Wednesday, March 31, 2010

'Hubble': Heavenly Ticket to Space

NASA/Warner Bros. - The Butterfly Nebula, gas escaping from a dying star at 600,000 miles per hour, as seen in 'IMAX: Hubble 3D.'

* FILM REVIEW
* MARCH 26, 2010

'Hubble': Heavenly Ticket to Space
'Eclipse' shines with sterling cast, shamrock scenery and traditionally gothic ghosts

If you go to the excellent Web site for "IMAX: Hubble 3D" (www.imax.com/hubble) you'll find lots of information on this documentary about the Hubble Space Telescope and where it's playing—40 locations at present, more than 100 theaters by summer. And you'll get some sense of the film from the trailer—about as much as looking at a maple leaf will give you a sense of autumn in New England. On my computer screen the trailer plays in a nine-inch box, measured diagonally. In an IMAX theater the film—43 minutes long and light years deep—plays on a 100-foot screen, supported by as much as 18,000 watts of audio power and dramatically enhanced by the 3-D process. All of that is enough to give you a sense of the soul-filling grandeur the Hubble reveals, and of the space-based observatory itself, one of the glories of our scientific age.

Shortly after the Hubble was launched in 1993 it was famously diagnosed with, and subsequently cured of, an extremely inconvenient case of astigmatism. "Hubble 3D," narrated by Leonardo DiCaprio, revisits that first repair mission, which was followed by several on-site service calls over the years, but the documentary concentrates on a final visit by the space shuttle Atlantis in 2009—the end of the line for Hubble repairs and upgrades, a mission that fortunately made room for a 3-D IMAX camera on board.

The launch alone is worth the price of admission. I've been to two launches, Apollo 11 and Apollo 12, and "Hubble 3D" is the first film I've seen—and felt—that does more than hint at the skeleton-rattling power of those stupendous rockets. In orbit, the astronauts of mission STS-125 float off on their extravehicular tasks while the camera tracks their work and, not incidentally, studies the blue planet floating below or above but always beyond them. The spectacle, which puts Hollywood thrillers in the shade, has its own moments of high drama. When failed circuit boards defy all efforts to remove them, the astronauts must take a Zen approach—unscrewing one tiny screw at a time—to what's described as performing brain surgery while wearing oven mitts.

The most spectacular images come, as they should, from the farthest reaches of the cosmos via the Hubble's various sensors. This is a perfect match of medium and subject—or, indeed, of medium and message, since the film tells us bright and clear that there's no limit to what science can do when it's fueled by audacity and a quest for pure knowledge. Our scientific age is also becoming a small-screen age, when people settle willingly for dinky little images like those on YouTube. Yet the heavens defy compression, and here's an irresistible chance to see them as they've not been seen before.

The Hubble provides imagery so dense with data that scientists have been able to put us inside the images on computer-generated fly-throughs. The film's itinerary takes us past Saturn's aurora, past the Helix Nebula in the constellation of Aquarius and the Pillars of Creation in the Eagle Nebula. Andromeda looms, a star-packed Frisbee. Gaseous clouds billow while million-mile-an-hour stellar winds blow through a cloud canyon 90 trillion miles across. Ad astra per silica: Computer travel may not be the real thing, but IMAX makes this an astonishing trip all the same.

Field of Dreams

Continuing to watch films in which Burt Lancaster appeared, I went back to this one all these many years later. It holds up fine, but Kevin Costner has got to be one of the luckiest men alive: his range was narrow, his intonation absent, and his charisma weak. Still, a fine film.

10 items or less

This movie goes to show that even Morgan Freeman can strike out, and make a bad film. This is unadulterated crap. I kept waiting for it to improve, and saw it simply wasn't going to, so I turned it off. The story seemed a fine one: a parody of actors: Freeman plays an actor who hasn't made a film in four years, and is driven to a supermarket to research his role. Right off, the cursing was gratuitous, as if tossing in curse words made the film better. It didn't.

The film centers on two strangers, an actor preparing for an upcoming role and a cashier. Through circumstance, the two end up driving around Los Angeles together while having a number of conversations about life and exploring the differences and similarities between their worlds.

I didn't get quite that far. I could not abide watching it. Crap. One star for Freeman being in it.

Monday, March 29, 2010

Burn after reading

Oneof the most unalterated pieces of crap I have ever had the misfortune of wasting my time watching. I want my time back.

Feast of Love

I found this film as a result of searching on the name of Charles Baxter. His name appeared on the back of Schlepping through the Alps. This film is based on one of Baxter's books. The mp3 version of that book is described thus: From "one of our most gifted writers" (Chicago Tribune), here is a superb new novel that delicately unearths the myriad manifestations of extraordinary love between ordinary people. In vignettes both comic and sexy, men and women speak of and desire their ideal mates: The owner of a coffee shop recalls the day his first wife seemed to achieve a moment of simple perfection; a young couple spends hours at the coffee shop fueling the idea of their fierce love; a professor of philosophy, stopping by for a cup of coffee, makes a valiant attempt to explain what he knows to be the inexplicable working of the human heart. Their voices resonate with each other and come together in a tapestry that depicts the most irresistible arena of life.

 The movie is adapted to feature Morgan Freeman, the philosophy professor, and sex. Freeman is, of course, wonderful. It is not a demanding role, and he hits a double with ease. Maybe a triple. No, a double. The rest of the film is a bunch of singles. The film works, yes, but the sex is gratuitous and overdone.

Go tell the Spartans

Burt Lancaster plays the role of a US Army major stationed in Viet Nam in 1964.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Burt Lancaster

In posting reviews of this Lancaster biography, my interest in the book was piqued, and I took it off the shelf. I've started looking through it, beginning with the pictures and their captions.

One is of BL in Go Tell the Spartans. "This is a sucker's tour, going nowhere, justr around and around in circles." Lancasteras Vietnam major Asa Barker in Ted Post's Go Tell the Spartans (1978) - "the mind," wrote Bert Cardullo, "to the body of Platoon."

Professor Cardullo is no longer at University of Michigan. "I am no longer at this e-mail address or this university; please do not attempt to contact me at this address again. If you need to forward something to me, send to 212 Royal Ave., Mineola, NY 11501-3128." I do find material on him on the Net.

Schlepping through the Alps

cf. http://slwsociety.blogspot.com/2010/03/national-identity-bill-divides-slovakia.html


Apple, Sam. (2005). Schlepping through the Alps: my search for Austria's Jewish past with its last wandering shepherd. New York : Ballantine Books.

A twenty-something Brooklynite sees an Austrian  Yiddish-singing shepherd atr a gig somewhere in New York and decides to go visit him in his home turf (the Brooklynite decides to visit the Austrian, that is). The book began with promise: how very unusual it all is well described by the shepherd's bloodline: his father was Jewish, his mother an Austrian communist, herself not Jewish. As a youngster Hans was a rebel; he joined a kind of utopian group, grew disillusioned, but learned about sheep herding, and wound up answering an ad for a shepherd. Along the way he learned Yiddish songs. When the story took place, 2001 or so, Hans has 625 sheep.

Sam explores his Jewishness and hypochondria in great detail, making for poignant and interesting discussions that at times veer into the inane and humorous. The book's first half is fascinating, but as it moves toward its conclusion the book weakens. Sam's obsession in finding anti-Semites gets wearisome. Yet, look at the link above on a story about Slovakian self-identity.

Martin Simecka, a leading intellectual, expressed concern that national myth-makers were glossing over uncomfortable truths. In particular, he said he feared that some nationalists were seeking to let off the hook the Nazi-backed Slovak puppet state of 1939-1945, which abetted the deportation of 50,000 Jews and which a small minority of Slovaks view as a time of vaunted independence. The education minister, a member of the Slovak National Party, has been promoting a new history text book that some critics complain glorifies the past.

So Sam's obsession is not far-fetched.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Seraphim Falls

MPAA rating: R; for violence and brief language.

 Brief language?

