The Sadness of Poetry

Pablo Neruda

Pablo Neruda

At the poetry retreat last weekend in Texas, there were many fine moments. The 10 people who gathered for a weekend of reading and writing brought full hearts and were ready to dig deep, to play, to listen and respond with generosity.

One of my favorite interactions was with a man named H., who was originally from Nicaragua but now lives with his wife in Austin. He was a wonderful reader of my poems in The Way of All the Earth, which we were using as a starting place for most of the workshop. He could get right to the emotional core and point out the evidence in the poem for his interpretation.

But he was also thrown by some of the poems, one in particular that was light and humorous. It didn’t have the “emotion” he expected from poetry.

Talking on Saturday night, he shared that he often thought poetry was dangerous– that the emotion was dark and that one could follow it to a very deep sadness. I expressed my own struggles with this idea. As a young student and writer, it seemed very dangerous, especially for a woman, to write poetry. Maybe it was a kind of truth-telling, or an emotional journey, that could lead one off the steady path and down. The role models I had were all scary: Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, even poor, brave, crazy Emily Dickinson.

For H., the poets he had always loved were Pablo Neruda, Antonio Machado, and other poets whose direct emotional expression filled him with a particular sadness. He said it was like the sadness of the tango. In fact, he said, he had so loved the tango that he built up a collection of the music. And there came a time when he disposed of all his tango recordings, because he didn’t like where the music was taking him.

What is the poetry of happiness? I’ve been struggling with this myself lately. When I try to write poems about life here on the farm, the happiness of marriage, the beauty around me, they just seem to fall flat. I have pages of poetry about various garden vegetables to which I have to say, “meh.”

Reading some of the poems from The Way of All the Earth, I realized I am in a different place than I was when I wrote them. They still strike me as very honest poems, but they are poems of a younger, more vulnerable person. There is a lot of healing in those poems, a lot of love and empathy, and for that I am grateful. Reading the poems with others, they began remembering things from their own lives they’d long forgotten and that they wanted to capture and explore in writing. One woman had a tremendous experience of finding an image and writing a poem through which she could see her mother in an entirely different way than she had before, and she experienced real joy in the writing.

For H., his happiness was in the experience of an assignment I gave specifically to him: write a poem and then cross out all the lines that directly express emotion. He read the poem he wrote to us and we were able to tell him all the emotions in the poem– without him telling them to us directly. He could trust us to hear him and “get it.”

Perhaps in the end it is this joy of saying something in poetry, and of being heard, this necessary communication and rendering triggering something in another, that is at the heart of poetry.

It is not difficult for me to imagine a world and life in which I could have ended up like Emily Dickinson, writing my poems and sewing them up into “versicles” and storing them in a trunk. Afraid to interact with the world because I was so vulnerable and “other.” I have had the great privilege to be able to speak out loud in poetry and be heard. I have had the great privilege to write some words that can spark something in others.

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Fracking Sand

steve with sandWe’ve just returned from a week in Texas. It was a wonderful trip, and we got a good sense of East, North and Central Texas.

One of the most interesting experiences was visiting a place where they “produce” sand for fracking. It was in North Texas, just south of the Oklahoma border. We’d had a good introduction to the local trees, where the elms are weeping and the Live Oaks bear little green leaves and the Post Oaks tower in all their gnarled glory. We’d been introduced to Tickle Tongue Trees, whose bark can be chewed to numb a toothache, and discussed at length whether the grapevine that adds a swampy effect to the forests should be removed as invasive or not.

filling fracking truck with sandIn the evening, after excellent barbecue and conversation, we drove about 10 minutes to see the fracking sand facility.

There was a line of about 10 trucks waiting to be loaded, which in itself gave the place an otherworldly feel. The facility is open 24 hours a day, and our host knew the night manager, which is why we went.

The process is pretty simple. They dig up the sand, preserving the thin layer of topsoil which is put back,  once the gravel is extracted. The fields are lower, but the same scrappy brush they were before the sand was removed. In the large warehouse the sand is “shaken,” sifted really, through six layers, so that only the finest sand is left.

measuring analyzing sandIn the office they test the sand for fineness and impurities, shaking it through a small set of canisters with the same size mesh as the large sifters, looking to see what is left behind and weighing it to see that the sand is getting through.

