REPORTS

A Tale Of Two Stairways

Past, Present, Faulkner

May 24, 2019 in El Turista,SOUTHERN JOURNAL,Southwest,U. S. Politics | Comments (0)

 

By LARRY CALLOWAY (C)

“My fellow citizens,” Abraham Lincoln said, addressing Congress in December 1863. “We cannot escape history.” The sentiment and, “The past never dies. It is not even past,”  a line from William Faulkner that has been elevated by quote pickers to the status of an aphorism about the South, hummed like a soundtrack in my mind as we (my daughter and I) discovered the state of Mississippi. Don’t forget slavery, the bluesy background kept repeating. Don’t forget the violence of the 1960’s. 

She was not even born then, but I did not have to tell her about Mississippi Burning: the KKK at night, the exonerated murders of Emmett Till, Medgar Evers, Chaney-Goodman-Schwerner. The endless anniversaries attract the media. They become news, affordable to produce from the archives. Not even the past.

We went to Natchez because I wanted to drive some of the Natchez Trace Parkway that goes 444 miles to Nashville and look for signs of the original wagon road. I like historic trails. Old spirits follow them, and you can find things. In arid northern New Mexico I have seen 150-year-old wagon tracks from the Old Santa Fe Trail and found a rusty spur.

Now, Natchez is a leafy little town on a bluff of the Mississippi river. Population 15,000, down from 22,000 in 1980 when there was a tire factory and a pulp mill. There are no big employers now, just tourist attractions and real estate bargains and a posh casino on a permanent steamboat. 

The racial divide in Natchez is African American 60 per cent, Anglo American 36 percent — the reverse of the statewide percentages. Natchez has had black mayors since 2004. Billboards were advertising a stern black candidate running for sheriff against the incumbent, also African American. The city still promotes 19 accessible antebellum mansions. Yes, they were built before the civil war by wealthy slave owners. Their architecture is mostly brick walls elaborate white porticos and classical white columns supporting long second-story galleries. The style is called Greek revival (I recalled the Athenians had slaves.)

Circling In Natchez

Inside one mansion, called Auburn, is a self-supporting double-helix stairway that makes two full turns. It stands by itself like a stretched coil spring. The hand rail is a continuous bend of dark wood. I was surprised because I thought the only such woodwork masterpiece is the “Miraculous Staircase” in Santa Fe’s Loretto Chapel. I took a picture and posted it for the enlightenment of friends in New Mexico, where I worked for a long time. 

So why is not the Natchez staircase famous too? Well, tourism depends upon stories, or histories. Tourists (like we journalists) go out and bring back stories — with pictures. The Loretto Chapel story is mysterious and sweet. The Auburn mansion story is not.

Loretto was consecrated in 1878, but there was an unsolved architectural problem, and the architect had died. The choir loft was left hanging 20 feet above the floor with no access. Choirs don’t usually climb ladders. There was no space in the narrow chapel for ordinary stairs. The nuns prayed and prayed. Along came a mysterious stranger. He built the double helix staircase using simple hand tools and wood-peg joinery. And then he vanished, leaving no name.

Auburn was built 70 years earlier by a politician who became state attorney general, but it soon passed to a doctor named Stephen Duncan who arrived from Pennsylvania in 1809 and got into investment and banking. By 1850 he owned numerous plantations and a thousand slaves. He was not alone among slaveholders on the Natchez bluff. A common estimate is there were more millionaires there before the civil war than in New York City.

 

Most of their plantations were across the river, in the Louisiana flats. Our host at a luxurious bed and breakfast mansion on the Natchez Trace Parkway made an interesting point at the formal breakfast table one morning. He said the popular image from the movies of plantation homes with a tree-lined lanes is misleading. The plantation residences were “farmhouses.” The owner-planters lived with their families in town — in showplaces with halls like ballroom floors where they entertained and the men did business and politics.

In other words, the wealthy planters kept their distance from their slaves and overseers. It occurred to me that this distancing is a factor in the extraordinary shame of American slavery.