The American Civil War has ended, but Colonel Morsman Carver accepts one final mission. He has to kill Gideon no matter what it takes. Launched by a gunshot and propelled by rage, the relentless pursuit takes them both far from the comforts and codes of civilization, into the bloodiest recesses of their own souls.

A former Confederate (Neeson ), or a Southerner, Carver, anyway, who is out for revenge: a Yankee colonel, Gideon (Brosnan), ordered the torching of his house, in which perished his wife and child, they having gone back inside to rescue the overlooked baby. It is 1868 in snowy country which remains unnamed (though at one point Carver uses the name of a place that vaguely conjures up Nevada). A shot rings out, and the second wounds Gideon. He runs, not knowing what is going on, but fearful for his life. He is being chased by a posse of four hired guns, led by Carver, who has promised to pay them when they capture Gideon.

How he knows where to find the Yank 4 years after the fact is preposterous enough, but it would not matter much if the movie worked. It doesn't. Neeson's accent fades in and out. There does not seem to be any purpose to the violence except to have violence. Sure, such a hunt would be violent in intent, both by the hunters and the prey, but there is little emotional depth to any of the characters. Brosnan is the only bright light in the cast. 2 stars of 5.

Luminarias

Rated R, for language and sexuality. When a spicy Latin divorce attorney finds herself guilty of falling for her white and Jewish opposing council, her three single friends choose sides in the ongoing and often hilarious debate over race and sex.

Well, it isn't council, but counsel, as in attorney. A review in Imdb has the same error in a synopsis attributed to Echo Bridge Home Entertainment.

4 successful Chicanas meet to drink and chat about men, sex, being Mexican, and their problems arising from the combination of men, sex, being Mexican and having problems. One of them gives up sex as a sacrifice for Lent, and beseeches La Virgen de Guadalupe for strength to remain celibate all 40 days. An attorney defends a young Latina in court against her abusive husband, who wants joint custody of their son, and soon catches her husband kissing (of all things) a white woman. A therapist striving to be white, or accepted by whites, does not visit her mother in East LA and can't speak Spanish, yet brandishes a Chicana accent when she calls herself a Chicana. The fourth of the band can't find a decent man, has unresolved issues (having being called fea as a child among them), but soon falls for a Korean man.

The movie tries to explore racial pride, emotional ambiguity, and uncertainty in the face of 40th birthdays. It is in turns funny, touching, even insightful, but it does not work completely. There are too many cliches and stereotypes (the wise Latino man who happens to be a professor at UCLA, played by Cheech Marin with a wisp of beard under his lower lip that looks less Dizzy Gillespie than, what? Mandarin? and the uninhibited Latina aunts who don't watch their mouths but do watch male asses).

Yet, there are some nice performances and good points made. Evelina Fernandez plays the main character, Andrea, the attorney who prides herself on being a Latina, excoriates whites, and defends women against machismo. She falls for a white Jewish attorney, resists her husband returning after having announced he would marry a white woman, and lectures her son on not letting rage (sloppily defined as a legacvy of colonial oppression, or some such thing) overwhelm his Latino passion. In a nice twist, at the end the son, Joey, announces he has a girlfriend named Laura Johnson; his mother assumes she's white, and is surprised, when she meets her, to see she's black.

Still, a good film. 3 stars, of 5.

Appetite for America

Denver Public Library - The Fred Harvey restaurant at Dearborn Station in Chicago opened in 1899.

In 1946, when Judy Garland starred in a movie called "The Harvey Girls," no one had to explain the title to the film-going public. The Harvey Girls were the young women who waited tables at the Fred Harvey restaurant chain, and they were as familiar in their day as Starbucks baristas are today. In many of the dusty railroad towns out West in the late 1880s and early decades of the 1900s, there was only one place to get a decent meal, one place to take the family for a celebration, one place to eat when the train stopped to load and unload: a Fred Harvey restaurant. And the owner's decision to import an all-female waitstaff meant that his restaurants offered up one more important and hard-to-find commodity in cowboy country: wives.

It was a brilliant formula, and for a long time Fred Harvey's name was synonymous in America with good food, efficient service and young women. Today, though, you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone aware of the prominent role Harvey played in civilizing the West and raising America's dining standards. His is one of those household names now stashed somewhere up in the attic.

Helen Harvey Mills
Fred Harvey in the early 1880s.
 
In "Appetite for America," Stephen Fried aims to give Fred Harvey his due, making an impressive case for this Horatio Alger tale written in mashed potatoes and gravy. Fred Harvey restaurants grew up with the railroads in the American West beginning in the 1870s, with opulent dining rooms in major train stations and relatively luxurious eating spots at more remote railroad outposts. Eventually, the Fred Harvey brand spread to 65 restaurants and lunch counters, 60 dining cars and a dozen large Harvey-owned hotels. And Harvey understood that the reputation of his brand depended on his own personal standards for excellence—which is why he called his company simply "Fred Harvey," not Fred Harvey Co. or Harvey Inc.

He built "the first national chain of anything," writes Mr. Fried. He tells his story in crisp prose and delightful detail, from staggering statistics—in 1905, when moving fresh food across the country was still a challenge, Harvey restaurants served up 6.48 million eggs and two million pounds of beef—to savory recipes, including those for "Plantation Beef Stew on Hot Buttermilk Biscuits" and "Finnan Haddie Dearborn" (smoked haddock). Mr. Fried also deftly captures the significance of how Harvey remade the American rail experience: For the first time in the U.S., a traveler could step off his train and know exactly what to expect: hot coffee, good food and friendly service—all of it delivered in time to get him back on the train before it pulled out of the station.

When Harvey left his home in England at age 15 in 1850, he later recalled, he had two pounds in his pocket and no particular plan of action. He soon found work as a "pot walloper," or dishwasher, at a restaurant on the Hudson River piers in New York. And like so many pot wallopers, then and now, he worked his way up: busboy, waiter, line cook. Eventually, in another classic move, Harvey headed west. In Kansas he worked two jobs, as a railroad ticket agent and as a newspaper ad salesman. With the completion of the first transcontinental railroad in 1869 and the arrival of a postwar business boom, rail commerce thrived—as did Fred Harvey. He became a freight agent, traveling the countryside and arranging with farmers, manufacturers and miners to ship their goods.

Appetite for America

By Stephen Fried
Bantam, 518 pages, $27

Book excerpt.

Enduring the endless smoke, soot, stale air and unappetizing food that typified train journeys of the era, Harvey decided that he at least could do something about the food. In the 1870s George Pullman was building elegant sleeping cars and handsomely appointed dining cars, but the dining cars were unsuccessful: On trains of that time passengers couldn't walk between cars, so hungry travelers were unable to reach the dining car except when the train stopped—and diners long finished with their meals had to wait to go back to their seats. Passengers unable to afford the expensive fare were at the mercy, as Mr. Fried writes, "of stomach-turning depot meals." Harvey believed there was money to be made: "Fred was certain it was possible to serve the finest cuisine imaginable along the train tracks in the middle of nowhere."


It was this ambition—to serve not just fast food but the best possible fast food—that would mark his true contribution to American business. Before there were four-star hotels or restaurants, he set out to create a brand that delivered the goods quickly without cutting corners on quality. He ran his railroad-restaurant business, operating along the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe lines, like a military operation. His waitresses lived in company housing and kept curfew. On and off the job, they were expected to follow rules: "Have a Sincere Interest in People" was the first on a list that Mr. Fried reprints. Another reminded employees that "Tact is an Asset and HONESTY is still a Virtue." Harvey's decrees didn't necessarily apply to Harvey: A newspaper in 1881 reported that when he fired the manager of a train-station restaurant in Deming, N.M., Harvey threw the man out the front door onto the train platform "and the dining room equipment followed after him in quick order."


As his empire expanded, Harvey built the first national chain of hotels and the first chain of bookstores. He also helped establish the Grand Canyon as a major tourist destination and sparked some of the country's early appreciation and preservation of Native American culture.


