them out!

There are an infinite number of madmen throughout history, and if I follow Godwin’s Law, I could easily make an analogy to Hitler and Nazi Germany but it is just too easy a thing to do. (Ed. note: According to Godwin’s Law, if an argument goes on long enough, someone will surely compare someone else to Hitler.) Guillaume, as he is portrayed, can easily represent both a follower and a leader of a bigoted movement. He extends an appeal to lower-middle class resentments and desires:

I was born a poor man, just like each of you
Born to sweat and suffer as the poor must do
Working like a cart-horse, slaving in your field
Till my back is breaking I will never yield.

Furthermore, he exhibits a false paternalistic benevolence by reminding the fellow Catholic villagers of his roots in the community:

Baptiste, I knew your father
Albert, I knew yours too
Men who stood for decency just the same as you.

Finally, he assumes an air of traditional piety by resorting to religious exclamations:

Here I stand before you, bloody and unbowed
By the sword of Jesus
I will make you proud!

The conclusion of the show, where we have the final showdown among Guillaume, Martin, and Arnaud and Bertrande, is most illuminating. Enraged that he has no chance at winning over Bertrande’s affection, now that she is legally bound to Martin though still in love with Arnaud, Guillaume concocts the convoluted idea that it was both Martin’s and Arnaud’s plan from the start:

Right from the start, keep out Guillaume!
Keep him away, far from Bertrande, keep them apart!

All I did Bertrande, I did for you!
So true, so pure...I knew you deserved much more

(he lets Martin go and grabs Bertrande)

A Martin Guerre better than them
A Martin Guerre much more like me.

It would seem that “Martin Guerre” has become representative of both elevation and salvation -- for Arnaud, who is pure of heart, and for Guillaume, who is bitter and aggrieved. Guillaume is about to kill Martin with his knife, but Arnaud, who recognizes he has no place left in the equation except as the martyr, shields Martin and is stabbed to death in his place. He dies in Bertrande’s arms. In the melee, Guillaume too is killed, when another side character springs in and bludgeons him. Everything has come full circle.

It is Bertrande who voices the lesson to be learned from the entire experience:

When will we all learn?
We lived our lives in fear...
We say we love the same God yet there's blood on every hand!
Let him die for peace
Can't you understand?
If all we ever love is hate...
Will we ever hear?

Intolerance has indeed led the people of Artigat down the pathway to hell, from which the only recovery is reconciliation between the Catholic and Protestant factions.

Here, in 2021 America, there has been a lot of talk in the news from the Biden administration about finding unity between the various competing factions that fall under the aegis of Republican and Democratic parties. But it is still early, and the future remains terribly uncertain. I only know that I, as an individual, can strive to be, and continue to be, a better person. Perhaps I take after Bertrande:

 I will carry on
till the fear has gone
till the day I find
There's someone who will hear!

There’s someone who will hear.

Ed. note: For part one of this discussion, click here.

The Importance of Martin Guerre -- Part One [by Joe Lehman]

"Martin Guerre: Now and Then; Then and Now" [by Joe Lehman]

PART ONE

“Land to last, as it's passed, man to son, when it's done as planned. Then we'll pray it will stay as good Catholic land.”

After the experience of living through the past four years, this lyric sounds a lot like Make America Great Again. At least, that was the thought that came to mind when I listened to the music of Martin Guerre in the summer of 2018.

I had the privilege of attending one of the original performances of the short-lived musical Martin Guerre when visiting London, England, in late December 1997-early January 1998, when I was fourteen. It has had a troubled existence; rarely has it been revived. I don’t believe it has ever opened on Broadway. As I was so young when I saw Martin Guerre, I didn’t appreciate its meaning. Twenty years went by, and in a dream one night, the memory of the musical came to me. The next morning, I purchased the soundtrack of the original cast recording. The musical, and the story behind it, has held a great significance for me ever since.