I mean, slaves going back to even the Old Testament may have been treated differently. A scholar of colonial slavery in Louisiana, Gwendolyn Midlo Hall, writes that the French, who colonized New Orleans in 1718,

Our bed and breakfast

did not consider Africans as “uncivilized.” She says, “French New Orleans was a brutal, violent place. But it cannot be understood by projecting contemporary attitudes toward race backward in time. There is no evidence of racial exclusiveness and contempt that characterizes more recent times.”  

There it is: contempt. It explains the violent resistance to integration a century after the civil war and the legacy of white supremacy now. In the civil rights era the KKK was revived in Natchez. Two car bombings — one that critically injured the head of the local NAACP, one that killed a black worker the day after he was promoted to a traditionally white management position — spurred African Americans to take up arms. The governor called out the national guard. 

And so goes one simple explanation (there are others) why beautiful historic Natchez on the Mississippi is not flourishing. The shame of slavery with its legacy is not even the past.

This was one of the refutations of current dismissive attitudes from a white graduate student who guided our tour group at Whitney Plantation in Louisiana, the only antebellum plantation focused on the slaves. It is a private property bought and restored by a Louisiana lawyer-developer using $8 million of his own money and open to the public since 2014. The guide said those who want to ignore slavery because all that stuff was long ago and far away are blind the the legacy of the “slave society” that involved everybody including righteous preachers, northern politicians and eastern bankers.

She said the argument that some slaves were well treated is unsupported. She said the revolt by enslaved Africans against the French colonists that resulted in the establishment of Haiti as free nation in 1791 is downplayed because the Haitian revolution so disturbed the American planters that they turned to discipline by terror.  She said the story that house servants enjoyed their superior positions fails to acknowledge that they were isolated from their African community and that a slave in the house was in constant contact with the masters and therefor subject to harassment and their intermittent moods. 

The centerpiece of Whitney is a lane of granite placards with quotes and engraved scenes and the hundreds of names of slaves who had lived there. Single common names. Slaves had no family names. They not only had been ripped from their African families, wholesale, but their American families were ripped apart, retail. On the granite are quotes evoked in the 1930’s by the Federal Writers Project from old people born into slavery: 

“Every body worked, young and ole; if you could only carry two or three sugar cane, yo’ worked. No school, no church. An’ Saturday night dey always have a dance, but yo’ worked. Yo’ has to put yo’ candle out early and shut yo’self up, den get up while it’s still dark an’ start to work.”

“Dey didn’t larn us nothin’ an didn’t ‘low us to larn nothin.’ Iffen dey ketch us larnin’ to read an’ write, dey cut us han’ off.”

“Tisn’t he who has stood and looked on that can tell you what slavery is — ’tis he who has endured.”

The restoration includes a clapboard church, among the windowless and doorless mass slave cabins, built in 1870 in the Protestant movement to Christianize freed African Americans, who by then were free laborers living on sustenance wages with nowhere else to go. The plantation church is populated by life size models of curious sad wary children. 

There are no quotes from the elite in the mansions, but I am sure they would have talked something like the wife of a Boston banker visiting American-supported Cuban plantations quoted in the history of Cuban slavery, No God But Gain:

“The conversation in most companies consists of the price of slaves. ‘Such a day, a fine cargo of negroes arrived from the coast of Guinea.  Have been to see them, they are fine looking felons. What will they sell for?’” 

 After hurricane Katrina, I read, there was opposition to repairing damaged antebellum mansions, and some commenters on travel web sites criticize the exclusive mansion tours. Still, at the Auburn mansion, amiable women of the Natchez Garden Club greet you and proudly show you around, speaking of interior decoration, historic furnishings and fashionable quadrilles. They point out that the adjacent 280-acre Duncan park was donated to the city by the Duncan heirs. And they display a letter written in 1876 about the estate’s horses in a fine script by the black butler to the absent owner.