The tale of Harvey's rise, as told by Mr. Fried, is a business story and a sweeping social history populated with memorable characters. We meet, for instance, David Benjamin, who was a 22-year-old bank teller in Leavenworth, Kan., Harvey's base of operations, when the businessman offered him a job in 1881. Soon the matter-of-fact Benjamin was the mercurial Harvey's right-hand man, "creating elaborate systems to put Fred Harvey's demands and dreams into memo and manual form, making 'the standard' easier to understand."
University of Arizona Library - A 'Harvey Girl' in Emporia, Kan., where the restaurant opened in 1888. Fred Harvey also owned a farm in Emporia.


When Harvey dies in 1901, we watch his son, Ford Harvey, execute such a smooth transition and maintain such a low profile that hardly anyone knows the company's namesake is gone. Ford Harvey has all of the old man's obsessive attention to detail. When he receives a letter from a patron claiming that another establishment serves better olives than Fred Harvey's, Ford is taken aback and writes to the rival, asking for a bottle of the olives. When the bottle arrives, he announces to his top staff the good news: The olives are the same as the ones served in the Harvey chain—the letter-writer "just thought those olives tasted better."


The Fred Harvey company lasted the better part of a century and through three generations of family management, but as automobile travel rose in popularity in the 1930s and 1940s, the age of the passenger train began to wane, taking with it the Harvey empire.


When Judy Garland played an onscreen Harvey Girl in 1946, the movie was a great success, and one of its songs, "On the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe," became a No. 1 hit. There were hopes that the movie might somehow spark a revival in the Fred Harvey fortunes, but by then another hospitality genius was on the scene, and Howard Johnson had set up shop beside the nation's highways.


By Jonathan Eig


—Mr. Eig's "Get Capone: The Secret Plot That Captured America's Most Wanted Gangster," will be published next month by Simon & Schuster.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Books About Scandals

Five Best - March 20, 2010:  Now it can be told: Henry E. Scott's favorite books about scandals


1. The Informant. Kurt Eichenwald. Broadway, 2000.       364.168 E

More than 5,000 book titles on Amazon include the word "scandal"—that says a lot about the theme's drawing power, but some of the best books on the subject are more subtly titled. Kurt Eichenwald's "The Informant" is a classic of corporate-scandal reportage, dissecting the 1990s price-fixing conspiracy by Archer Daniels Midland and overseas agricultural companies. The book reads like a John Grisham thriller as Eichenwald weaves the improbable story of Mark Whitacre, an ADM executive who became the FBI's secret source—and who turned out to be crooked, too. Who knew that a complex tale about an international plot to rig the prices of an animal-feed additive called lysine could be almost impossible to put down?

2. A Gospel of Shame. Frank Bruni and Elinor Burkett.
  Viking, 1993.    261.832 B

"A Gospel of Shame" is a disturbing account of religious scandal. New York Times reporter Frank Bruni and magazine writer Elinor Burkett put the reader in parochial-school classrooms and vividly conjure the terror felt by children subjected to gropings and worse by the priests who were supposed to be their moral shepherds. Bruni and Burkett also document the now well-known conspiracy by the Catholic Church hierarchy to cover up the child-abuse scandals. "Shame" opens with the story of 40-year-old Frank Fitzpatrick's 1990 telephone call to Father James Porter, his childhood priest at St. Mary's Church in North Attleboro, Mass. Fitzpatrick confronts him: Why did Porter molest Fitzpatrick and other children? The priest replies: "Who knows?"—and laughs.

3. Eight Men Out. Eliot Asinof. Holt, Rinehart & Winston, 1963.    796.357 A

These days, when sports reporters seem to spend as much time in courtrooms as in locker rooms, sports scandals aren't hard to find. Eliot Asinof's "Eight Men Out" is all the more entertaining for its depiction of a baseball conspiracy that occurred back when players' transgressions went largely unreported: the "Black Sox scandal" of the 1919 World Series. Asinof's exhaustively researched tale shows how the Chicago White Sox were paid by New York gangster Arnold Rothstein to throw the Series to the Cincinnati Reds. Players in on the fix included the team's star, "Shoeless" Joe Jackson. He took the bribe money, but Rothstein should have asked for a refund: Jackson hit .375 in the Series and drove in six runs. But Jackson was among the eight White Sox players banned from baseball after the conspiracy was uncovered.

4. Forgiven. Charles E. Shepard. Atlantic Monthly Press, 1989.           B Bakker S

Scandal is especially delicious when it snares people who preach morality. In "Forgiven," Charles E. Shepard recounts, as the subtitle has it, "the rise and fall of Jim Bakker and the PTL ministry," building on stories that the reporter broke in the Charlotte Observer about the seamy reality of Bakker's multimillion-dollar evangelical empire. (PTL, Bakker said, stood for Praise the Lord and People That Love.) The preacher's downfall began in the mid-1980s with the revelation of his sexual encounter with a young woman in a Florida hotel room and Bakker's efforts to buy her silence. Bakker, who hosted "The PTL Club" television show with his heavily mascaraed wife, Tammy Faye, "used tears, humor, righteous anger, bruised self-pity, and gentle ministry to touch viewers in their living rooms," Shepard writes. In particular Bakker put the touch on them for fake time-shares at the PTL religious theme park in South Carolina. The scam funded Bakker's lavish living, but it also landed him in jail. This engaging true tale is stranger than Sinclair Lewis's "Elmer Gantry" fiction.

5. Investigation Hollywood. Fred Otash. Regnery, 1976.

It is hard to imagine being shocked by anything that occurs in Hollywood these days, but that wasn't always the case. In 1976 Fred Otash—billed as "scandaland's top private detective"— published a startling chronicle of the days in the 1950s when publicists worked overtime to cover up their clients' misbehavior. Perhaps Otash's most fascinating story involves a closeted gay actor and his angry wife, who is collecting evidence to sweeten the settlement she'll get when she sues for divorce. She hires Otash to secretly record her confrontation with the actor—referred to here as "Mr. Star," later revealed to be Rock Hudson— over his affairs with his agent and other men. It's a sorry business, but then the grist for most scandals usually is.

—Mr. Scott's "Shocking True Story: The Rise and Fall of Confidential, America's Scandalous Scandal Magazine" was recently published by Pantheon.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Steinbeck At 100

One more from my files, on Steinbeck, who remains my favorite writer. Interesting links, or links to interesting stories abound.One about his co-op on 72nd Streer finally going for sale in 2009, six years after Elaine Steinbeck's death, after apparent resolution of a bitter family feud.

Searching for a story from Newsday ("He's part of our heritage", written by Aileen Jacobson, took me to the Martha Heasley Cox Center for Steinbeck Studies in the ML King Library at San Jose State University.

Found a Facebook page entitled Travels with Stenbeck; neat.

March 19, 2002

ARTS IN AMERICA; The Pride Of Salinas: Steinbeck At 100
By STEPHEN KINZER

SALINAS, Calif.— Here in the fertile California valley that was home to many of the hobos, vagrants, prostitutes and migrant farm laborers who populate the works of John Steinbeck, a yearlong celebration is under way to honor the writer's memory.

There are also events being planned elsewhere, including New York, where Steinbeck lived for the last 18 years of his life. There is a tribute at Lincoln Center tonight, a conference at Hofstra University from Thursday through Saturday and a film series in April and May at City University. A Web site, http://www.steinbeck100.org/ newevents.html, provides information on events in other areas.

The Steinbeck towns like Salinas are no longer ringed by shantytowns filled with hungry Dust Bowl refugees, as in ''The Grapes of Wrath.'' Down the road in Monterey, the immigrants and ne'er-do-wells who populate books like ''Cannery Row'' and ''Tortilla Flat'' have given way to boutique owners.

Yet since Steinbeck's death, in 1968, people here have become zealous guardians of his legacy, so the National Steinbeck Center in Salinas seemed the appropriate place for the cake-cutting that opened what is to be a year of speeches, public readings, concerts, academic conferences, film showings and other tributes.

