1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 63: Secrets & lies

Is this the best movie of 1996? I think so. It has as much heart as Shine and as much cinematic virtuosity as Fargo. Secrets & Lies is a high-wire act, a controlled outpouring of uncontrolled emotion and verbiage with close-ups of tears, glares, and twitches.

When serious acting so outrageously violates the “less is more” principle, it has to be very, very skillful to come off as well as it does here.

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Hortense’s adoptive parents have died. Hortense (Marianne Jean-Baptiste), a young optometrist, makes an appointment with a social worker, played by one of director Mike Leigh’s regulars, the great Lesley Manville. If you want to contact your birth family, the social worker tells her, consider using our agency: we’re professionals.

The social worker is full of words but also, somehow, distant. She’s an energetic bureaucrat going through the motions.

Hortense chooses to look up her birth family on her own.

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One discovery surprises her. Although Hortense is black, the birth records say that her mother is white. Of course, as a matter of genetics, that’s not unusual, and Hortense and the other characters accept it readily enough.

What is truly shocking to Hortense’s biological family is that Hortense should exist at all. The mother, Cynthia (the spectacular Brenda Blethyn), has kept quiet about her first child, whom she gave away at the tender age of sixteen without having seen.

Cynthia is easy for Hortense to find. She resides at the same grubby East London address where she grew up. She’s had a hard life, working in a factory and raising, on her own, a second daughter – who is white – the scowling street-sweeper Roxanne (Claire Rushbrook). Previously, Cynthia cared for her father (now deceased) and her younger brother, the gentle, affable Maurice (Timothy Spall).

Cynthia habitually quarrels with Roxanne but seldom sees Maurice, who has moved with his class-anxious wife, Monica (Phyllis Logan), into a large house in a richer part of town. Maurice has “made good.” He runs a small but prosperous photography studio. He shoots weddings and portraits. Often, he must play peacemaker with his subjects, as he has been forced to do among Monica, Cynthia, and Roxanne.

He radiates goodness. So does Hortense. Either of them would make a worthy hero. But, arguably, the hero of this story is the least reasonable person: the lonely, volatile Cynthia. She may be difficult to live with, but she really has given her all.

It took many viewings for me to decide that she is the hero.

A Mike Leigh protagonist is multifaceted. He or she might seem wonderful upon one viewing and beyond-the-pale awful the next time. Or vice versa.

Who is the hero of the Book of Ruth? (God, of course; but which of the humans is most heroic?)

Is it the young title character, who bravely throws in her lot with her griefstricken second mother? Is it the hospitable Boaz?

Or is it old Naomi? She doesn’t just rest in the unexpected love of her new daughter. Instead, she sets up a proper home for Ruth by contriving – perhaps rather desperately and comically – to bring her fully into the family.

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As in Fargo, there’s one memorable sequence in Secrets & Lies that bears a significance that isn’t immediately obvious.

Maurice photographs a beautiful young woman in his studio. A hideous scar runs across one side of her face. She is a car crash victim. The photographs are for her insurers – she has lost her job as a beauty consultant – and also, perhaps, for use in a lawsuit. The woman is consumed by bitterness.

Someone always draws the short straw, Maurice reflects (and not for the first time).

As soon as the woman leaves, a disheveled man crosses the street and walks into the studio. He is the previous owner. Years ago, he sold the business to Maurice and moved to Australia, where he failed to establish himself. Now he has returned. He, too, is consumed by bitterness.

There but for the grace of God go I, Maurice reflects.

These two characters have no influence on what happens between Hortense and her new family. Why are they in the movie? The implicit contrast is with Cynthia, who also “drew the short straw.” Like these people, she is lonely and sad and desperate. But she isn’t consumed by bitterness. She is still able to love and to be loved, and that is what saves her and her family.

Not that she and her family don’t have bitterness or meanness to overcome. The movie is called “secrets and lies,” after all. There is the secret of Hortense, Cynthia’s first child; and Monica & Maurice have a secret as well.

I am not doing justice to this rich movie.

P.S. When I first saw it, as a teenager in a Quito cinema, the color looked washed out – as in the above image. It looked washed out every time I saw the movie on VHS or DVD. Now the color is vibrant. It seems to have been touched up for the movie’s re-release through Criterion. The movie has become beautiful to look at; it is not only a balm for the soul.

Moonbird; volto di donna; cul-de-sac; a scent of jasmine; old-school romance and horror

You know that painting, The Snake Charmer, which decorates the cover of Said’s book, Orientalism? My boys appear to have been regarding it as a fashion directive. … Samuel, first; then, Daniel, imitating Samuel (“following suit”).