The salutation is “Dear Master Steve,” and the ending is, “I feel grateful for the confidence reposed in my integrity and I shall endeavor to deserve it.” Signed, “I am your obedient / and a name.

At Rosalie mansion, named for the historic Fort Rosalie nearby, members of the DAR show priceless furnishings and describe the architect’s design for cooling by natural air circulation. They tell a nicer than usual story about this mansion’s builder, Peter Little, who arrived from Pennsylvania (another midwesterner) at age 18 in 1798, seeking work as a laborer. He bought land and a couple of slaves, immediately selling one at a loss and freeing the other. Eventually he bought a derelict river boat and began his fortune by adapting its steam engine to run a circular saw, producing lumber from the ancient cypress trees in the Louisiana bayous. (Dark side: those redwood-like trees were home to birds that ate billions of mosquitos that were vectors for yellow fever.) 

Rosalie fence is all cypress

He became friends in his daily crossings of the river with the ferryman, who, along with his wife, was infected in the yellow fever epidemic of 1805. Before they died they pleaded with Little to take care of their 13-year-old daughter, Eliza. He did — marrying her three years later, sending her to school in Baltimore, outfitting her with the best clothes from New Orleans when she returned as a refined adult, and introducing her to society. He built the Rosalie mansion for her in 1820-23. Little did not become a slave-owning planter until his lumber business made him rich. He and Eliza lived at Rosalie childless but happily until their deaths shortly before the Civil War, the story goes. 

Peter Little is like Thomas Sutpen in Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom! Except Sutpen is evil and there is no happily-everafter ending. I decided to understand both as fictions telling their own truths.

In an irony of the civil war,  for a while in 1863 an upstairs Rosalie bedroom with a window looking down on a reach of the river was occupied by Union Gen. Ulysses S. Grant. The mayor of Natchez had surrendered rather than suffer the fate of Vicksburg, ruined by the cannons of Grant’s new iron-clad river boats and besieged for nearly two months. 

Still, most wealthy Natchez survivors of the war lost their plantations and some, their mansions. Dr. Duncan, top nabob with the most slaves to his name but never a supporter of the Confederacy, kept Auburn but moved to New York City, where he continued banking and investing. For a while he worked on an unsuccessful project to send freedmen to Canada. The enlisted and often drafted Confederate soldiers, most not even slave owners, suffered the most. Although they were released with their possessions, even their horses, under Gen. Robert E. Lee’s surrender agreement with Grant at Appomattox, they went home to the poverty of the Reconstruction era as the nation industrialized but the South was left behind. There’s one of them, a common soldier, atop an 1890 memorial to the local Confederate dead in Veteran’s Park near the cathedral in downtown Natchez. His rifle and his face hang down sadly. I wondered who among those who now revile Confederate monuments would want to remove him?

Before leaving town, we went to a Natchez park to see the “mounds,” built by the Natchez natives, who were dominant in the lower Mississippi valley from about 700 to 1500. In the museum we saw their pottery with incised complex designs. A video said they farmed, planting corn, beans and squash and their kinship organization was matrilineal — the same as the historic pueblos and their Anasazi ancestors in the dry Southwest. I wondered if there was prehistoric contact between these civilizations.

My daughter Maia at the mounds

The two original populations of Natchez and Santa Fe entered history with something else in common: both were colonized by European Catholics, the Natchez by the French, the Pueblo people by the Spanish. And both rebelled violently after initial accommodation of the invaders. Under the American successors, even now include conservatives in both Natchez and Santa Fe will talk with regret about an “invasion” by the Yankee United States. In Santa Fe it was Stephen Kearney in 1846. In Natchez it was Grant in 1863. African Americans are not part of this complaint, of course. But I wondered if they someday may unite politically, not with the conservative New Mexico hispanics, but with American Latinos, or Chicanos, in general.

One night we found the only super market in Natchez at closing time. Out on the huge strip-mall parking lot several hundred young people were partying. Mariachi music blared from the brightely lighted Mexican restaurant that was the focal point of the crowd. The supermarket manager stood just inside his doors watching the crowd. He warned us he would close in ten minutes. I asked him what was going on out there. 