Steinbeck's works are still widely read in the United States and abroad. Many of his admirers say that is because he conveys a love of the downtrodden, the exploited, the ones he called ''the gathered and the scattered.'' He spent years living among them and portrayed them as deftly as any American writer ever has.

The celebration in Salinas on Feb. 27, the 100th anniversary of Steinbeck's birth, included the reading of official proclamations and the presentation of prizes to local high school students who have studied Steinbeck. It was one of more than 175 tributes to be held this year in 39 states. Together they are said to make up the largest-scale homage ever paid to an American author.

Many of these events are being paid for by the National Endowment for the Humanities, which gave $260,000 to a coalition of 26 nonprofit cultural groups and 100 local libraries.

The California Council for the Humanities is planning an effort to persuade as many Californians as possible to read ''The Grapes of Wrath'' over the summer. Beginning in October, libraries and schools across the state will sponsor discussion groups and other events related to the book.

''The Grapes of Wrath,'' generally considered Steinbeck's masterpiece, grew out of a newspaper assignment to investigate the living conditions in California of migrants from the parched heartland. He wrote it during an intense six-month creative marathon in 1938, and its graphic portrayal of workers suffering at the hands of callous landowners brought him death threats, an F.B.I. investigation and charges of Communist sympathy.

That last charge may have seemed plausible during the contentious 1930's, when anyone speaking out for the rights of the poor was considered suspicious, but it sounds quite odd in light of Steinbeck's later opinions. After World War II he denounced Communists for having ''established the most reactionary governments in the world, governments so fearful of revolt that they must make every man an informer against his fellows, and layer their society with secret police.'' During the 1960's he was one of the few American intellectuals who refused to denounce the United States role in Vietnam.

Steinbeck won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1962. ''His sympathies always go out to the oppressed, the misfits and the distressed,'' the Nobel committee asserted in choosing him. ''He likes to contrast the simple joy of life with the brutal and cynical craving for money.''

In accepting the award, Steinbeck said: ''The ancient commission of the writer has not changed. He is charged with exposing our many grievous faults and failures, with dredging up to the light our dark and dangerous dreams for the purpose of improvement. Furthermore, the writer is delegated to declare and to celebrate man's proven capacity for greatness of heart and spirit -- for gallantry in defeat, for courage, compassion and love.''

During Steinbeck's childhood in Salinas, his parents often read aloud to him and his three sisters. He spent hours in the attic of his family home devouring books like ''Adventures of Huckleberry Finn'' and ''Ivanhoe'' and one that became a lifelong favorite, Malory's ''Morte d'Arthur.''

As he grew older, Steinbeck often left Salinas and traveled to the seaside town of Monterey, about 25 miles away. There he developed a bond with cannery workers, fishermen and others on the fringes of society.

Most of Steinbeck's works are straightforward, accessible and easy to read. That has led some sophisticates to scorn them, but it has also attracted legions of admirers. One of them is Anne Wright, a Silicon Valley marketing executive who attended a Steinbeck memorial reception and dinner in San Jose, Calif.

''His style was like the people he wrote about,'' said Ms. Wright, who confided that according to family legend, she was delivered by the same doctor who delivered Steinbeck. ''It wasn't complex, or if it was, then not in a philosophical way.''

Several bookstores in the Salinas area are featuring Steinbeck's works or mounting special programs about him. At one store a collector and dealer, James Johnson, displayed posters from many of the more than 30 films that have been made from Steinbeck's works, along with copies of his books translated into languages including Farsi, Vietnamese and Slovenian.

''We don't know how many languages he's been translated into, but I have books in about 40 and I'd guess the total is around 60,'' Mr. Johnson said. ''He wrote about the common man, and in the end almost all of us think of ourselves as common. That transcends national boundaries.''

Japan is among the countries where Steinbeck's works are especially popular. A former executive director of the Steinbeck Society of Japan, Kiyoshi Nakayama, attended the Salinas festivities.

''We went through a very poor period after the war, and many people of that generation identified with what Steinbeck wrote,'' said Mr. Nakayama, whose 1998 translation of ''The Grapes of Wrath'' is the eighth to appear in Japanese. ''He is still very popular in Japan, even though there are more scholarly papers written about Hemingway and Faulkner.''

The debate over how Steinbeck compares with Hemingway and Faulkner, titans of his generation who also won the Nobel Prize, may be endless. Some critics have sought to dismiss him as less profound and more superficial than the other two, a straightforward storyteller beloved by high school students rather than a profound intellectual who probed the human psyche. Sometimes he is dismissed as unsophisticated, as when Edmund Wilson complained about ''the coarseness that tends to spoil Mr. Steinbeck as an artist.''

Susan Shillinglaw, a professor of English at San Jose State University and director of the Center for Steinbeck Studies, said she admired all three novelists and did not believe Steinbeck suffered by comparison.

''I love Hemingway's prose, and I think his short stories are some of the best in the language, but Steinbeck did the same kind of listening and simplifying,'' Ms. Shillinglaw said in an interview after addressing the crowd at Salinas. ''Steinbeck has more heart and soul, more empathy. He reaches out to readers with a participatory prose that invites us to engage, rather than writing as an observer the way Hemingway often does.

''Faulkner was certainly complex and experimental in a way that Steinbeck was not. He was more in touch with the modernism of people like Joyce and Virginia Woolf. But to compare him to Steinbeck is like comparing Picasso to Matisse. They weren't trying to do the same thing.''

Ms. Shillinglaw is the co-editor of a newly published anthology of Steinbeck's journalistic work, ''America and Americans,'' and also of a forthcoming book in which 23 American and foreign writers pay tribute to Steinbeck and assess his cultural influence. Contributors include Arthur Miller, Norman Mailer, E. L. Doctorow, Kurt Vonnegut and T. C. Boyle.

Among those who joined the celebration in Salinas was Thom Steinbeck, the author's only surviving child, who bears a striking resemblance to his father.

''He was an animist,'' Mr. Steinbeck said of his father while reminiscing between public appearances. ''He would tip his hat to dogs. He'd talk to screwdrivers, start a conversation with a parking meter at the drop of a hat.''

Mr. Steinbeck said that after years of monitoring the royalty checks the family receives for his father's works, he has developed a theory about the rises and falls in his popularity.

''Every time people are being driven out of work by powerful institutions that they think are against them, when there's unemployment and economic trouble, sales increase,'' Mr. Steinbeck said. ''When you have boom times like the mad 80's and there's plenty of money around, sales go down. It all depends on the age we're in.''

Pre-existing Conditions

Illustration by Alain Pilon

So Much For That
By Lionel Shriver
436 pp. Harper/HarperCollins Publishers. $25.99


Excerpt: ‘So Much for That’ (harpercollins.com)


Michiko Kakutani’s Review of ‘So Much for That’ (March 2, 2010)

March 14, 2010
Pre-existing Conditions
By Leah Hager Cohen


It’s like that old joke: A priest, a minister and a rabbi are discussing the beginning of life. The priest says it begins at conception. The minister says it begins at birth. “And you?” they ask the rabbi. “When do you believe life begins?” He gives a shrug. “When the kids move out and the dog dies.”

Shep Knacker, the protagonist of Lionel Shriver’s latest novel, “So Much for That,” believes his life will begin in earnest only when he quits the rat race and moves to Pemba, an island off the coast of Tanzania whose principal attraction is the low cost of living. Or, as Shep thinks of it, “The third world was running a sale: two lives for the price of one.” Never mind that he built his own company and then sold it for a million dollars. Shep persists in feeling like “an indentured servant.” He wants his liberty, he tells his wife, trying to sell her on the merits of his plan: “I want to buy myself.” Her reply: “But liberty isn’t any different from money, is it?” And, sure enough, the questions this novel raises about human existence prove less ontological than economic. Lest one miss the point, more than half the chapters open with a bank statement, underscoring the impression that plot and character development might be tracked via account balance.

