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Showing posts from May, 2025

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 87: Eye of God

Last month, I reviewed a sad movie. This month’s movie is sadder.

The director, Tim Blake Nelson, paints a bleak picture of his home state. Eye of God (1997) is set in Kingfisher, a real town between Enid and Oklahoma City. The streets, houses, public buildings, and parks are neither beautiful nor hideous. They’re authentic.

It’s curious that the movie is based on a stage play. Yes, one of its strengths is theatrical: its use of extended, intricate dialog. But much is gained from filming the actors’ speeches at close range.

In one tender scene, a young woman removes her glass eye, passes it over to a young man, and asks him to reinsert the eye into her face. I suppose that the actions of this scene could be performed on a stage. Photographed up close, however, they’re immeasurably more intimate.

Rythmically, also, the story benefits from cinematic reconfiguration. Brief sequences are spliced into longer ones, as asides or interjections. (The dialog of a “main” scene often continues, as voiceover, during these “asides.”) Action glides forward and backward in time. Tragedy and violence are insinuated or foreshadowed, then brought into present actuality, then made to recede as the scene returns to a tranquil earlier moment – to the calm preceding the storm.

My theory about the title, which probably isn’t quite right, because it leaves out God, is that it’s meant to evoke the “eye” of a storm. Turbulence occurs before and at the end of the story. In between: doldrums.

If Kingfisher is quiet – downright boring – it’s a false calm. Tension is unrelenting. Everyone is waiting for the next dust storm or tornado or blast of wickedness.

(It counts against my theory that the movie has no dust storms or tornadoes.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

An emotionally disturbed fourteen-year-old boy (Nick Stahl) is found wandering the town, covered in blood. Whose?

A young woman (Martha Plimpton) meets a young man (Ken Anderson). He has just been released from prison. They’ve been writing to each other. She is nervous. She wants to leave. He is scrupulously polite but subtly, fiercely insistent. She stays. They arrange to meet again. These early meetings are sweet. We have misgivings.

The young man goes to his parole officer (Richard Jenkins). The parole officer is alternately brusque and chummy. He tells his charge that he and his wife have been trying to get pregnant, that he has to wind up the meeting to go and have another try. Who in his right mind would say such a thing at work, let alone at a first meeting, and to a criminal? The cause gradually becomes clear. It plagues everyone in this town. The parole officer is so lonely that he can’t discern whom not to involve himself with.

Even the most guarded townspeople – e.g., the disturbed, all-but-silent youngster – succumb to this affliction. It’s what drives the young woman to look for love where she does.

The parolee and the young woman see more of each other. They get to know each other better. He is religious. She, less so.

As the situation deteriorates, we become acquainted with an old sheriff (Hol Holbrook). We already know the type. He tries to make sense of the sad things he’s witnessed; in so doing, he hearkens forward to the famous opening monologue of Tommy Lee Jones’s sheriff in No Country for Old Men. Eye of God, too, begins with its sheriff’s voice. The sherrif recounts the Genesis story of Isaac’s binding. God had His reasons; Abraham had his. The sheriff is especially interested in Isaac’s point of view. How was life for the boy, after that moment of terror? The sheriff is concerned for the youngster who has been found, covered in blood, wandering the town. It’s not the youngster’s first encounter with violent death.

Other pieces are added to these, and in time the puzzle reveals its picture. We don’t mind that not all is explained at once: every scene is interesting. The parts are, perhaps, superior to the whole. Certain images and themes are less-than-satisfactorily fitted together: religious devotion, seeing and unseeing eyes, loneliness, childlessness, fertility. When I write these reviews, I am guided – goaded – by the urge to reconcile disparate themes. No interpretation obviously suggests itself on this occasion. I don’t mind. The actions, the characters, the feelings are compelling. I’m happy to be carried along on an episodic tour of this sad town. I would watch this movie again, and soon.