The tale of the sixteenth century French peasant Martin Guerre and the imposture conducted by his army buddy Arnaud du Thil was resurrected in the 1982 French-language film The Return of Martin Guerre, as well as in a nonfiction book with the same title by historian Natalie Zemon Davis. Subsequently, the story has been immortalized as a continuing trope in many incarnations, including the 1993 movie Sommersby, starring Richard Gere and Jodie Foster, where the story is transported to post-Civil War and Reconstruction-era Tennessee, and the titular character and his imposter are veterans of the Confederate Army. It has even taken the form of satire in an episode of TV’s “The Simpsons,” where the Vietnam veteran Principal Skinner is revealed to be an imposter, a former comrade-in-arms of the ‘real’ Skinner.

It is in Martin Guerre the musical that the story is placed most prominently in the context of bigotry, nativism, and religious intolerance. The history of Catholic persecution of the Protestant Huguenots figures heavily. The setting is the provincial village of Artigat. Strangely, for reasons unknown to me, the word “Huguenot” is never uttered in the show. What is known is that Artigat is populated by a Catholic majority and a Protestant minority. Martin Guerre and Bertrande de Rols are betrothed to marry at an adolescent age, so that their families will merge in attempt to keep their shared land under Catholic ownership. But Martin is unable to perform sexually and in a fit of wanderlust, finds the only way available for French peasant to gain upward mobility: He leaves the village and Bertrande, and joins the Catholic army.

Seven years pass and when Martin is seemingly felled in battle, Arnaud du Thil travels to Artigat and almost accidentally assumes his identity, his land, and his wife Bertrande, who, despite being the one who knows about the fraud, falls in love with Arnaud, and together they clandestinely convert to Protestantism. Guillaume, an anti-Protestant fanatic who is also a jealous former suitor of Bertrande’s, discovers the truth and becomes Arnaud’s main accuser. Arnaud is arrested, brought to trial, where he continues relentlessly to insist he is the real Martin Guerre. The members of the courtroom are divided across Catholic and Protestant lines, in Arnaud’s favor and against it. The surprise witness who is able to provide the ultimate evidence of Arnaud’s imposture is Martin Guerre himself, who reappears to testify to his true identity. The musical sees Artigat burn down in an orgy of violence and Arnaud murdered at Guillaume’s hands. This version differs from the historical record. In fact, Arnaud’s case was tried, appealed, and tried again before he was found guilty and executed by hanging, while Bertrande was returned to her legal husband’s custody. I can only surmise that this modification was made for dramatic purposes. The show ends with the villagers contemplating the consequences of their hateful actions and praying for forgiveness.

French historian Philippe Erlanger in his book St. Bartholomew’s Night chronicles the bloody history of France during the turbulent century of the Protestant Reformation:

The world was changing at a bewildering pace. The old order was giving way. Men had once placed all their hopes in heaven: now they were beginning to look for happiness here on earth again.

 Erlanger describes the atmosphere of the Reformation and the Renaissance:

A society which for a great while had been preoccupied with local quarrels suddenly beheld the horizon torn wide open before it; and at the same time, it became conscious of curiosities, doubts, and wild irrational beliefs.

It seems to be a constant throughout history that with the coming of liberalization and modernization of people and civilization, comes a reactionary backlash equal in force. Erlanger writes:

Intolerance bred intolerance. Fanaticism increased in the same measure as the struggle for liberation of the minds of men.

Erlanger could very well have been describing the political and racial tribalism and its ensuing chaos that exists in present-day America, where the Proud Boys battle Antifa and Black Lives Matter in vicious street confrontations.

Ed note: this is part one of a two-part article. For part two, click here.

Argo (Fuck Yourself) [by Joe Lehman]

Actor/Director Ben Affleck, center, with his “Argo” inspiration Tony Mendez, far left, and real-life “house guests” Kathleen Stafford, Bob Anders and Lee Schatz. At right are Pat Taylor and former Ambassador Ken Taylor (Keegan Bursaw/Embassy of Canada)           

 

Ben Affleck’s Argo opens with the image of the long defunct Warner Brothers logo that the studio used in the 1970s. It was upon seeing this blast from the past that I knew this movie was something neat. Ultimately Argo is a double-layered film: a movie wrapped in a movie. And that is what makes it neat. So much so, in fact, that when I examined it closer and found just how many conventional devices the film employs, my instinct was to overlook them. Argo is neat enough to be forgiven many clichés that might sink an inferior movie.