Laying aside for a moment the paradox of a “freedom” wholly dependent on the exchange rate between the Tanzanian shilling and the United States dollar — laying aside, too, the dubious implications of a white American seeking to shed his “slave” status by purchasing land on the cheap and building a home in Africa — can a novel that regards human experience through its relationship to dollars and cents have literary merit? Can it be entertaining, rousing, illuminating?

Well, yes. Look at Austen, Dickens, Thackeray, James, Wharton. Or, more recently, Louis Auchincloss, Tom Wolfe, Jay McInerney. All have made hearty fictional stew out of the ways money both predicates and instigates action. But the approach works best when novelists account for the fact that money is hardly ever (to paraphrase Richard Yates) the real reason characters act — when it’s treated, rather, as a means to stir up weightier social, psychological and philosophical concerns.

Shriver, it would seem, has laid the groundwork to do just that. Neither stingy with subplots nor shy about taking on timely, complex issues, she tosses plenty of both into the pot with real daring and brio. Almost as soon as we meet Shep and learn of his determination at last to embark on “the Afterlife” (as he has christened his long-cherished escape fantasy), he’s hit with the news that his wife, Glynis, has a rare cancer, peritoneal mesothelioma, which puts the kibosh on his plans. With oddly triumphant coolness, she informs him that she wishes he wouldn’t go: “I’m afraid I will need your health insurance.”

Co-pays, deductibles, out-of-network providers and lifetime payment caps all ­become part of Shep’s vernacular, first as he navigates his wife’s illness and treatment, then as his octogenarian father breaks his leg and must be moved, at Shep’s expense, into a nursing home. The idiom of illness seeps into the way he views his plight: As his Pemba nest egg dwindles, Shep thinks of himself as “hemorrhaging” money. He sees Glynis’s surgery as “gouging a meaty chunk” from his portfolio, “as if to fiscally mirror the violence inflicted on his wife’s abdomen.” Conversely, his thoughts on mortality conform to the lingo of finance: as far as he’s concerned, the fact that Glynis is dying at age 51 means she is “owed” an “astronomical debt.”

While visiting his father, a retired minister, in the nursing home, Shep wonders aloud about “a limit to how much you should pay to keep any one person alive.” His father parses the matter more finely, asking “what a life is worth, in dollars.” If the scene’s ensuing dialogue is salted with phrases (expenditure cap, cost-­effectiveness, generic ibuprofen) that seem more suited to an editorial on the health care debate than to an intimate exchange between mournful son and ailing paterfamilias, this might reflect Shriver’s journalistic status as a regular contributor to The Guardian of London. There’s nothing wrong with writing a newsworthy novel, but at times these prodigiously researched and exhaustively argued critiques read more like excerpts from a position paper.

Health care also figures crucially in the story of Shep’s best friend, Jackson, first because his 16-year-old daughter has familial dysautonomia, a congenital degenerative condition requiring frequent medical interventions, and later because Jackson undergoes elective plastic surgery on a “certain” part of his lower anatomy (for more than a third of the book Shriver alludes to this matter in equally coy-yet-transparent language). Said operation, horrifically botched, leads to several reconstructive surgeries, themselves not only “exorbitant” but “disappointing.” These in turn lead to the ruin of Jackson’s marriage, the bankrupting of his family and the . . . well, I won’t give it away, except to say that a “certain” subplot concludes in a scene worthy of a splatter movie. Jane Austen, anyone?

Although this violent swerve into what seemed like a whole different subgenre initially struck me as jarring (so jarring that I wondered whether Shriver’s intentions could be comedic), on reflection it seems not entirely unpresaged. The amount of calcified rage contained in these pages is awesome. Shep is a paragon of passive-aggression, at once disgusted by and perversely proud of the way he absorbs abuse without complaint. Glynis, who begins the book “stiff, uncooperative and inflexible,” undergoes a lamentable kind of emotional growth after the cancer diagnosis: she develops full-blown schadenfreude. Jackson carries around so much excess anger that his acknowledged pastime is ranting. He can keep it up for pages at a time: about “the immigrants,” “arty bohemian types,” “Mugs and Mooches,” parking tickets, taxes, schools and, of course, health care. Jackson’s wife maintains a disturbingly highhanded calm bordering “on insanity.” Shep’s sister is a caricature of shrewish resentment and cunning. His teenage son is so shut-down he puts Shep in mind of hikikomori, youngJapanese who suffer from such acute social withdrawal that they never leave their rooms. And Shep’s boss (Shep now works for the company he sold) is an uninflected ogre.

Shriver, the author of nine previous novels and the winner of Britain’s Orange Prize in 2005 for “We Need to Talk About Kevin,” tackles her multifaceted plot with energy and grit. She can and does hold forth smartly on any number of subjects, both topical and esoteric. The book doesn’t suffer from vapidity or diffidence or dearth of event. What it lacks is a fullness of wisdom about its characters’ potential for growth. If none of the characters are particularly becoming, it may be because none become in any meaningful way over the course of the book. When at last Shep glimpses a solution to his woes, it isn’t the result of an expanded capacity to perceive worth. The trick turns out to be precisely “putting a dollar value on human life” — in other words, the fulfillment of his misguided sense of ­entitlement.

Leah Hager Cohen, a frequent contributor to the Book Review, teaches at the College of the Holy Cross.

Death Squad

Illustration by Paul Sahre and Jonas Beuchert; photograph from “Black Hearts

March 14, 2010 - Review by JOSHUA HAMMER

BLACK HEARTS One Platoon’s Descent Into Madness in Iraq’s Triangle of Death.
By Jim Frederick. Illustrated. 439 pp. Harmony Books. $26.

Of all the crimes that sullied the record of the United States military in Iraq — the torture of prisoners at Abu Ghraib, the killings of 24 Iraqi men, women and children by Marines in November 2005 in Haditha — the murder of an entire Iraqi family in the village of Yusufiya may rank as the most chilling. On March 12, 2006, United States soldiers were summoned to a small house in the heart of the insurgent-filled “Triangle of Death” south and west of Baghdad, where they discovered the charred remains of a 14-year-old girl who had been raped, shot to death, then burned with kerosene, along with the bodies of her 6-year-old sister and her parents. At first the killings were attributed to a feud between Iraqis, but after a soldier came forward with information he had gleaned from comrades, the Army arrested the real perpetrators: four soldiers from Bravo Company, a casualty-plagued unit in the Army’s First Battalion, 502nd Infantry, 101st Airborne Division. Press attention centered on the group’s ringleader, Pvt. Steven Green from Midland, Tex., “a petulant loner and a hard-drinking druggie” according to Newsweek, who was afflicted by a “seething, seemingly random rage.” Despite Green’s repeated troubles with the law, he had easily enlisted in an Army hurting for recruits and breezed through basic training. Before his deployment, Green made no secret of his bloodlust, reportedly telling one neighbor, “I’m gonna go over there and kill ’em all.”

Jim Frederick’s “Black Hearts: One Platoon’s Descent Into Madness in Iraq’s Triangle of Death,” is a riveting account of the crime and the events leading up to it. Frederick, a former Tokyo bureau chief for Time magazine, became curious about the case after learning that the platoon to which the killers belonged had been traumatized by another gruesome episode around the same time: the abduction, torture and murder of three men in their ranks by Iraqi insurgents. A short time after that, he received a phone call from an Army lawyer representing one of the accused, who described near-continuous violence, chain-of-command failures and the breakdown of discipline in Bravo Company’s theater of operations: “What that company is going through, it would turn your hair white,” he said. Frederick interviewed dozens of soldiers, followed courtroom proceedings and inspected documents obtained under the Freedom of Information Act. The result is a narrative that combines elements of “In Cold Blood” and “Black Hawk Down” with a touch of “Apocalypse Now” as it builds toward its terrible climax.

Suddenly I was reminded of a film about US soldiers in Iraq, and couldn't think of it, at first. An OPAC search was inconclusive, so I went to my film blog, and there I found it: Redacted.