Were I a lawyer

… I might know what to think of terrifying essays like this one:


… which discusses the following measure in the One Big Beautiful Bill Act (OBBBA):
SEC. 70302. RESTRICTION OF FUNDS.

No court of the United States may use appropriated funds to enforce a contempt citation for failure to comply with an injunction or temporary restraining order if no security was given when the injunction or order was issued pursuant to Federal Rule of Civil Procedure 65(c), whether issued prior to, on, or subsequent to the date of enactment of this section.
“Translated,” Reich tells us, the measure ensures that “no federal court may enforce a contempt citation”:
The measure would make most existing injunctions – in antitrust cases, police reform cases, school desegregation cases and others – unenforceable.

Its only purpose is to weaken the power of the federal courts.

As Erwin Chemerinsky, UC Berkeley School of Law dean and distinguished professor of law, notes, this provision would eliminate any restraint on Trump.

“Without the contempt power, judicial orders are meaningless and can be ignored. There is no way to understand this except as a way to keep the Trump administration from being restrained when it violates the Constitution or otherwise breaks the law …

“This would be a stunning restriction on the power of the federal courts. The Supreme Court has long recognized that the contempt power is integral to the authority of the federal courts. Without the ability to enforce judicial orders, they are rendered mere advisory opinions which parties are free to disregard.”

In other words, with this single measure, Trump will have crowned himself king.

If it is enacted, no Congress and no court could stop him. Even if a future Congress were to try, it could not do so without the power of the courts to enforce their hearings, investigations, subpoenas and laws.
The House approved OBBBA by one vote. Suppose that after debating, revising, etc., the Senate and the House were to turn OBBBA – or some version of OBBBA containing this measure – into law.

Questions:

(1) Could judges strike down this measure as unconstitutional?

(2) If judges were to do this – and here my ignorance really shows – would they thereby strike down all of OBBBA?

Put differently, does a law behave like a logical conjunction that is shown to be false (invalid) if even a even single part is shown to be false (invalid)? Or might a law with some invalidated parts remain valid in its other parts? This is something people oughta know, but I don’t know it.

(3) Last question. If judges strike down a law that restricts judges’ authority to hold people in contempt, then they get to continue holding people in contempt. Right? Legally, they’ve “got the drop” on that law, right?

R.I.P. Alasdair MacIntyre

Call me a casual fan: an embarrassing status to admit to in South Bend, where fans are rabid.

The only book by MacIntyre I’ve read, cover to cover, is After Virtue (summarized here). I’ll say this: the book has staying power. Bits of it recommend themselves repeatedly and in diverse contexts. Many bits are provocative. Many of the provocative bits are silly. More impressive, to me, are the book’s constructive attempts to reestablish contact with forgotten moral traditions; to say what virtues are; to sketch social conditions for tractable attributions of rightness; and to make room for pairs of genuine obligations that genuinely and tragically conflict (e.g., Antigone’s obligations to her brother and to her city).

I’ve read a number of MacIntyre’s papers. I prefer his writing in that less digressive format. (In books he’s relentlessly allusive, and one struggles to keep up with him.) I never set out to read any collection of his papers straight through (e.g., this one, this one, or this one); I’ve taken on his shorter writings “piecemeal,” as this or that issue has arisen. “Is Patriotism a Virtue?” is justly famous. “The Very Idea of a University: Aristotle, Newman, and Us” is a gem. (Whether the book-length treatment improves on it, I couldn’t say.) “Notes from the Moral Wilderness,” which I haven’t read, is “the best starting point for contemporary ethics,” according to the tenth comment in this online discussion; “one might update [that essay] by replacing the name ‘Stalin’ with ‘Trump’.” (My reading group’s next meeting is “Trump Fest”: participants are to report on whatever they’ve chosen to read about Donald Trump. I wonder if it’d be beyond the pale to report on “Notes from the Moral Wilderness” instead.)

A new sister for Peppa Pig

… born in – oink, oink – the same hospital wing as – oink, oink – the Duchess of Cambridge’s children. (Reported in the Daily Mail.)