Argo is based on true events, some infamous and some unknown, kept under lock and key by the CIA for the past thirty years. As the world remembers it, Iranian revolutionaries held fifty-two American Embassy workers hostage for a period of 444 days from November 1979 until January 1981. The image of the blindfolded captives, as broadcast on ABC Nightline every day of the ordeal, remains an icon of helplessness that continues to resonate for Americans today.

The events unknown until recently center on the escape of six embassy workers out a back exit. The six were sheltered for weeks at the Teheran residence of the Canadian ambassador before managing to depart Iran and its reign of terror under the guise of a movie crew scouting locations for a putative science-fiction picture and using false Canadian passports – the whole improbable but effective scheme cooked up by the CIA working with Hollywood. Argo reveals the newly declassified details of this great feat.

The hero of the story, CIA Agent Tony Mendez, as played by actor/director Ben Affleck, comes across as the typical battle-weary troubleshooter with a troubled home life, who can always be counted on as the voice of reason in a room full of indecisive bureaucrats arguing and dithering on how best to provide cover for the extraction of the six Americans (or “ex-fils,” a neologism based the inverse of infiltration). Getting approval for the operation from Secretary of State Cyrus Vance is “like talking to the two old fucks on the Muppets,” says Affleck’s CIA superior, played convincingly by Bryan Cranston. 

Affleck doesn’t have to reach too far to convey his character’s burnout and lassitude. His sunken-eyed expression says it all. As you might expect, it is his force of will that drives the rescue plan to fruition. At one point, Affleck stares definitively at the fourth wall, as if to say ‘let’s do it.’

Adding a dose of cynicism and black humor are two Hollywood figures, an irreverent make-up artist (John Goodman) and a cantankerous veteran film producer (Alan Arkin). The steadfast Canadian Ambassador (Victor Garber) is heroic, as is his young Iranian servant girl, who in one of the movie’s best scenes covers for the houseguests, standing up to questioning by the Iranian secret police, overriding her own conflicted loyalties in the process. The worsening situation tests the resolve of the film’s heroes.

Argo’s genius is in its mosaic of spy intrigue and revolutionary violence and its commentary on Hollywood egotism and the burgeoning popularity of Star Wars-like sci-fi movies. It makes clear that the anti-American demonstrations of the Iranian militants are just as much a type of theater as Hollywood’s overblown science-fiction make-up and movie sets and costumes. At one point a character points to the TV image of the U.S. flag-burning protestors and asks, “you ever think how this is all for the cameras?”

The ever-present stare of the Ayatollah Khomeini, emblem of the repressive regime adorns posters in Teheran. These are similar images to those found (even more threateningly) in 1991’s Not Without My Daughter, also set in the Ayatollah’s Iran. Starring Sally Field (in one of those crusading-mother roles usually assigned to Sally Field, Meryl Streep, or Sissy Spacek), NWMD recounts the true-life tale from the 1980s of an an American woman’s efforts to flee, with her young daughter in tow, Iran and her abusive Iranian husband.  Where Affleck in Argo attempts to convey sensitivity toward Iran’s complicated history and its people’s legitimate grievances against the American government NWMD demonizes the Iranian people.  In the opening voiceover, Argo is careful to include references to the 1953 U.S.-backed coup d’état against Iranian Prime Minister Mossadeq and the subsequent backing of the Shah’s oppressive regime.  NWMD leaves these matters unmentioned. This is not to say that Argo is not without negative stereotypes, but Affleck is more thorough at balancing them out with his cultural liberalism.

There are elements of pungent irony: for example, a shot of burka-clad Iranian women eating buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Alan Arkin says of film extras in an unrelated picture he is producing in Africa, “They may be cannibals, but they still want health and dental insurance.” Arkin’s favorite catchphrase becomes the movie’s signature line:: “Argo Fuck Yourself!” As gloomy international events continue to air on the nightly news, Arkin mutters, “John Wayne is in the ground six months, and this is what’s left of America!”