Then all night and day a loader moves the sand from bay to bay and up into the chute that pours sand into the waiting trucks. This fleet was headed to Dallas or San Antonio, I can’t remember which, but trucks go all over the country.

loader moving sandThe sand itself was gorgeous, as white and fine as the beaches of San Diego or, I’d imagine, more tropical places.

That night there were two employees, working very hard. The manager makes $9/hour, more for overtime. He wears a paper mask over his mouth and nose, which hardly seems sufficient. The air is thick with fine dust.

There is some money here, I guess. For the farmer whose field is being dug up for the sand, for the half dozen people who might otherwise not be employed (the other man working that night described himself as a working farmer, though I don’t see what grows in the sandy soil besides hay and a few pecan orchards; mostly we saw small herds of cows grazing in scrubby pastures). There are the employed truck drivers, who stood and visited while they waited their turn in line. It reminded me of the ships lined up off the coast of Long Beach, CA, when there was a dock strike– all that gritty commerce. All that moving stuff around.

There were other discussions in Texas, about the drought and the summer’s fires and the water crisis (and water crisis denial). The rice farmers might not get their water allocation from the Colorado River this year (rice farming in the desert??) There was also a 4.7 earthquake near Dallas, and the people I was with asserted, simply, “It’s the fracking. There will be more and they’ll probably get worse.”

In the week we were there we experienced all kinds of weather– arrived to a raw drizzle that felt like November, moved through to the warm, fragrant scents of April, had one sweaty day that was 80 degrees, then a cold front came through and we were in the dry, crispness of September. It was impossible to get our bearings, before flying back to another cold spell and a high of zero degrees. But this is how it goes in Texas in winter. “Unpredictable.”

The world seems alive with impending changes, and chatter. Much like the chatter over gun control, what seems to be lacking is any kind of collective will. What definitely is lacking is a sense of caution. When I hear on NPR about the scientists trying to decide if a strain of bird flu is too dangerous even to work with in the lab, it makes me think: “How quaint. How unusual.” To wait and think of safety, to fear the effects on a grand scale of simple human error.

As the plane landed, the flight attendant said: “Now you have completed the least dangerous part of your trip. Drive safely.” How strange, I thought, the risk load we are willing to bear. The way we fly through the world; the way we force its contents out of the ground. The way we keep digging, and flying, and moving stuff around.

trucks in line

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Poetry

running boySince finishing Habits, I’ve been trying to get back to writing poetry. I’m facilitating a poetry workshop this weekend in Texas, and although the prospect was at first very anxiety-producing, as I’ve prepared, I’ve gotten more excited about it. Trying to figure out the balance between what I want to say and keeping things open to what will arise within the workshop, I’ve been encouraged by the possibilities. I know, for example, that in all the years I taught creative writing in community colleges, I was never at a loss for words! I could answer questions, respond to work, and enjoy sharing what I’ve discovered in these decades of writing (I finished my MFA in 1991 and a Wallace Stegner Fellowship in 1993).

Still, after completing a second book manuscript in 2005, I haven’t written much poetry. What I have is a large collection of files on my computer called “Poemfrag” and the month: “Poemfrag Mar2008” “Poemfrag Nov2010.” Some of these files of fragments run to several pages, but none of them qualified even as drafts with names of their own. Most of them are rooted in the rich specifics of my life in Minnesota, but somehow none of them became poems. At some point, I began to wonder if I would even recognize a poem if I wrote one.

And so, here I am. My life is quite different– in many ways I am quite different– than I was when I wrote even that second book, finished in 2006. Here I am, looking for a way in.

I only know a few ways: find a phrase or line to begin with and break it open; find a memory and tell it until it takes me somewhere unexpected; find a form and think of what its logic requires (for example, a villanelle requires obsession, a sonnet requires a turn).

I’ve posted three poems in the past two weeks to http://cowbird.com. One I rescued and developed from the poemfrags files. It started with a memory of babysitting. I’m still not sure it can stand on its own.

The second is a poem I’ve wanted to write forever. I’m in a rather unsettled period right now with my faith, and it goes back to another time when my faith was a source of conflict. It is probably the best of the three. Click here to read it.

