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Showing posts with the label Pelé

October’s poem

Not a horror poem but a love poem.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

(William Butler Yeats, “Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven”)

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October is for baseball, too.

Shohei Ohtani enjoyed an historic night in the NLCS. He pitched six innings and struck out ten batters, allowing two hits and zero runs. He batted three times and hit three home runs.


(Very roughly, it’s as if Erling Haaland or Pelé had tended goal for sixty minutes in a Champions League semifinal, stopped several good shots, given up a few corners, kept a clean sheet … and scored three goals.)

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 58: Little Dieter needs to fly

R.I.P. Joseph Ratzinger – Pope Benedict XVI.

R.I.P. Pelé.

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Little Dieter Needs to Fly

When Dieter Dengler was a boy, the Allies bombed his village in the Black Forest. He was awestruck. He immediately felt that he must become a pilot.

I never wanted to go to war, he tells Werner Herzog in this documentary. But he had to, to fly.

He traveled to the United States. He joined the Air Force, was made to peel potatoes for two years, and figured out that to fly he needed to join the Navy instead.

In due course, he was sent to fly over Laos. He was shot down and taken prisoner. He escaped.

Most of the documentary shows the older Dieter back in Laos. He recounts his harrowing months as a POW. He re-enacts certain episodes.


(Uh, oh, he says in this scene, this feels a little too close to home.)

He revisits ricefields, riverbeds, jungle trails, villages. He is supplied with props. He gives a short demonstration of lighting a fire with bamboo, and another of getting loose from a set of handcuffs.


Some of the props are human beings: locals who have been hired to dress up as soldiers or villagers.


It gets weird. Dieter recalls an especially nasty confrontation which resulted in the maiming of a villager. After he tells this story, Dieter embraces the villager-prop who has been standing next to him.

You still have all your fingers, Dieter notes.

By the time these people appear in the movie, we’ve been primed to accept their status as foregrounded props. In an earlier scene at an airfield, Dieter has been posed next to a mannequin. The mannequin is irrelevant to what the scene ostensibly is about – piloting – yet it dominates the sequence.


Like the mannequin, the performers who are dressed as villagers and soldiers pose silently next to Dieter while he does the talking. They are almost purely decorative – more decorative, anyway, than the locals employed by Herzog in such jungle movies as Aguirre and Fitzcarraldo.

There is another layer of artifice. Yes, it’s Dieter who speaks, and yes, the movie recounts the story of his life, but it’s uncertain to what extent he is the author of what he says. It turns out that some of his speeches are due to Herzog. (This isn’t revealed in the documentary itself.) And some of Dieter’s behaviors – e.g., obsessively opening and closing his front door to remind himself that he is free – also were invented by Herzog. Even though Dieter is a memorable individual, it turns out that in some parts of the movie, he is Herzog’s puppet.

How free is Dieter, really?

His participation in the documentary is consensual, yet it is Herzog, not Dieter, who pulls the strings.

He is no longer in shackles or without food, but his daily existence is arranged as if he were terrified of reverting to those conditions.

Moreover, even before he became a prisoner in Laos, he was governed by a compulsion. He needed to fly.

He reminds me of no one else in the movies so much as the Japanese WW2 aircraft designer in Miyazaki’s The Wind Rises – another character who has experienced the horror of cities’ destruction, and who nonetheless goes on to contribute to bombing and killing. The aircraft designer and Dieter are both drawn irresistably to a particular craft. A vocation. Or so one would wish to call it, without quite being able to: each of these craftsmen is insufficiently reflective upon, if not totally insensitive to, whether his craft is to be used for good or ill.

Modern warfare – technically sophisticated, ultra-destructive warfare – would be impossible without such dedicated craftsmen as these.

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I am reminded of one other Miyazaki movie: Porco Rosso. Dieter visits an apparently unending “graveyard” of disused military planes.


A heaven for pilots, is how Dieter describes it.

There is a heaven for pilots in Porco Rosso. Those who have seen that movie will know what I mean.

Little Dieter opens with this quotation from Revelation 9:6: “And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it, and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.” Like Porco, Dieter is a survivor who thinks constantly of those who have died, who wonders why he still lives.

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After Dieter died in 2001, Herzog released a “postscript” consisting of footage of Dieter’s military funeral. Then, ten years after the documentary’s initial (1997) release, Herzog brought out a feature movie about Dieter’s experiences as a POW: Rescue Dawn, starring Christian Bale. I haven’t seen that movie. I wonder if it shows Dieter in a different light.