Frederick’s tale begins with the deployment of Bravo Company in the fall of 2005, when United States forces in Iraq were losing ground to the Sunni insurgency. Impressing the brigade commander with its combat readiness, the company was assigned to a 50-square-mile patch of villages and farmland south of Baghdad. “The terrain was perfect for guerrilla warfare,” Frederick writes, describing warrens of houses, 10-foot-high elephant grass and irrigation canals that “diced up the land like a maze.” Bravo’s mission was to keep insurgents out of the capital by seizing control of key highways and winning the hearts and minds of the local population. They set up shop in an abandoned potato processing plant, a “gigantic corrugated-tin barn” whose previous military occupants had left the place a shambles and provided a foretaste of the stresses that lay ahead. “Feces and other waste clogged the gutters. Discarded food, including slabs of meat, was welded by heat and sand to the floor of the chow hall, while other provisions rotted in open freezers.”

What im,pressed the brigade commander so much? How could commanders at all levels send their troops out into a landscape perfect for guerrilla warfare without adequate resources?

Thrown into the heartland of a growing insurgency, with undefined goals and a shortage of manpower, Bravo Company began piling up casualties at an alarming rate. An unassuming Iraqi man shot two of them dead at point-blank range at a stationary checkpoint; others were blown apart while searching for improved improvised explosive devices, or I.E.D.’s, on foot patrols. As the deaths mounted, the troops grew resentful of the superiors who sent them into hazardous missions without rest or proper equipment, and increasingly hostile to the Iraqis they were supposed to be winning over.

Undefined goals? Shortage of manpower? What did VP Cheney say? They'll throw flowers at us as liberators?

Frederick captures the terror of men who knew they could be blown up at any moment, and the way that fear soon metamorphosed into indiscriminate hatred. Describing the aftermath of an I.E.D. explosion, he writes: “There’s a man on a cellphone, a lady putting out some washing, a kid walking down the road, and you just cannot figure it. How can none of these people know anything about what just happened here? . . . How could you not want to kill them, too, for protecting the person who just tried to kill you?” Of the three platoons in Bravo Company, First suffered the most losses and had the hardest time coping. Some drank heavily and numbed themselves with drugs; they entertained one another by passing around video montages of corpses and battle kills: “One, with a title card dedicated to ‘Mr. Squishy Head’ — a dead body whose skull had been smashed in — was set to the track of Rage Against the Machine’s ‘How I Could Just Kill a Man.’ ”

Life imitating art?

Aside from the perpetrators, Frederick refrains from singling out villains, steeping his character portraits in ambiguity. The closest approximation of a bad guy is Lieut. Col. Tom Kunk, 47, whose “large, shiny, hairless dome earned him the unit-appropriate nickname of ‘the Bald Eagle.’ ” Publicly humiliating those who fell short of his standards, Kunk shrugged off complaints and singled out First Platoon for special abuse. Sgt. Jeff Fenlason restrained his soldiers’ impulses to lash out at Iraqis, but he rarely left the base and failed to notice how strung-out and desensitized to violence his men were becoming. Sgt. Anthony Yribe, the squad leader, “a walking, talking G.I. Joe action figure,” was a fearless soldier who exerted a magnetic hold on his men, but his ethical ­lapses and contempt for Iraqis seem to have percolated down the line. In one telling scene, he accidentally shoots to death an Iraqi woman at a checkpoint, then gives tacit approval to a cover-up; later he has to be stopped from summarily executing a 72-year-old Iraqi man who panics during a nighttime raid on his house and fires a pistol. After Green confesses to Yribe, the sergeant tells the killer to keep quiet and says nothing about the crime. (By contrast, Pfc. Justin Watt, who braved his comrades’ scorn and threats and went public with what he knew, emerges as one of the book’s few heroes.)

Nice man, that Lt. Col.

In the end, flawed leadership, bad luck and a virulent mix of personalities seem to have led inexorably to the horror of March 12. Just six months into their deployment, one sergeant told Frederick: “First Platoon had become insane. What does an infantry rifle platoon do? It destroys. That’s what it’s trained to do. Now . . . let slip the leash, and it becomes something monstrous.” Frederick’s extra­ordinary book is a testament to a misconceived war, and to the ease with which ordinary men, under certain conditions, can transform into monsters.

Joshua Hammer, a former bureau chief for Newsweek, is a freelance foreign correspondent. He is writing a book about German colonialism in southern Africa.

A week in December

Faulks's hugely ambitious novel is a delightful and witty satire on contemporary London life, says Justin Cartwright
Faulks's new novel is a study of contemporary London. Photograph: Sophia Evans

Sebastian Faulks's new novel, set in one week in December 2007, is very ambitious. It aspires to be a state-of-the-nation book, a satirical comedy of metropolitan literary life, a sweeping, Dickensian look at contemporary London, a serious examination of Islam and the reasons for radicalism among young Muslims, a thriller, a satire on the Notting Hill Cameroonians and a detailed look at the sharp financial practices that led to the collapse. There's London football, reality TV, cyber porn, a love story or two. As if all that weren't enough, it is a roman a clef, which has already provided fun for metropolitan journalists as they speculate about the identity of the various characters.

A Week in December. Sebastian Faulks
pp400,Hutchinson,£18.99

The scene is set with the wife of a Tory MP organising a dinner party for the benefit of her husband's career in somewhere evoking Notting Hill. Every guest is chosen to suggest that the MP is a Renaissance man. We are reminded of Alan Hollinghurst's The Line of Beauty, as though all wealthy Tories inevitably have grand gatherings with deep undercurrents of class, ambition and financial chicanery. As she goes through the guest list, we immediately know that they are all going to be linked in some way. The guests are mostly wealthy men and their wives, owners of hedge funds and banks and so on.

There is also a manufacturer who has been invited to lend multicultural credibility. Farooq al-Rashid has made his money in pickles; he is a substantial contributor to the party and he has a son – the alarm bells ring stridently at this point – called Hassan who, in his parents' opinion, is rather too interested in the true message of Islam. While they simply want to enjoy the benefits of wealth and acceptance, he is planning to blow the Kafir world to pieces.

John Veals is a hedge fund owner who has made hundreds of millions by barely legal activity and he sees an opportunity to make much, much more by causing a big bank to collapse. Faulks has clearly done extensive research, sometimes not wholly digested by the plot, but admirably authentic. The real problem with Veals, though, is that he never lifts off the page. This is partly because the book is so crowded that Faulks doesn't have the space to produce a rounded character. Any novel that tries to take the temperature of the nation needs a fully human central character to pull the big themes together. Dickens's Merdle and Tom Wolfe's Sherman McCoy are horribly believable.

Anyway, besides the toffs, there are two less plutocratic guests invited to the dinner party, one an unsuccessful and bookish young barrister, Gabriel Northwood, the other a jobbing literary journalist, R Tranter. Tranter is all too clearly based on journalist DJ Taylor. Tranter admires Thackeray and writes for a satirical magazine, the Toad; Taylor has written a biography of Thackeray and writes a literary column for Private Eye. Tranter uses the Toad to work out his disdain for, and envy of, more successful writers. He also has a habit in his reviews of sadly concluding that most successful authors are ultimately deploying a few cheap tricks and are con artists, even if they are good. His reaction when he reads a novel by a rival critic – "It was worse, far worse, than he had dared to hope" – is spot on. There is a brilliant literary prize scene which was painfully familiar to me. Faulks knows the book world and satirises it with brio, but he can give up any hope of winning the Costa Prize after this.

The marriage of these elements is mostly smooth, with the best strands involving the literary world and the hypocrisies and presumption of the rich. Less successful is Faulks's rather plodding analysis of why young men turn to Islam. All too often, we are subjected to reiterations of the contradictions of the Qur'an and Islam's appeal to the disaffected, which are strangely lifeless as fiction. In John Updike's 2006 novel , the conversations between the potential bomber and his mentor also suffered from a certain stiffness. Maybe it is difficult to cross this particular cultural barrier. Another key character, Jenni Fortune (not invited to the dinner party), is a book-loving, cyber-obsessed young tube driver; her world isn't fully realised either.