The third began with a writing exercise I’m going to use this weekend. You might want to try it; it goes like this:

Forget everything you know about poetry and poets. In place of that, try to remember a very early experience you had of hearing or reading language that interested or excited or confused or enlightened you. Maybe it was something you read, overheard, saw on a billboard or sign. Now write the experience, trying to get at what grabbed you about that piece of language.

H is for Harry

I was not yet three when I learned to read
letter by letter, with my mother,
using comic strips from the newspaper.
The first one taught me the letter h.
H makes the sound of huh.
Huh-huh-huh-Harry. The strip
had a picture of Harry running.
His breathing was the letter h: huh-huh-huh.
When Harry was tired he sat on a chair.
The chair was the shape of the letter h.
Huh-huh-huh-Harry. Huh-huh-huh-hot.

A letter h to sit on, and letter h your breath.
My mother and I said it together:
Huh-huh-huh-hat. Huh-huh-huh-hop.
Huh-huh-happy. huh-huh-hug.

And then it was mine, to find in books
and on signs and in the kitchen chair: the letter h.

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The New Old Rockabilly

davinaWhen I lived in Long Beach, California in the early 2000s, I was determined to walk to as many services as possible. When it was time for a haircut, I stopped in at a little bungalow on Redondo Avenue run by two very cool women.

I had no idea what these women were up to, and was always too intimidated to ask. They wore vintage (or imitation vintage) dresses from the 1940s and 1950s, cotton patterned wide-skirted dresses that were mostly strapless, bright red lipstick and their hair tightly curled and piled on top of their heads. They were also covered with tattoos, which was, for me, an odd combination. They were in their late 20s, I’d guess, both with small children. The photos showed one of the husbands in fresh work clothes, also looking both tough and sweet.

I now realize they were part of a rockabilly subculture that is going strong on the West Coast and has made its way, in a very small way, to Central Minnesota. This summer we saw the band “Davina and the Vagabonds” at an outdoor show, and we liked what we saw. Davina is a Minneapolis singer, and with “the boys” she sings and plays music that is part old-timey rockabilly and part bluesy Amy Winehouse-style stuff. She pounds on the piano like Jerry Lee Lewis and belts out a tune like Bette Midler, and has both attitude and a great set of pipes.

Last night in St. Cloud, we were treated to a new Minnesota band, Lola Cherry. A newbie to professional singing (she said this was the first band she’s ever been in), Lola was utterly charming with her thick Minnesota accent and effusiveness about the size of the audience: “This is so awesome! Thanks for coming out guys, this is awesome!” She also told the story of how the band came together, after she was ranting on Craig’s List about the lack of a rockabilly scene in “this town” (Minneapolis? St. Cloud?).

Our friend, stand-up bass player Joe Meyer, was having some music gatherings in his barn over the summer and invited her to come and join in. She did, and that’s where she met a talented lead guitarist named Leon and our friend Joe. They picked up a drummer and a tremendously talented older trumpet player who would look in place in any Chicago bar, and they had a band.

Another friend who was there called it, “good, unpretentious entertainment,” and that is exactly what it is. The songs are irresistible, energetic and theatrical, and the musicians were amazing. Lola made for great fun, with her singing, her flirty dancing (work that dress, Lola!) and her interludes. But by far the best was when she talked about the rockabilly subculture.

“It’s not just music; it’s a lifestyle,” she informed us. “In Portland there is a huge rockabilly culture. The women all dress like pin-ups from the 40s and the men all have these great pompadour hairdos. Someone would call at any time and we’d get like 20-25 classic cars just going around cruising! When I got back here to Minnesota, I was like, ‘Where’s the rockabilly scene in this town?’ I was so bummed!”

Right away I flashed back to my hairdressing gals. It had not seemed right when I saw the look on Katy Perry, or Amy Winehouse, or even Project Runway designer Kenley Collins. They all had part of it but not the whole package. It took Lola to bring it together for me.

And if it can engage some of the great musicians around here and keep delivering so much fun, I say, “Rock on!”

photo of Davina Sowers by Chuck Ryan Photography, from the blog http://www.ciicanoe.com/

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Wind

windy prairie

We have a good old-fashioned cold front blowing in, at exactly the time it was promised. The temperature is dropping 40 degrees and it will be below zero the next several days.

This happens every winter (but not last winter, which was alarming) and I like the opportunity to hunker down and listen to the wind, full of gratitude for being warm.