I’m fond of this gentle show.

So were my sons, for two or three weeks. They’ve moved on to “better” things.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Karin & I have been married for nine years. Today is our anniversary.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I watched the Europa League final: Potato Tots 1, Manchester United 0. Just abysmal. It wasn’t dull. It was kinda thrilling. But the quality of play was very bad indeed.

The Europa League isn’t a bad competition. Watching this game, I recalled a few teams from last year’s tournament that surely were better than both of today’s finalists:
  • AEK
  • Atalanta
  • Brighton
  • Leverkusen
  • Liverpool
  • Marseille
  • Qarabag
  • Roma
  • Sparta Prague
  • West Ham
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Habeas corpus: “a constitutional right that the president has, to be able to remove people from this country and suspend their rights” – according to Kristi Noem (U.S. Secretary of Homeland Security; former governor, South Dakota).

Good grief.

“You are the main trouble with this university”: body-text fonts, pt. 39: ITC Galliard

More Thurber (“University Days,” in My Life and Hard Times):


The typeface is the ubiquitous ITC Galliard, implemented successfully or not depending on the paper, the ink cartridge, the positions of certain celestial bodies, etc. Just look at all those Library of America volumes with their uniform design. In some, the text is beautiful and legible; in others, it’s too dark or too light.

Compare with this sample from Hammett:


Of course the scan quality also affects these samples, but my point is that the print quality varies greatly – even from page to page. I admire Galliard’s letters but never have been tempted to make them the basis of a printable document. Printing body text set in Galliard would be like playing the lottery.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

P.S. regarding the passage in the first sample:

It’s a joke, of course. But as I age, I find myself agreeing rather often with General Littlefield, especially when I use social media. I catch myself thinking that this or that individual pip-squeak is the main trouble with this country (this church, this fanbase, this social class, etc. – and yes, this university, or universities in general).

As far as I can tell, this attitude is indefensible. But the feeling is so strong, it would be illuminating if some philosopher could put together a half-plausible rationalization for it. (Not for scapegoating, which I take to be primarily concerned with types or groups rather than individuals.)

“Buck, your time has come”

From James Thurber, “More Alarms at Night,” in My Life and Hard Times:
My father was sleeping in the front room on the second floor next to that of my brother Roy, who was then about sixteen. Father was usually in bed by nine-thirty and up again by ten-thirty to protest bitterly against a Victrola record we three boys were in the habit of playing over and over, namely, “No News, or What Killed the Dog,” a recitation by Nat Wills. The record had been played so many times that its grooves were deeply cut and the needle often kept revolving in the same groove, repeating over and over the same words. Thus: “ate some burnt hoss flesh, ate some burnt hoss flesh, ate some burnt hoss flesh.” It was this reiteration that generally got father out of bed.

On the night in question, however, we had all gone to bed at about the same time, without much fuss. Roy, as a matter of fact, had been in bed all day with a kind of mild fever. It wasn’t severe enough to cause delirium and my brother was the last person in the world to give way to delirium. Nevertheless, he had warned father when father went to bed, that he might become delirious.

About three o’clock in the morning, Roy, who was wakeful, decided to pretend that delirium was on him, in order to have, as he later explained it, some “fun.” He got out of bed and, going to my father’s room, shook him and said, “Buck, your time has come!” My father’s name was not Buck but Charles, nor had he ever been called Buck. He was a tall, mildly nervous, peaceable gentleman, given to quiet pleasures, and eager that everything should run smoothly. “Hmm?” he said, with drowsy bewilderment. “Get up, Buck,” said my brother, coldly, but with a certain gleam in his eyes. My father leaped out of bed, on the side away from his son, rushed from the room, locked the door behind him, and shouted us all up.