Some neighbors stop by

Urchins knocked. They talked to Karin, who stood in the doorway.

“Is your son here?”

“Yes,” said Karin, bemused, as Samuel rushed over to see who was inquiring. “But he can’t go out. He’s just a little boy.”

“We mean your other son.”

“He’s even littler,” said Karin. (Just then, in another room, Daniel howled.)

Disappointed, the urchins went away.

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Not long afterward, they knocked again. I opened the door this time.

“Can we [mumble, mumble, mumble],” the smallest one said.

“What was that?” I leaned down.

“Can we swim in your pool.”

“We don’t have a pool.”

They looked stunned.

“We have a sprinkler … ” I offered.

“Can you tell ⎯⎯⎯ to come outside?”

“I’m sorry. No one named ⎯⎯⎯ lives in this house. Is that a real tattoo?” (I asked the smallest boy).

“Yes.”

It was a huge tattoo – elbow-to-wrist, almost.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Twelve.”

“Well, like I said, ⎯⎯⎯ doesn’t live here and we don’t have a pool. Are you thinking of the people next door? They used to have a pool, but they tore it down and moved away, and now someone else lives there.”

They’d had enough. My interlocutor wheeled around. His companion jumped down off the recycling bin he’d been sitting on, and they left.

I like to think that some day my sons will roam the streets with other neighborhood boys.

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Have you ever heard the term threenager? It’s apt.

Samuel already wants to break out of our little household cocoon.

“Sammy and Daddy can go outside now,” he said. “To the street.”

I.e., not to the back yard.

(Karin and Daniel were at the doctor’s.)

I walked to the library with Samuel. As usual, he didn’t read there; he played with the toys. He did not want to leave.

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P.S. Daniel doesn’t have too much lead in his blood anymore.

A pocket full of rye

So, I finished re-reading A Pocket Full of Rye, which I greatly enjoyed.

A few remarks about Gladys, the parlormaid.

(1) There are many, many servant-Gladyses in Christieworld. Most are interchangeable – this one is surely the most fleshed-out Gladys.

Was “Gladys” really a common Christian name for members of the servant class in early-to-mid-twentieth-century Britain? Or is this a class marker of Christie’s own invention?

(2) This Gladys is said to be stupid and unattractive, with “adenoids” – a repulsive physical feature.

I looked it up. An adenoid is a body part – a kind of tonsil – that is important for fighting childhood infection. Everyone’s got ’em.

There must be some further usage. Does the term refer to a medical condition, perhaps? A behavior? Breathing loudly? Speaking from the back of one’s nose? (Karin suggests).

(3) 2008’s TV Gladys (Rose Heiney) seems to have been cast and costumed to look like 1985’s TV Gladys (Annette Badland), even though the book is not so specific about how Gladys looks.

There is nothing new under the sun.

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Happy seventh wedding anniversary to Karin & me.

Muerte cruzada

“That was the secret of secrets,” said Queen Jadis. “It had long been known to the great kings of our race that there was a word which, if spoken with the proper ceremonies, would destroy all living things except the one who spoke it. But the ancient kings were weak and soft-hearted and bound themselves and all who should come after them with great oaths never even to seek after the knowledge of that word. But I learned it in a secret place and paid a terrible price to learn it. I did not use it until she forced me to it. I fought and fought to overcome her by every other means. I poured out the blood of my armies like water – ”

“Beast!” muttered Polly.

“The last great battle,” said the Queen, “raged for three days here in Charn itself. For three days I looked down upon it from this very spot. I did not use my power till the last of my soldiers had fallen, and the accursed woman, my sister, at the head of her rebels was half way up those great stairs that lead up from the city to the terrace. Then I waited till we were so close that we could see one another’s faces. She flashed her horrible, wicked eyes upon me and said, ‘Victory.’ ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘Victory, but not yours.’ Then I spoke the Deplorable Word. A moment later I was the only living thing beneath the sun.”

(From The Magician’s Nephew.)

In Ecuador, the political situation isn’t as dire as this. But it’s close.

On the verge of impeachment, the president, Guillermo Lasso, has spoken the Deplorable Word. Or, rather, he has invoked its watered-down, constitutional equivalent, the muerte cruzada (“mutual death”).

The legislature is hereby dissolved (although this won’t go unchallenged). Lasso’s tenure is now slated to end in six months. Meanwhile, general elections will be held. The victorious legislators and executive will serve out the remainder of the original, pre-dissolution term of office, which will continue until 2025.