“Cinco de Mayo,” he said. 

What? A celebration of Mexican independence in a town that is about 1 per cent Latino?

Oh, I saw:  these partiers were not speaking Spanish. Nor were they traditional white Southern parking lot partiers.

When we got back with some groceries, there was another car parked close to ours, leaving only about two feet on the passenger side. Some young men were looking out open windows and talking to a pretty girl.

She, the black girl, cleared the way for us and said to me, “What’s your name?”

“My name? Lorenzo,” I said sarcastically. She laughed, and I said, “What’s yours?”

She told me. She raised her right hand.

High five! Her hand was warm.

 


On Natural Education

Review of “Educated” by Tara Westover

April 18, 2018 in The Rockies,U. S. Politics | Comments (0)

By LARRY JOSEPH CALLOWAY (c)

“Educated” is an ironic title for a memoir by a young woman, Tara Westover, who showed up at Brigham Young University from rural Idaho at age 17 without any education at all, not even home schooling. All she knew was the mountain where she lived and the personalities of her extended family and the beauty of the seasons and animals and junk cars and how to ride and tame horses and how to cook and identify herbs and their healing properties, and how to sing before an audience and how to trust her own instincts. The meaning of “educated,” then,  must lie in her flyleaf quote from John Dewey that “education is a reconstruction of experience.” 

At 27 Tara Westover received a PhD in history from Cambridge University in England. Her story, published in March, is sure to provoke public schoolers and believers in Jeffersonian democracy. They will have explanations and investigations. All I have is the suggestion that you read this book.

If it were simply about “another young person who left home for an education. . . and isn’t going back,” as the New York Times review concluded, then her memoir would not be a best seller, despite her skillful story telling. The success is in the setting, the surrounding, which is a mystery to most Americans. Most of the book takes place in what is being called The American Redoubt, by fringe writers and their followers. This is the mountainous spread of the interior northwest (Idaho, Wyoming, Montana, and parts of eastern Oregon and Washington).

The survivalist culture of the Redoubt (a fortified refuge) involves severing dependance on government, its schools, its police powers its health care requirements, its systems of water, power, and transportation, and its distribution of goods. The culture involves preparing for the political-economical system’s collapse by stockpiling guns, food and fuel and other necessities. Culture is the business of anthropology and this memoir, along with its literary virtues, is anthropological.

Her father is a tyrant, a doomsday prepper who has dozens of guns and a thousand gallons of fuel wrapped and buried. He draws his absolute family authority from random biblical passages. He supports the family with his junkyard salvaging and barn building, in which the seven children as they grow are expected to help. He ignores safety as a matter of crazy religious faith — the angels of the Lord will protect them — and Tara is slashed, impaled and twice nearly crushed to death by his frenzied junkyard sorting. “Dad lived in fear of time. He felt it stalking him. I could see it in the worried glances he gave the sun as it moved across the sky, in the anxious way he appraised every length of pipe or cut of steel,” she writes. (more…)


Puma, Panther, Cougar. . . Lion!

“Close enough to hear them purr”

December 10, 2017 in Rio Grande West,The Rockies | Comments (6)

 

National Park Service photo

By Larry Joseph Calloway

Mountain lions live here in the Sangre de Cristo mountains of Colorado. So you’d think Ron Garcia would not be surprised to see one. He’s the longtime manager of the Baca National Wildlife Refuge five minutes from Crestone, and lions are, of course, wildlife. They are unmistakable, with adult males about eight feet long from nose to tail tip and females a foot shorter.

Yet, one evening a few years ago as he left work at the historic ranch headquarters of the refuge Garcia was very surprised. First he noticed a barn door was open. He got out of his truck to close it. The winter shadows were long. Suddenly he saw something move in the dark at the base of a barn wall. It was a full grown lion lying in wait.