After this stretch, we will move toward Spring, however slowly.

Today I thought I’d join my husband in his shop and read. I imagined something cozy– the wood stove, Miles Davis on the boom box, the scent of freshly cut boards. After 20 minutes, the screech of the bandsaw and hum of the sawdust collector sent me back out, down the icy path, and home.

Almost immediately, settled in my chair with my book, the wind began to blow.

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The New European Films

rust and bone 1After one of our airport runs at Christmas time, we managed to go see the French film Rust and Bone at the Uptown in Minneapolis. The film, though far from perfect, has two great things going for it: Marion Cotillard and a point of view.

I have enjoyed Cotillard in her previous films, but this one shows what a powerful actress she really is. She plays Stephanie, a killer whale trainer at a European Sea World who is in a disabling accident when a whale turns on her and attacks. As she struggles to adapt to her new life we get, in glimpses, in beautiful, perfect moments, her love of the animal and animal world, her acceptance that the whale was just being a whale, and the strange, vicarious way that the work and the relationship to the whale satisfied her own animal nature.

rust and bone2We get to see this in one gorgeous scene where she returns to the park and goes through the commands with the whale from behind a glass viewing wall. (I’ll never hear Katy Perry’s “Firework” the same way again.) But mostly we see it in her relationship with  Ali, played by Matthias Schoenaerts, a street fighter doing a miserable job of caring for his young son but who does a pretty good job of caring for her. Schoenaerts is the whale here, and his destructive animal nature asserts itself again and again. The guy has a long way to go, but his relationship with Stephanie helps him stumble toward success, as a father and as a man.

I’ve put a bunch of films in the Netflix watch instantly queue that I tracked down from last year’s film festivals, and last night we watched Bullhead. We were surprised that it also starred Matthias Schoenaerts, but also by the similarities to Rust and Bone. In this film, in one of the most brutal acts on a child I’ve ever seen on film, it is the young Jacky (Shoenaerts) who is disabled, literally emasculated. He has to take testosterone, which he gets in increasing quantities on the black market, to maintain his masculinity.

bullhead 1In this way, Jacky is metaphorically aligned with the cows his family raises, injecting them with illegal growth hormones until they can’t give birth naturally and are bulky and deformed. Jacky is quite deformed on the inside, while his exterior is a muscled, bulky hulk, a show of masculinity that he falsely possesses.

In some ways, Bullhead was the better film. There is interesting stuff going on about Flemish and French identity in Belgium. There are compelling minor characters and a good corruption/black market plot in addition to the main identity story.

We were convinced that these films must have had the same writer and director, but that’s not the case. They are not even from the same country, although it’s very interesting to see how Europe is becoming a more unified producer of films.

There was a time you couldn’t pay me to watch a French film, which was guaranteed to be strange and incomprehensible (and neither funny nor satisfyingly serious). But in recent years, films like Welcome, a French film about a Kurdish refugee trying to cross the French channel to England, have won me over. In both of the films reviewed here, there are things to ponder even in the large cultural references of an Americanized world: growth hormones in beef, Sea World. The moral universe has shifted, in ways that are both banal and profound.

There’s no doubt this is a serious time in Europe. And in these times, we’re the beneficiaries of films exploring identity, from ethnic and national identity to the core identity of what it means to be a man or woman and to be a human being, which speaks well of the future of film and of Europe.

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The New Old Foods

kale in November 2012

kale in November 2012

I am sure I’ve said before that Barbara Kingsolver’s book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle  changed my life. It is the second book by Barbara Kingsolver that changed my life, as Poisonwood Bible also had a huge effect on my thinking about what was possible in a novel. But it was Barbara Kingsolver, more than anyone else, who convinced me that I, too, could garden in a meaningful way and actually eat regularly from my garden.