But Gabriel Northwood, the barrister, is a fine character. He is slightly diffident, very human in his weaknesses, observant and well read. Remembering the great love of his life, a married woman, Northwood wonders about "this desperate passion… was it really such an enviable way to live, always at the edge of panic, desperate for a cellphone bleep, all your judgments skewed?" Some time before the book opens, he met Jenni, when he was junior to a QC on a case involving London Transport: Jenni had been driving a train when somebody jumped on to the line. He has taken to seeing her on the slightest pretext; we know that they are going to fall in love, despite their different backgrounds.

As the week progresses, we see Farooq al-Rashid preparing for his investiture with the OBE at Buckingham Palace; he is fretting over what he is going to say to the Queen. For a few months, he has been employing Tranter to coach him on the Queen's literary preferences. At their first meeting, Tranter dismissed all the books Rashid had been advised to buy ("OT – Oirish Twaddle", the "higher bogus", "poor man's Somerset Maugham" or "from the man who put the anal into banal") and recommended instead an obscure Victorian writer and Dick Francis.

In a highly nervous state, Rashid is trying to memorise the verdicts Tranter delivered in case Her Majesty should ask him what he reads. Meanwhile, young Hassan has to juggle his timetable in order to go on from Buckingham Palace to the bombing of a hospital with a large maternity unit. The scene at the investiture is hilarious, particularly as Prince Charles stands in for his mother. One of the flunkeys, as he boxes up Farooq's medal, says: "How was the Princess? She's ever such a chatterbox when she gets going. There you are, sir. One little gong."

As John Veals puts the finishing touches to his plan to bring down a bank – and incidentally destroy the livelihoods of thousands of African farmers – his teenage son, Finbar, is experimenting with skunk. This leads to a terrible psychotic episode and admission to hospital where it is touch and go if he will recover or lapse into schizophrenia. His mother, Vanessa, ultimately comes to his aid, overcome by guilt for her neglect.

Finally, the dinner party takes place. One of the guests, Roger Malpasse, delivers a fine drunken rant against the financial malpractice that is leading to crisis: "It's a fraud as old as markets themselves. The only difference is that it's been done on a titanic scale. At the invitation of the politicians. Behind the backs of the regulators and with the dumb connivance of the auditors. And with the fatal misunderstanding of the ratings agencies." This is one of the strongest moments in the novel, and unexpected, because up to now Roger has been portrayed only as a man who likes a drink, starting with a "phlegm-cracker" early in the day, moving on to a "sharpener" before food and finishing with a "zonker", which is virtually anything he can tip into a glass at the end of the day.

A Week in December is a little too long, a little too prolix. And yet it survives all this to be a compelling tale of contemporary London. I am not sure that it is the classic state-of-the-nation novel we need, but I have no doubt at all that it will outsell the higher bogus by a very long way.

Sebastian Faulks

Born 20 April 1953 and later educated at Emmanuel College, Cambridge. Now lives with his wife, Victoria, and three children in west London.

1984 His first published novel, A Trick of the Light

1986 Appointed the first literary editor of the Independent, then deputy editor of the Independent on Sunday

1989 The Girl at the Lion d'Or, the first of his French Trilogy, is published.

1993 Birdsong published.

1998 Charlotte Gray wins the James Tait Black Memorial Prize and is made into a film starring Cate Blanchett.

2006 Publishes the non-fiction Pistache, a series of parodies of other writers.

2008 Writes Devil May Care, a new James Bond novel to mark the centenary of Ian Fleming's birth.

2002 Made a CBE and in 2007 an honorary fellow of Emmanuel College.

He says: "I found it extremely difficult to get going as a novelist."

They say: "A masterpiece, one of the great novels of this or any other century." Trevor Nunn on Human Traces (2005). Oliver Marre

“faith lies at the heart of holy war”

Apropos of the book Holy Warriors (one of the two reviewed in the article quoted in the post below this one), I found another review in the NY Times, by Eric Ormsby.

llustration by Stephen Savage
HOLY WARRIORS
A Modern History of the Crusades
By Jonathan Phillips
Illustrated. 434 pp. Random House. $30


Excerpt: ‘Holy Warriors’


March 14, 2010
Butchers and Saints
By ERIC ORMSBY

The villains of history seem relatively easy to understand; however awful their deeds, their motives remain recognizable. But the good guys, those their contemporaries saw as heroes or saints, often puzzle and appall. They did the cruelest things for the loftiest of motives; they sang hymns as they waded through blood. Nowhere, perhaps, is this contradiction more apparent than in the history of the Crusades. When the victorious knights of the First Crusade finally stood in Jerusalem, on July 15, 1099, they were, in the words of the chronicler William of Tyre, “dripping with blood from head to foot.” They had massacred the populace. But in the same breath, William praised the “pious devotion . . . with which the pilgrims drew near to the holy places, the exultation of heart and happiness of spirit with which they kissed the memorials of the Lord’s sojourn on earth.”

It’s tempting to dismiss the crusaders’ piety as sheer hypocrisy. In fact, their faith was as pure as their savagery. As Jonathan Phillips observes in his excellent new history — in case we needed reminding at this late date — “faith lies at the heart of holy war.” For some, of course, this will be proof that something irremediably lethal lies at the heart of all religious belief. But the same fervor that led to horrific butchery, on both the Christian and the Muslim sides, also inspired extraordinary efforts of self-sacrifice, of genuine heroism and even, at rare moments, of simple human kindness. Phillips, professor of crusading history at the University of London, doesn’t try to reconcile these extremes; he presents them in all their baffling disparity. This approach gives a cool, almost documentary power to his narrative.

professor of crusading history.

At the same time, “Holy Warriors” is what Phillips calls a “character driven” account. The book is alive with extravagantly varied figures, from popes both dithering and decisive to vociferous abbots and conniving kings; saints rub shoulders with “flea pickers.” If Richard the Lion-Hearted and Saladin dominate the account, perhaps unavoidably, there are also vivid cameos of such lesser-known personalities as the formidable Queen Melisende of Jerusalem and her rebellious sister Alice of Antioch. Heraclius, the patriarch of Jerusalem, is glimpsed in an embarrassing moment when a brazen messenger announces to the assembled high court where he sits in session that his mistress, Pasque, has just given birth to a daughter.

Oops.

Phillips is especially good portraying 12th-century Muslim personalities — from Ali ibn Tahir al-Sulami, a preacher of jihad, whose fiery exhortations sound alarmingly familiar, to the refined Usama ibn Munqidh, poet and man of letters, and the grumpy but astute Ibn Jubayr, a sharp-eyed traveler through Crusader territories. “Holy Warriors” brings these otherwise exotic figures thumpingly back to life. About the assimilation of the Franks, many of whom chose to settle in the Holy Land, Usama could write, “He who was born a stran­ger is now as one born here; he who was born an alien has become a native.” The battle lines were sharply drawn, the campaigns were pitiless, each side had contempt for the others’ beliefs; and yet, somehow, on the margins of hostility, a grudging accommodation, if not friendship, sometimes developed.

Phillips concentrates on the seven “official” crusades, from 1095 to the final disastrous campaigns of Louis IX (St. Louis) of France in 1248-54 and 1270, but he also describes the fiasco of the so-called Children’s Crusade as well as the horrifying Albigensian Crusade against the Cathars of southwest France. As he notes, “holy war” was as often as not waged against coreligionists: Catholics against Cathars, Sunnis against Shiites. In the rigid, polarized mentality of the holy warrior, any deviation can signify a dangerous otherness. This is the best recent history of the Crusades; it is also an astute depiction of a frightening cast of mind.

Eric Ormsby’s new collection of essays, “Fine Incisions,” will be published next fall.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Rescuers, Not Invaders

The strange history of failed attempts to resist Islam's spread

Book review essay writtn by Robert Louis Wilken (WSJ, 13 March 2010).