Ron Garcia

Not waiting for Garcia, who instinctively reached for a pistol he wasn’t carrying. He knew mountain lions eat deer almost exclusively, and this one likely was waiting for the deer that wander into the cottonwoods at the headquarters — and nowhere else on the flat, watery refuge. It has an over-population of about 3,000 elk, but they are not the natural prey of lions, whose normal habitat is higher ground — beginning with the pinyon-juniper belt where most us live.

There is no record of fatal attacks on people here. And though occasionally a lion will kill a small mammal, in Garcia’s view pets are safe. “Taking a small dog is rare. If they attack one it’s more from fear or hunger.” With all the deer wandering in the Baca subdivision and in town, there shouldn’t be starving lions around.

Anyway, the shadowy lion by the barn that evening padded softly away. (Like this: Garcia showed with his hands like paws.) It was not seen again, and lions are seldom seen on the refuge generally. “Typically when you see one in the flats there’s an issue with the animal — usually a health issue — because the animal is out of its element. It’s the same thing with bears,” he said. (more…)


The Builder Governor

Remembering Jack Campbell

December 10, 2016 in New Mexico Politics | Comments (1)

Tags: , ,

 

By Larry Joseph Calloway

 

Jack M. Campbell / The autobiography of New Mexico’s first modern governor: as told to Maurice Trimmer with Charles C. Poling, University of New Mexico Press, 2016.

 

I was lucky to arrive in Santa Fe before its style, real estate and cultural conflicts went commercial and while Jack Campbell was still governor. The city has changed, and people like Campbell usually decline to run.

 

I also was lucky to meet Maurice Trimmer on that first day as a New Mexico political reporter. After working for UPI in several big city bureaus, I had requested this transfer to a smaller pond, but now I was totally lost. Santa Fe looked foreign. The Bataan Building did not look like a state capitol. The governor’s office looked deficient with a staff of only seven, including Trimmer, the press secretary.

 

Perhaps because he too had been the new UPI guy eight years earlier, Maury sympathetically began some on-the-job education. He invited me to accompany the governor to El Rito. The state under Campbell had started a vocational program there to make use of what was irrevocably designated as a teacher’s college in the state constitution. We saw young men and women learning hair styling and construction and auto mechanics.

 

On the drive back to Santa Fe in the limo the director of the new Board of Educational Finance said it would be logical to move the school from the rural village to the town of Espanola. The governor said, “Bill, your problem is you try to apply logic to Northern New Mexico.”

(more…)


HILLBILLY SYNCHRONICITY

My Fellow Americans. . .

November 9, 2016 in SOUTHERN JOURNAL,U. S. Politics | Comments (2)

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

By Larry Joseph Calloway ©

 The networks were so unprepared for Donald Trump’s win that my election night switching caught only one panelist who could speak with authority for the key voters euphemistically called “white – no college degree.”  He was J. D. Vance, the black-haired concise-speaking author of “Hillbilly Elegy,” an immediately personal story of his poor and violent family from Appalachian Kentucky.

I was reading it in October along with another pre-election bestseller, the radical history “White Trash” by Nancy Isenberg. These books are cultural not political, but they explain something about the “populist uprising,” as Vance termed it in an interview while adding that Trump understood the anger behind it but offered no solutions.

Apart from politics, my research represented an obsession with my father’s hardwood Appalachian roots. He was always wanting something far away. His sisters talked of North Carolina when we visited their farms near Lyons, CO. They were pretty and spoke in sweet accents. My father drank. He died. I was about to set the periodic ancestry project aside when, suddenly, up popped an email from a total stranger in Longmont, Colorado. I’ll get to the deep synchronicity* of it in a few minutes.

Writer-lawyer Vance’s family moved from Jackson, KT, to Middleton, in southern Ohio, so his grandfather could work in the Armco steel mill. It rusts away now under a Japanese name. His grandfather died as an out-of-work alcoholic. His mother, pregnant at high school graduation with his older brother, was more in love with drugs than any of her half dozen husbands.