I know that the book Omnivore’s Dilemma by Michael Pollan has also had this effect on people, but for me that book was more exotic, more an adventure than an actual blueprint for a way of life. After reading it, I did some serious research into mushrooms, but decided that I’m lucky enough to have access to a local mushroom farm and don’t need to “grow” them myself. I love the idea of moving chickens around from pasture to pasture and letting the pigs grind up the manure in the cow barn in the spring, but not enough to get chickens, pigs and cows. Luckily, I also have access to lots of local, natural meat sources as well!

cream of chicken soupAs a teenager, my mother suggested that it would be a good idea for me to learn to cook, and she could teach me. I answered as a typical, heartless teenager: “Mom, I think I can figure out how to pour a can of cream of chicken soup over some meat, and for the rest I’ll use a recipe.” The domestic art I focused on in high school was sewing, and I sewed most of my own clothes. I figured if I could follow a pattern, I could follow a recipe.

The truth is, my mother was a good cook, albeit a product of her time. She kept a 2-week recipe calendar on the fridge to make sure we had variety, and we always had a meat, vegetable and starch. The vegetables were almost always frozen, as was the custom in the 1960s and ’70s. There were packaged seasonings and packaged side dishes (I loved Rice-a-roni), and sauce for the au gratin potatoes came in a foil packet. She made an amazing lasagna and good meatballs with sauce from a jar. We ate well, and our food was varied, flavorful and balanced. Along with Mike and Carol Brady’s kids, we looked forward to pork chops with applesauce once a month.

When I went to college, Indian curry was all the rage. In my freshman year I attended an off-campus potluck where every single person brought a curry dish. This was what I wanted to learn, and this is what I thought my cooking would be like– full of exotic, ethnic dishes. I introduced my mother to fresh garlic cloves (as opposed to garlic powder or salt) and passed along how you smash them with the side of a knife. One of my friends who attended Northwestern University and volunteered helping a Vietnamese family on the north side of Chicago introduced me to Asian markets and gave me three recipes. Thus began a lifelong love of Thai red curry paste.

I still make Thai stir-fries and regularly go to the Asian market in St. Cloud. Thai basil is a revelation, and my prolific little plant was one of the best surprises of my 2012 garden.  I set my sites on learning to cook Indian food a few years ago, and now have a repertoire that includes a fantastic red pepper dish I made at least four times with my Jimmy Nardello peppers in the fall.

beet greens June 2012

beet greens June 2012

But what surprises me are the simple foods I eat now that I never ate anywhere– not at home and not in college and not in the various places I lived as an adult. The big three are beets, kale and butternut squash. But I could add to that leeks (too expensive), swiss chard (which I’d never even heard of until five years ago), and beet greens.

I saw occasional pickled beets from a tin can on our table growing up, but did not like them. Kale– or any green except iceberg lettuce and spinach;  and butternut squash– or any squash except zucchini and pumpkin (strictly in pie), were unknown to us.

The first years of the garden, I grew kale but cut it off when it was young and pulled it out early. I sauteed it once or twice with garlic, onion, a little white wine and white beans, per Deborah Madison’s instructions, and then was done for the season. To tell you the truth, it scared me.

As for the butternut squash, well, I roasted a few, but most of them went bad in the basement storage and were tossed on the compost pile in the spring. They were seemingly impenetrable, not very flavorful, and basically turned to mush once roasted. I’m not really a fan of “mashed” things, including  mashed potatoes. After a few servings of roasted squash with butter and parmesan, I was done for the season.

I just finished reading the February issue of Food & Wine magazine, and there are five recipes that feature kale and/or butternut squash. These include two salads: Kale Caesar with Rye Croutons and Farro, and Roasted Squash Salad with Bitter Greens; and a butternut squash and kale strata for brunch.

I’m filling my Paprika App recipe box with butternut squash recipes (last night we had one with a mushroom cream sauce and bow tie pasta; last week, one with spicy pepper sauce and sausage), and hoping our supply holds out until March! And I can hardly wait to get that kale going again! I’ll be slipping the skins off some gorgeous beets again tonight and serving them with feta, orange slices and nuts.

It’s a brave new world, and I’m so glad the restaurants and food magazines have gotten on board! Now I can’t get enough of recipe reading, and I’ve even warmed up to peeling squash and dicing. One thing I don’t have in my pantry, though, is Cream of Chicken soup!

 

 

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Smelt

SmeltBack in June we stopped at Morey’s Fish Market on the way to my sister-in-law’s cabin and I bought a pound of smelt. It had been in my freezer since then, while I waited for the right occasion. I finally decided that it must be lucky to welcome the New Year by eating fish somewhere in the world, and so I let it thaw.