Lasso, in theory, could win his election and be “resurrected” as president. Until then, it will be his prerogative to govern by decree, unchecked by the legislature (but not by the courts).

The BBC explains.

My dad made the point that muerte cruzada amounts to a check on legislators, discouraging them from overthrowing the president – spuriously or otherwise – as the Ecuadorian Asamblea Nacional has been wont to do.

In this case, it was the legislators’ foolish attempt to oust Lasso that provoked Lasso to oust them from the government.

A longer-term consequence is that from now on, every likely presidential impeachment can be expected to result in a dissolution of the legislature. Immanent impeachment virtually guarantees a comprehensive reset.

That might not be such a bad thing.

More worrying is the period of governance by presidential decree. I hope that things will turn out all right this time. But it’s not the sort of privilege I’d be glad for just any president to exercise.

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Karin had planned to take a few days off, for enjoyment. Then, she tweaked her lower back, was unable to walk, and ended up taking Tuesday and Wednesday off, for recovery.

The children were mercifully docile those days.

The year of the dandelions

Jasper, poor boy, is walking around with a silly-looking shaved leg where the veterinarian put in an IV. She made him unconscious so that she could clean his teeth. (One especially bad tooth had to be extracted.)

She also found a single flea. Jasper now must undergo a de-fleaing regimen.

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I mowed again today – not that it’ll make much difference, tidinesswise. The lawn is infested with dandelions. They regrow themselves in one or two days.

And not just our lawn. The whole neighborhood; maybe, the whole city. On our block, even the neat freaks’ lawns have dandelions this year.

But not the lawn directly across the street. That neighbor – an old woman – has an immaculate lawn, tended to by her middle-aged children, who take turns coming over to work on the yard. I used to think them overly fastidious, but now that I see how they’ve overcome the plague of dandelions, I tip my hat.

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I’m no baseball lover, but this documentary about Yogi Berra looks wonderful. This review begins with an illuminating story.

One night, a friend of mine who lives in Montclair, New Jersey, drove me around the exclusive neighborhood on the hill to show me all the mansions. … We came to a fork in the road, and my friend said, “No matter which fork you take, you get to Yogi Berra’s house.” He then drove me around the circular road to show me.

Spring cleaning; Mother’s Day; May’s poem

A desperate house-cleaning, this afternoon, to the detriment of my sinuses. We wished to make the house agreeable for Karin’s mom. We had invited her over for a Mother’s Day supper.

The event was a success.

After Karin’s mom left us, we let Samuel play with marbles in the living room, and I took Daniel to the basement so he wouldn’t put them into his mouth. When the time came to bring Daniel back upstairs, Samuel didn’t want to put his marbles away, and in the ensuing fracas they were spilled under various pieces of furniture. We put one howling child into one room and the other howling child into another room. We moved the dusty furniture around to hunt for the marbles – again, to the detriment of my sinuses.

I don’t recall having ever taken medicine for allergies. This might be a good year to start.

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The first paragraph of A Pocket Full of Rye:

It was Miss Somers’ turn to make the tea. Miss Somers was the newest and the most inefficient of the typists. She was no longer young and had a mild worried face like a sheep. The kettle was not quite boiling when Miss Somers poured the water onto the tea, but poor Miss Somers was never quite sure when a kettle was boiling. It was one of the many worries that afflicted her in life.

I see that in 2014 I gave this novel a “C” grade. Admittedly, I didn’t remember it well. When I previously read it, I was fourteen.

On the strength of this opening paragraph, the novel is shaping up to be worthy of at least a “B-plus.”

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For Mother’s Day, lines from the first half of Proverbs 31. Two versions.

I

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

These are the words of King Lemuel. This is the message his mother taught him:

“My son, I gave birth to you.

You are the son I prayed for.

Don’t waste your strength on women.

Don’t waste your time on those who ruin kings.

“Kings should not drink wine, Lemuel.

Rulers should not desire beer.

If they drink, they might forget the law.

They might keep the needy from getting their rights.

Give beer to people who are dying.

And give wine to those who are sad.

Let them drink and forget their need.

Then they won’t remember their misery anymore.

“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves.

Defend the rights of all those who have nothing.

Speak up and judge fairly.

Defend the rights of the poor and needy.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

(International Children’s Bible)

II

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The words of Lemuel, King of Massa, with which his mother reproved him:

No, my son. Oh, no, son of my womb,

Oh, no, son of my vows.

Do not give your vigor to women,

Nor your ways to destroyers of kings.