His elegy is for his grandmother, who raised him. She was a heroic exemplar of the lost mountain culture of pride and toughness. She disciplined him relentlessly to pursue self-improvement through education and even, among other folksy wisdoms, learning golf because “that’s where rich people do business.” (Trump is an international developer of golf courses.)

Mamaw, as he called her, represents the culture lost when the families of several generations were uprooted by economics and dropped dead by economics. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” as my father used to say. I had his brother-in-law minister, a chaplain of the Arizona National Guard, read it at his graveside ceremony. Vance does not mention churchgoing in Middleton, but I suppose religion was a part of the lost culture because in every North Carolina hollow where I searched for Calloways there was a church — usually Baptist — often looking forsaken. Vance observes out of nowhere, “I wasn’t surprised that Mormon Utah — with its strong church, integrated communities, and intact families — wiped the floor with Rust Belt Ohio.”

(more…)


“Spotlight” At Telluride 2015

My last Telluride Film Festival review

September 11, 2015 in T-ride Film Fest | Comments (6)

Tags: , , , , ,

t-ride aerial

September: Telluride

 

By LARRY JOSEPH CALLOWAY

NEWSPAPERS, the first drafts of history, also used to write the loglines of movies. The logline for “Spotlight,” debuted at the 2015 Telluride Film Festival and my hope for a lot of awards, goes like this: A quartet of Boston Globe investigators, publishing under a “Spotlight” logo, shames the Catholic Church, the legal profession and journalism itself in a year of stories about the systematic burying of cases of sexual abuse of children by parish priests. The 2003 Pulitzer Prize panel called the work “courageous,” and the screenplay by director Tom McCarthy (“The Station Agent”) and Josh Singer portrays that courage with artful intelligence.

We all know the general story, but this telling is new. It unfolds like a thriller. The reporters discovered a pattern of concerted reaction in contradiction of the “just a few rotten apples” p.r. strategy of the Church. When an activist group supporting the victims, mostly kids from poor Boston parishes, would manage to get a case to court, a conspiracy of silence descended like a dark curtain. A pedophile priest would get some time off and a transfer. The family of the child or children would get a patronizing visit by the archbishop and $20,000 (a limit set by a strange Massachusetts statute). The case would then be officially sealed and the victims, not the defendants, would be abandoned to live in shame.

The Spotlight reporters led by Walter Robinson saw the pattern and were the first to expose it after diligent research. Robinson is played by Michael Keaton, who is not the star because the ensemble including him, Mark Ruffalo, Rachel McAdams and Brian James is the true star. They repeatedly attempt to interview lawyers who say they can’t talk because they would be disbarred for violation legal ethics. When Robinson ridicules this, a lawyer responds that he was just doing his job. Robinson asks, then, whose job was it to look after the victims?

(more…)


Get Cam, Find Cab, Make Film

Documentary Films At Telluride

in T-ride Film Fest | Comments (0)

Tags: , , ,

By LARRY JOSEPH CALLOWAY

To get started on a documentary film you don’t need documents or film. Just take a camera – it doesn’t have to be expensive – to an interesting situation and the world will provide, if you wait long enough. The devil is in the editing. These new possibilities for non-fiction production were delightfully demonstrated in Jafa Panahi’s “Taxi” at the Telluride Film Festival.

He was in big trouble with Iranian security, and if he was seen filming he would be arrested. So he came up with a plan. Masquerading as a taxi driver, he rigged a cab with small cameras and hit the streets of Tehran. The resulting ride is, well, great taxi theatre. We see the actual humor and humanity of a country depicted by our politicians, who have never been there, as a bleak and dangerous enemy.

A loudmouth passenger sits in front complaining that a neighbor in a hurry hopped in his car and it would not go. Then the guy saw all the wheels were gone and it was sitting on blocks. If a couple of these thieves were hanged in public that would stop this car stripping, he says. A diminutive passenger in the back seat, a teacher dressed in black and covered, says, “I can’t believe what I just heard.” An argument ensues at a pitch that would make an American talk show host proud, and the loudmouth gets so mad he orders Panahi to stop and let him off.