The recorded past and the remembered past are seldom the same. Nowhere is this more evident than with the Crusades. The Crusades were a belated counter-offensive of Western Christians to come to the aid of Christians of the East in defending their lands against the further expansion of Islam and to free the holy city of Jerusalem from Muslim rule. In the year 600 most of the Middle East, from present-day Turkey to Iraq, including Egypt and the southern Mediterranean coast, was Christian, and its principal cities— including Alexandria, Antioch, Damascus and Jerusalem—were vibrant centers of Christian life and culture. Within a century the entire region came under Muslim rule. The Byzantine Empire, which had reached from the Strait of Gibraltar to the Persian frontier, was reduced to a Greek state in Asia Minor, Greece and the Balkans.

Scala/Art Resource, NY - An undated illustration of the taking of Antioch, in present-day Turkey, during the First Crusade

The first great expansion of Islam came to an end in the middle of the eighth century, but with the conversion of the Seljuk Turks from Central Asia, Islam resumed its relentless drive westward. In 1071, the Byzantines suffered a disastrous defeat by the Turks at Manzikert in eastern Asia Minor. By posing a grave threat to overrun Asia Minor and eventually capture Constantinople, the Turks impelled the Christian West to mount a defense. But the First Crusade was not an isolated undertaking; it was part of a larger effort to cast off the yoke of Islam. In Spain, for example, the Christian north had begun to regain territory— including Toledo, a major Christian city in the center of the country— that had been lost to the Muslims in the eighth century.

The Crusades were a series of large and complex events, of shifting motives and ambitions, of alliances between Muslims and Christians as well as battles, victories and defeats, of diplomacy as well as of bloodshed. The story is told anew by Jonathan Phillips in "Holy Warriors" and by Thomas Asbridge in "The Crusades." But there is more here than a historical account. Both books tell another, no less interesting, story as well: how the memory of the Crusades was formed in modern times.

The Crusades
By Thomas Asbridge
Ecco, 767 pages, $34.99
For a time the Crusaders were successful, and in the wake of their victories they established Christian kingdoms, one of which was centered in Jerusalem. In the end, however, they were vanquished. In less than two centuries all the lands in the Middle East and Africa, except Ethiopia, came again under Muslim control and remain so to this day. The inescapable fact is that the Crusades—there were eight to the Holy Land in the course of two centuries—ended in failure, and Muslims during the Middle Ages took little interest in these incursions from the West. The Crusades had minimal impact on the Muslim attitude toward Christianity. If anything, they led to the increased understanding that comes with trade: As a result of Christian settlements in the Middle East, commerce flourished with mercantile European cities such as Venice and Genoa.

But the question, as Mr. Phillips puts it in his introduction to "Holy Warriors," is this: Why does something that happened 900 years ago, and that ended "ignominiously," "resonate so powerfully across the modern world"?

Ask the Serbians about the Battle of Kosovo.

Holy Warriors
By Jonathan Phillips
Random House, 434 pages, $30

One answer is that the Crusades offer a cornucopia of anecdotes and images—of bravery and cruelty, honor and duplicity—that can be used to serve different ends. But there is more to the matter than that. The great merit of "Holy Warriors" and "The Crusades" is that they give full accounts of key events and figures in one volume: e.g., the capture of Jerusalem by the Franks in 1099, the retaking of the city by the Muslims after the Battle of Hattin in 1187, and the Fourth Crusade on Constantinople; the personalities of Richard the Lionhearted, the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II, and Saladin, the Muslim leader.

What comes through clearly is that the "remembered" history of the Crusades might better be called an imagined or invented history. Mr. Asbridge, a senior lecturer at Queen Mary University of London, puts it this way: The Crusades "have come to have a profound bearing upon our modern world, but almost entirely through the agency of illusion." Mr. Phillips, a professor of history at Royal Holloway University of London, says that we have seen only "shadows of the crusades, not true shapes."


In medieval Muslim chronicles of the Crusades, the Crusaders were simply called "Franks." But in the 19th century, as French works on the Crusades were translated into Arabic, Muslims adopted the French word Croisades (from croix), and the wars of the Franks became the "wars of the Cross." As the European version of the Crusades took root in the Muslim world, it seemed that the imposition of Western hegemony on the Muslim Middle East was a modern-day equivalent of the Crusades. And the introduction of Israel into the picture, a country founded by immigrants from the West, made the new latter-day "memory" of the Crusades even more toxic.

Mr. Asbridge's term for the modern construction of the Crusades is "Crusader parallelism." So deep is the new paradigm—the Crusades as Western Christian aggression, not a defensive movement of Christian piety—that the writings of mere historians can do little to undo the damage. Jonathan Riley Smith, a distinguished historian of the Crusades, once said that he had given up hope that scholarly writing could make a difference.

Still, it is good to have these two books. Messrs. Phillips and Asbridge are abreast of recent scholarship, they draw extensively on Muslim sources, and they know how to tell a story. Each author also realizes that, in the present climate, more is needed than a balanced account of what took place centuries ago. The historical narrative cannot stand alone; it must be set against the "remembered" history of modern times.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Historical British Novels

 I don't read them myself, but I do enjoy reading this weekly column, written by Cynthia Crossen.

I have a niece who's read ALL of the historical novels about the English; she loves Philippa Gregory. Is there an obscure novel she might not have come across that I could get her for her birthday? — J.M., Cold Spring, N.Y.

Until last week, I had never read anything by Philippa Gregory. I was put off by the covers of her books—her best known is "The Other Boleyn Girl"—which suggest the subgenre of historical fiction that Hilary Mantel, author of "Wolf Hall," calls "chick-lit with wimples."

My library had Ms. Gregory's 2008 "The Other Queen," so that's what I read. It wasn't bad. Bosoms didn't heave, manhoods didn't throb, and the real historical characters seem to have done more or less what history says they did.

In my favorite historical novels of Great Britain, I can really feel the cold, smell the smoke and taste the mutton. Among them:

"Jack Maggs" by Peter Carey. Inspired by Charles Dickens's "Great Expectations," this is the story of an ex-convict who returns to London from an Australian penal colony in the 19th century.

"The Crimson Petal and the White" by Michel Faber. It's been described as bawdy—the heroine is a prostitute—but this novel of 19th-century England is about class, medicine, manners and hypocrisy.

"The Observations" by Jane Harris. The saucy heroine of this novel (set in Scotland) is tart in every way; though she's nothing but a servant girl, she outsmarts many of her so-called betters.

"The Quincunx" by Charles Palliser. This 800-page doorstop is one of the few modern historical novels that deserves to be called "Dickensian." It teems with plot, characters and the bare bones of 19th-century London.

"Rose" by Martin Cruz Smith. A mystery, a love story and a terrifying depiction of the lives of coal miners in 19th-century England.

"Restoration" by Rose Tremain. A doctor in the 17th-century court of Charles II survives the Great Plague, the Great Fire of London and, barely, his marriage to one of the king's mistresses.

"Fingersmith" by Sarah Waters. Crime and love in Victorian London as two women plot to escape their destinies—one as a petty thief, the other as a captive of her aristocratic uncle.

My promise: None of these falls into the category of historical fiction George Steiner once described as "improbable gallants pursuing terrified yet rather lightly clad young ladies across flamboyant dust-wrappers."

The Possessed

Adventures in Russian Literature: Elif Batuman's debut book, "The Possessed," is a sometimes tongue-in-cheek account of her study of Russian literature. (WSJ)

Tolstoy & Co. as Objects of Obsession (NYT)

Jewish pirates of the Caribbean

Kritzler, E., (2008). Jewish Pirates of the Caribbean. Oxford Oxfordshire: Oxford University Press.

In a story in today's Wall Street Journal about Jamaica's Jews and their history, this book is mentioned. The author contends that Iberian Jews escaping the Inquisition landed in the Caribbean, and some became pirates.

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