I first ate smelt in the early 1990s in Chicago. I remember hearing about the annual smelt frys along the lakefront in April, where people would come to net smelt and fry them up right there.  They actually bite the heads off– though mine from Morey’s came without heads and nicely gutted. I believe the season lasted only a few days (2 weeks max), when the smelt were “running.” You don’t hear about smelt frys much anymore, although in Minnesota there is still an April tradition in some parish and firemen halls.

A little online research has informed me that smelt are an exotic species, introduced from 1912 in a Michigan river to feed salmon. They’re an Atlantic ocean fish that spawns in fresh water, and their population made its way to the great lakes where it has had several surges in population, followed by drastic reductions. In Lake Superior, the smelt population is tied to the lake trout population. When sea lampreys (how nasty do those sound) were eating the lake trout, the smelt did very well. Now that the lampreys have been knocked down, the trout eat the smelt. Personally, I’d rather have trout than smelt any day. The smelt population in the Midwest pretty much crashed in 1979 and is not expected to recover. For more on smelt, click here.

smelt breadedIn Chicago, people still gather to fry smelt during the season, though they usually don’t catch anything. Instead, they sit around the fire remembering the good old days you could net smelt by the dozen, cut off their heads, gut them and fry them up on site. And they still have their pot of boiling oil, though more often they drop purchased shrimp into it instead of smelt.

smelt friedI followed the advice on interenet sites to dip the smelt in an egg wash and bread them with flour, bread crumbs and Old Bay seasoning. I fried them in a pan with about an inch of very hot canola oil in it. The very nice thing about smelt is that they are small and you don’t need much oil. You can also pan-fry them, but I always find my fish doesn’t cook that nice, deep brown I like and usually sticks when I pan fry. I went all out on this one, with good results. Tasted as promised, like a good, crunchy, fishy french fry!

I served them with a side of Israeli cous cous with butternut squash and made cocktail sauce: ketchup, horseradish and lemon juice.

 

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Zero Dark Thirty

zero-dark-thirty-jc and flagWe always watch a slew of movies during the holidays, and this year was no exception. Most of the films we saw were sort of lackluster. The only one that really took me by surprise was Zero Dark Thirty by director Kathryn Bigelow.

I was expecting to like it and for it to be hard to watch. I read an article in Newsweek that intrigued me, describing it as the first film to reveal a post-war-on-terrorism mindset. The article seemed contradictory and fuzzy to me. What could it mean to be a post-war-on-terrorism film when it chronicles in some ways the decade of war itself?

I actually believe that this film gives us the primary narrative we need as Americans to  believe we “won” this war. It is not just the victory of killing Osama bin Laden, the chief symbol of the war on terror. It is the way he was killed.

The war-on-terrorism period is dramatized in the film by the opening scenes of interrogation. They are hard to watch, but not nearly as hard as I think they should be. Even the waterboarding doesn’t seem so beyond the pale. (And, what is more, in the narrative of the film, it works.) Maybe these scenes are just so much a part of our vocabulary that we’ve codified them and don’t respond emotionally. Maybe those Abu Ghraib photos are now filed in our consciousness as “wartime photos” in a way that strips Zero-Dark-Thirty-computersthem of some of their initial power. But I think it’s primarily the filmmaking. This is a super-cool film. It is icy. It is crystalline and gorgeous and feels like a beautiful, well-controlled staging of events more than messy reality. It is “just the facts,” and the facts will vindicate everyone in the end.

We also have our Homeland-esque heroine, CIA agent Maya, played by the cool and beautiful Jessica Chastain. Unlike the Claire Danes character in Homeland, however, this woman has no mental illness, no erratic behavior, just singlemindedness and a penetrating analytical mind. Just what we want and expect intelligence to be. The interrogations are “the past.” The past was brutal. The one character who I think ends up most damaged and chewed up in the film is the interrogator, Dan, played by Jason Clarke. The rest of the film is populated mostly by suits. And when Leon Panetta (in another piece of mythological brilliance, many higher ups are not actually named,  played by James Gandolfini) is asked about Maya and told, “She’s smart,” he looks back and delivers one of the best lines in the film: “Jeremy, we’re all smart.”