And that’s just the first scene. There is a smuggler with a selection of DVD movies, another with banned CD albums. The taxi is flagged down at a traffic accident and Panahi rushes him to the hospital. A film student argues about the rules against depicting reality. A flower lady is going to visit political prisoners. A mugging victim spots his mugger but declines to do anything that would subject him to police interrogation. . . . If you film it, they will come.

(more…)


A Long Time On The Colorado Plateau

What happened there anyway?

July 27, 2015 in El Turista,JOURNEYS,Rio Grande West | Comments (1)

Tags: , , , , ,

By LARRY JOSEPH CALLOWAY

                            

Anasazi,

Anasazi,            

tucked up in clefts in the cliffs

 growing strict fields of corn and beans

 sinking deeper and deeper in earth

 up to your hips in Gods. . . .

 

–Gary Snyder

 

They are long gone, of course, eight centuries gone, but I always think they still own those crooked canyons and sunny alcoves where they built in sandstone and wrote on walls and signed their strange writs with hand prints. After the summer heat we drove to the Colorado Plateau looking for the goners, the absentee owners. We walked their intermittent ways in the sun and sat and read or talked by the lantern in the moon. Like good journalists and good tourists we came back with stories and pictures. There was a house on fire.

 

House on Fire Ruin, Mule Canyon

As if something still raged. As if it were telling us something.

(more…)


The SHOW Goes On, Toronto

My comments on the Telluride Film Festival, 2014

September 3, 2014 in T-ride Film Fest | Comments (4)

Tags: , , , , , ,

By LARRY JOSEPH CALLOWAY

The threat by the Toronto Film Festival to put a partial eclipse on films that premiered a week earlier at Telluride did not dim any lights on the old mining town’s opera house “SHOW” sign. The 41st Telluride Film Festival directors got everything they wanted for the Labor Day weekend program, according to volunteers who heard it from them.

Harvey Weinstein, adept at Telluride premiers that go on to win best picture Oscars, did not withhold his “The Imitation Game.” Gary Meyer (call him top dog, though he does not even appear on the programs) personally introduced “Escobar: Paradise Lost,” as a sneak preview that “we wanted immediately” and got.

The SHOWs that I saw in the four shining days included those two features; artful documentaries on the photographer Sebastiao Salgado and Roger Ebert; angry dramas against the background of complicity of the courts and local police in corrupt evictions of homeowners in Russia and — same, same — The United States (“Leviathan” and “99Homes”); a Jon Stewart special (“Rosewater”); a peripatetic chick flick (“Wild”); two costume dramas (“Madame Bovary” and “Mr. Turner”); and an enlightening documentary on Russian hockey players (“Red Army”).

(more…)


Stories From Telluride

My Review Of A Festival Of Films

September 5, 2013 in T-ride Film Fest | Comments (5)

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

The 40th Telluride Film Festival opened unceremoniously with the first North American screening of “ALL IS LOST” in a fine new high-tech theatre. Robert Redford stood out of the light as director-writer J. C. Chandor told us: “This film is about YOU.” He paused, or faltered, continuing: “About you and the end of your life.”

redfirdAs the lights went down I wondered if a solo passage on a doomed sailboat in the middle of the Indian Ocean is truly a good way to die.  About 107 minutes later I caught on. It’s a parable.

As Ernest Hemingway (I’ll explain the connection later) might have said, a man must die alone. And, courage is grace under pressure. The man is Redford, playing his usual manly role and playing it very well at about age 75. He is the only person in the nearly wordless film and, Chandor calculated, he is in 98 per cent of the shots.

We know nothing about the character, not even his name. But we don’t need to. He is Redford. Why confuse a pure and simple parable with a back-story? Redford is already, as Chandor put it, “part of everybody’s experience.”

(more…)