Does Herzog regret having used Dieter as his puppet? His protagonist in the documentary Grizzly Man (2005) is not used in that way. Herzog makes interjections in that documentary, too, but it is always clear that they’re his: there is no blending of his voice and the protagonist’s. (Of course, Grizzly Man’s protagonist died before Herzog became involved with his story.)

For more on Little Dieter, Grizzly Man, Rescue Dawn, and other movies, see this book.

R.I.P. Diego Maradona

… arguably the greatest soccer player. A “great man,” I heard one commentator say. I wouldn’t go that far, but, clearly, very few players have been as naturally gifted as Maradona.

In terms of natural talent, who else is in his class? Puskás? Pelé? Probably. But I know them mostly by reputation. Maradona himself admired Mágico González.

Among those I’ve watched in real time, the two players who stand with Maradona are Ronaldo Nazário de Lima and Lionel Messi. Zinedine Zidane and Ronaldinho Gaúcho, I relegate to the next tier – far, far beneath the others.

It’s also worth mentioning that Romário and N’Golo Kanté have displayed genius in their circumscribed roles. (Kanté works hard, yes, but with an instinctive clarity.)

What, then of such a determinant player as Xavi Hernández – or Johan Cruyff, perhaps the greatest soccer figure of all time (for what he did in management as well as on the field)? They were obsessives, constantly working, constantly scheming to improve. Were they naturally gifted? Surely. But their place on the podium of naturalness is hard to ascertain. The natural ability of Andrés Iniesta is more apparent than that of Xavi. (Iniesta is less conspicuous than Ronaldinho or Zidane, but he might be in their class.)

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Maradona’s other distinction, besides the naturalness of his talent, is the role he played as the “conduit” of his teams’ successes. His teammates floundered badly when he was absent. This was true at the club level and at the 1994 World Cup. The same has happened again and again with Messi. (Cruyff and Xavi also were “conduits” through which play flowed, but, when they left, their teammates were not without recourse.)

Unlike the other forementioned players, Maradona and Messi have inspired cult-like devotion among their teams’ supporters – and in an entire nation. Maradona encouraged this sacrilege; Messi, as far as I can tell, has been indifferent to adulation (though, in other respects, he’s hardly been faultless). In such cases as theirs, talent rather than personality is what has inspired devotion. Fans and teammates will tether themselves even to such a wastrel as Neymar, who is gifted but ultimately rudderless.

One achievement of Maradona’s was that, for nearly two decades, he overcame the idolatry and dependency of his worshipers forcefully enough to deliver the goods.

Santos vs. Barcelona

Last night, for the Copa Libertadores, Barcelona visited Santos of Brazil. The teams played the second leg of the quarterfinal stage.

Santos is the club at which the following illustrious players spent their formative years:

(1) Pelé;

(2) Robinho (a twerp); and

(3) Neymar (an arch-twerp).

Neymar has been in the headlines lately. He was caught, en pleno partido, bickering with his Paris Saint-Germain teammate, Edinson Cavani, on the question of who should take a certain penalty kick. This is what they probably said:
Cavani: “I’m PSG’s incumbent penalty-kick taker. I should take this penalty kick.”

Neymar: “My transfer to PSG cost €222 million. I should take all the penalty kicks. Give me the ball.”
I have no great love for Santos or for its twerps.

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During last week’s first leg, Santos played defensively and got a lucky goal. (To me, the goal seemed offside.) That game ended 1 to 1. And so, last night in Brazil, Barcelona was obliged to score at least one goal so as to avoid succumbing​ to the away-goals tiebreaker.

Last night’s game started with Santos attacking more than Barcelona. Then Barcelona began its onslaught. Santos retreated. Barcelona pounded and pounded, but without precision or success.

The (neutral) announcers kept talking about how Barcelona deserved to win. They had a fatalistic tone. It all seemed pretty bleak.

The goal arrived at minute 70, more or less. ¡Gol! ¡Gol! I shouted, alarming Ziva and Jasper.

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My joy was short-lived. Barcelona’s goalscorer, Jonathan Álvez, was red-carded. The teams’ roles were reversed: Barcelona defended and Santos desperately attacked.

The game turned into a high-tension brawl, typical of the Copa Libertadores. Each team suffered one more red card. Barcelona’s players guarded the result, wasting time and rolling on the ground, observing the proper etiquette.

They did just enough to win.

Santos was Barcelona’s third Brazilian opponent of this year. A fourth awaits in the semifinal: Grêmio, of Porto Alegre.