Not for kings, Lemuel, not for kings,

the drinking of wine, nor, for rulers, hard drink.

Lest he drink and forget inscribed law,

and reverse the judgment of all wretched men.

Give hard drink to the perishing man

and wine to those deeply embittered.

Let him drink and forget his privation,

and his misery let him no more recall.

Open your mouth for the dumb,

For the judgment of all fleeting folk.

Open your mouth, judge righteously,

grant justice to the poor and the wretched.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

(Robert Alter)

Body-text fonts, pt. 15: Golden Cockerel

A chicken loitered in neighbors’ front yards this weekend. Then it crossed the road, got into our back yard, and stayed for two days.

Karin posted a notice to an online bulletin board. “No one will claim that bird,” one of her colleagues told her. “It’s a gamecock.”

Karin called the Dept. of Animal Control. She gave our address. The van drove down our street. It didn’t stop. Karin called again. The van came back. This time, it stopped in front of our house.

I went outside. “Are you here for the chicken?” I said.

“No,” said the officer, “I just thought I’d visit.”

Crickets.

“Sorry,” she said. “Yes, I’m here for the chicken.”

We went out back and cornered the chicken. The officer caught it with a net and put it into a pet carrier. “Its wings have been clipped,” she said.

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In honor of this chicken, my typeface of the month is Golden Cockerel, digitized by ITC and originally designed by the brilliant but evil (and ubiquitous) Eric Gill. I don’t think I have any books that use Golden Cockerel for body text rather than display text. It’d have to be a “precious” book indeed. Like this one, or this one:

I take it back: Text Publishing, the Australian company, sets some unglamorous books in Golden Cockerel.

Other typefaces by Gill will be acknowledged in due course.

The lawn care begins

Luis, our neighbor, kindly mowed our front lawn at 8:45 this morning, before the rain was due to fall. I was awake but hadn’t gone out to mow because I figured it was too early to make noise on a Saturday. But then other neighbors started mowing their lawns, too, so I went outside and mowed the back.

Here Luis poses next to his portable speaker. He likes to play norteño music while he mows.

He earns his living mowing lawns and fixing other people’s mowers. He gets so much business, he has to contract some of it out.

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Prodded into early action, Karin & I cleaned our house and then walked the boys over to the nearby high school, which I hadn’t previously visited. A “community event” was in session. There were food trucks, bounce houses, tables manned by representatives of local businesses and nonprofits, etc. Samuel and Daniel wouldn’t play in the bounce houses. They seemed shellshocked by the loud music. Samuel did grab candy off of the tables.

We got food truck vouchers and ate a cheap lunch. We wandered the school’s hallways and searched in class photos for people we know.

Several of the hallways there are rather steeply sloped. I fantasized about running laps in that building.

We left the school, walked to the grocery store and the library, and then walked home and cleaned more of our house. Karin pulled some weeds. I don’t know about her, but I’m the sorest I’ve been for many months.

An ode to Brighton

Hardly anyone read my latest movie review. I can only infer that the opus in question, Dalziel & Pascoe, series 1, episode 3, “An Autumn Shroud,” already is so well known that my commentary on it is superfluous.

Karin vomited many times today and stayed home from the office.

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One of the luckiest things for me this last year was that Brighton & Hove Albion F.C. employed three Ecuadorians, spurring me to watch most of Brighton’s games and affording me a view of what surely has been one of the most breathtaking teams in the history of sport: a team all the more remarkable for bossing games while languishing mid-table.

Brighton’s manager, Graham Potter, was poached by Chelsea several games into the campaign. But then his successor, Roberto De Zerbi, actually made Brighton better. (There is a YouTube cottage industry about this.) Chelsea ended up sacking Potter.

All game long – in game after game – the broadcasters would sing Brighton’s praises. But the roster isn’t deep enough to lift the club very high up the table. Mind, I say this after a game in which key starters were rested and their substitutes propelled Brighton to a 6–0 victory.

The roster, such as it is, might well be gutted before the next season, as the clubs with deep pockets come swooping down.

How about this season, then? There have been high hopes, but things look bleak. Brighton will play six of the final seven matches against the league’s top four and bottom two clubs. The top four will be tough because they’re good. The bottom two will be tough since they’ll be fighting to avoid relegation.

The good times might already be over.

I like seeing Moisés Caicedo and Pervis Estupiñán on the field together, featuring for a team that plays how Ecuadorians like to play. I don’t want them to be snatched up by bigger clubs next year. But that’ll probably happen. The most enjoyable club season of my life will have been a flash in the pan.