We were naturally enough reluctant to believe that Roy, who was quiet and self-contained, had threatened his father with any such abracadabra as father said he had. My older brother, Herman, went back to bed without any comment. “You’ve had a bad dream,” my mother said. This vexed my father. “I tell you he called me Buck and told me my time had come,” he said. We went to the door of his room, unlocked it, and tiptoed through it to Roy’s room. He lay in his bed, breathing easily, as if he were fast asleep. It was apparent at a glance that he did not have a high fever. My mother gave my father a look. “I tell you he did,” whispered father.
A textbook example of “gaslighting.”

Dandelions, again (redux)

I mowed on Saturday. The next morning, when we left for church, the dandelion stems already had perked up.

They were taller at lunchtime. By the day’s end, they were “in flower.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Happy birthday to Mary, my sister.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

This year, I’m reading all of Jane Austen’s novels: one chapter each day. It’s almost like reading a daily comic strip, the dosage is so small.

First novel: Sense & Sensibility. Poor, decrepit Colonel Brandon, on “the wrong side of thirty-five.” (Oh, to be thirty-five again.)

Good-night.

May’s poem

… is from the first scene of John Marston’s play, The Dutch Courtezan (c. 1604).

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
The darke is my delight,
So ’tis the nightingale’s.
My musicke’s in the night,
So is the nightingale’s.
My body is but little,
So is the nightingale’s.
I love to sleep next prickle 🌵
So doth the nightingale.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Quoted in Anthony Powell, Temporary Kings (the eleventh novel of A Dance to the Music of Time).

When the play is staged, these lines are sung with recorder music for 2 min. 30 sec. (give or take a minute). Don’t listen; the tune’ll take root in your head.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The new pope, Leo XIV, is a Chicago South Sider and a naturalized citizen of Peru who lived in the north of that country – in Chiclayo. These places are mere stone’s throws from South Bend and Guayaquil. So, Leo and I couldn’t be much closer to each other, provenance-wise. (I actually know people who used to live in Chicagoland and in Chiclayo; but they’re disqualified: they’re Lutherans.)

I’ve read that Leo named himself after the previous leonine pope. Uh, huh. We all know which Leo he really had in mind. Yes. The GOAT. (Who, it turns out, was named for Lionel Richie.)

Dandelions, again

The mower has been “serviced” and cuts beautifully. But I’m frustrated. Headless dandelions tower over our lawn not two days after its trimming. The neighbors’ yards also are plagued. Is this how it’ll always be? Will the infestation be worse every summer? Is it caused by the warming of the Earth? Are dandelions mutating into super-dandelions?

Karin’s colleague keeps his dandelions in check. He constantly plucks and re-seeds his lawn. But he’s a childless bachelor with nothing better to do.

It was gusty a few days ago, and our useless, gigantic aerial blew off our house and hung, as if impaled, upon our fence. Our neighbor, Luis, kindly sawed it into bits for us. The weather is fine today, slightly less gusty, and I hope to coax the children out to the back yard.

I’ve begun my “weather disaster” reading with Maclean’s Young Men & Fire.

I intend, also, this year, to read all the novels by Agatha Christie that I haven’t finished: one each month. These include the novels that she wrote as “Mary Westmacott.” The first is Giant’s Bread.


My reading year has concluded

I’m glad to report that I finished reading the principal works of Homer, Dante (not his Vita Nuova), E. M. Forster, Anthony Powell, and Laura Ingalls Wilder. And I finished all I’ll ever care to read about J. R. R. Tolkien’s Middle Earth.

I reached my numeric goal, too. But I was forced to rationalize at the eleventh hour. I’d galloped through The White Darkness – David Grann’s little picture-book about antarctic exploration – but was unable to do the same with Michel Foucault’s little picture-book on Magritte. I called it quits. It was almost midnight. I was two books short.

Then I remembered that the three parts of The Origins of Totalitarianism were first published as separate volumes. I’d finished reading Antisemitism and Imperialism. I did some reverse-gerrymandering and included them in the tally. Not without qualms. I appended asterisks.


Last night, I began reading Proust. I joined the long tradition of those who fall asleep reading the “overture” in Swann’s Way, which is about falling asleep.