1134604 - Zero Dark ThirtyThe core of this film is the last half hour, the mission itself. And from the first sound of those helicopter blades cutting the air and the images that looked much more like a video game of mountains than real mountains, I felt a strange thrill. Here we go.

Knowing the conclusion does not diminish at all the pleasure of watching this reenactment. In fact, it seems part of the film’s power that there is no suspense. I had read the detailed account of what happened, heard the Seal Team Six member who was there talk about it on 60 Minutes and I had the plot pretty well down. But through the night-vision goggles, as the team set their explosives, blew the gates, traversed the property, even walked away from the downed helicopter, all the way to the end, I was riveted.

This film is an answer to Blackhawk Down. The similarites extend to the actual stealth blackhawk going down in the compound. Instead of a platform for chaos and devastating loss, this is a minor glitch in the operation. This, my friends, is how we won the war.

As such, it’s an incredible piece of mythology as well as filmmaking. There is even some pointed criticism in the film of the inability to torture people into giving intelligence after Obama’s election in 2004. We can’t fight this the same way– there is not the will or the manpower assigned to the task. We won’t do the ruthless things we did before– and that, too, can make us feel better. This “second half” of the war on terrorism, which is drawing to a close when troops leave Afghanistan in 2014, although built on the information gathered and the fighting of the first half, seems strategic and, in its way, bloodless. Seems like a video game. Like a series of drone strikes.

Of course, I am completely conflicted about my response. This is not at all my kind of movie. I have no investment in feeling that America was somehow “heroic” in this conflict. I don’t think we were, and the mistakes, the casualties, the entire misguided and costly war in Iraq, the damage to a generation of men both here and in the Middle East, the arrogance of thinking we can continue to kill through drone attacks and secret missions without consequences, that abuse of our power in the world– I hate it all. I am not proud of it.

But this film shows us exactly who we want to be, and suggests it is who we really are. Seal Team Six are a group of great guys, focused and smart, ordinary, friendly and serious. they are not boors. They have ambitions and plans and know their mission. They are skilled and they don’t hurt women and children. They are methodical. They bring us bin Laden and a trove of information from the compound, and they do it with minimal casualties.

If there is a post-war-on-terror world, this is what we want it to be. This is our closure, in a way, our representation of how we won a war we could not win. Everyone should see it.

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New Year’s with Fred

fred-astaire-and-ginger-rogersFor me, New Year’s Eve means one thing: Fred Astaire. I don’t know if this is the experience of most girls who grew up babysitting in the Chicago suburbs in the 1970s, but for me the most magical part of the evening began at midnight, when one of the local networks would begin with one of four movies: The Gay Divorcee, Top Hat, Shall We Dance or Swing Time.

The kids in my care in Park Forest were always convinced that the New Year began when the ball dropped in Times Square, so the celebration took place, with confetti and banging pans and hats and tooting horns and etc, from 11:00–11:20 p.m. Central Time. They could be hustled off to bed by 11:45 and I could settle back in, completely sugared up and maybe with an additional bowl of ice cream or something to keep me going, in front of the television set.

gay-divorcee-1I didn’t know anything about Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers and the words “gay divorcee” were completely incomprehensible to me at age 14, when this ritual began. But the first time I saw Fred and Ginger dance to “Night and Day,” I actually cried. The combination of music and movement was so exquisite, I was unprepared.

I could never tell the movies apart, not really. Eric Blore was always butlering. Edward Everett Horton and Helen Broderick are most often the clumsy, wise-cracking counterparts to Fred and Ginger who increase their stature and status exponentially by standing beside them and/or interfering. In one, Fred tap-dances in sand in a hotel room above Ginger’s head. In another, he draws cuffs on his pant legs to force a delay of an ill-fated marriage. In one they dance in a thunderstorm in a gazebo. There are mix-ups a plenty to make Fred look like an untrustworthy cad and bring out Ginger’s spice and fire.  Fred gets set up for great lines like: “Men don’t pine. Girls pine. We just– suffer!”

In the end, it is the dance that tells the truth, and the dance is love.

I searched the movie channels furiously last night for a sign of Fred and Ginger, but came up empty. If I’d wanted, I could have streamed one on Netflix. But nothing quite beats watching the films on television, ringing in the new year with so many other viewers, including just maybe some babysitters about to learn an exquisite lesson about the simple joy of being in love.

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