Screwball

I took time off from Tubi murder shows to watch Cannes-/​BAFTA-/​Oscar-crowned Anora. It earned its hype, and then some.

What was the last screwball comedy to win it big? It Happened One Night (1934)?

Another instructive comparison is with Cronenberg’s too-serious Eastern Promises, which also is populated with (less believable) Russians in a Western metropolis. Anora, too, changes gears during a remarkable “fight” scene, albeit one with less lethality and nudity (although Anora is not bereft of nudity). Anora’s “fight” scene is not so different from Viggo Mortensen’s showpiece sauna tiff with Russian gangsters – but it’s hilariously dragged out. Over days. In mansions, clubs, restaurants, private jets, and courtrooms. (Re: anarchic luxury travel and divorce court: see Preston Sturges.)

Mikey Madison is the first Gen-Z Oscar winner. I kept thinking: Kids these days! – absolute savages. But I cheered for her title character, more than for anybody in a while.

April’s poem

… is Boney M.’s “Rasputin.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

There lived a certain man in Russia long ago

He was big and strong, in his eyes a flaming glow

Most people looked at him with terror and with fear

But to Moscow chicks, he was such a lovely dear

He could preach the Bible like a preacher

Full of ecstacy and fire

But he also was the kind of teacher

Women would desire

Ra, ra, Rasputin

Lover of the Russian Queen

There was a cat that really was gone

Ra, ra, Rasputin

Russia’s greatest love machine

It was a shame how he carried on

He ruled the Russian land (and never mind the Tsar)

But the kasachok he danced really wunderbar

In all affairs of state, he was the man to please

But he was real great when he had a girl to squeeze

For the Queen, he was no wheeler-dealer

Though she’d heard the things he’d done

She believed he was a holy healer

Who would heal her son

But when his drinking and lusting and his hunger for power became known to more and more people, the demands to do something about this outrageous man became louder and louder

“This man’s just got to go!” declared his enemies

But the ladies begged, “Don’t you try to do it, please!”

No doubt, this Rasputin had lots of hidden charms

Though he was a brute, they just fell into his arms

Then, one night, some men of higher standing

Set a trap; they’re not to blame

“Come to visit us,” they kept demanding

And he really came

Ra, ra, Rasputin

Lover of the Russian Queen

They put some poison into his wine

Ra, ra, Rasputin

Russia’s greatest love machine

He drank it all and said, “I feel fine!”

Ra, ra, Rasputin

Lover of the Russian Queen

They didn’t quit: they wanted his head

Ra, ra, Rasputin

Russia’s greatest love machine

And so, they shot him till he was dead

Oh, those Russians

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Of toilets

The British famously named one of their scientific boats Boaty McBoatface; in the same spirit, I hereby christen our new toilet Flushton McFlushface – “Flushy,” for short. (Karin’s dad kindly installed it yesterday.)

“Flushy” resided some days in our parlor, inside a big box, and became like a piece of furniture to us – which, I suppose, is what it is. Samuel and Daniel played upon, and inside, the box.

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The Middle Ages weren’t always so-called. Likewise, our old toilet, previously unnamed, is now “Not Quite Flushy” because of its position in the History of Toilets – and because of its chief defect.

We carried it out to the front porch where, due to rain, churchgoing (ours, not the toilet’s), etc., it has remained. With luck, it’ll be immortalized by Google Street View. This afternoon it toppled onto its side. I don’t know if it was pushed by wind, urchins, or stray cats; or if a part of it simply crumbled.

I intend to break it into smaller pieces with a hammer, to fit it into the trash.

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Enough of toilets. For the second half of my reading year I’m plotting a march through Dostoevsky. Curious thing. His canon is crowned by the “five major novels.” Russians list them differently than do English speakers. Russians include The Adolescent; English speakers typically don’t. They might include Notes from the Underground (a novella) or reduce the list to four. It’s not as egregious as, e.g., Oregon’s having become the best college football team in the Midwest’s 18-team Big Ten Conference; but it’s gerrymandered, all right.

Anyway, I plan to read Notes, the Russians’ “five,” and probably The Double and The Gambler; so, either way, I’m covered.

P.S. See this useful webpage re: translations.

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 70: Citizen X

This 1995 HBO production is much, much better than the average made-for-cable movie of that period. I’ve seen it ten or fifteen times. It’s rewatchable because of the acting. I cherish each facial expression, every vocal intonation and contortion – even though the (Western) actors speak with Russian accents of varying thickness.

It’s based on the case of a notorious serial killer. It takes some historical liberties, one of which I’ll mention at the end of this review. How discrediting this is, I’m not sure. I can’t check all the facts, but I ought at least to read the book upon which the movie is based. Citizen X is superficially (and, therefore, deceptively) realistic; it’s hardly Amadeus, which a viewer can enjoy in good conscience as a kind of fable, realizing that much has been embellished.

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Rostov Oblast, early 1980s. A body is discovered in a field.

Search the woods, Burakov, the forensic specialist (Stephen Rea), tells one of his police underlings. That’s where this person was killed.

It’s almost five o’clock, the underling complains.

I don’t care what time it is. Search the woods.

That night, as Burakov is concluding his post-mortem, seven more bodies are wheeled into the lab.

Have a nice evening, says the underling.

And that is the basic pattern of the movie: Burakov works hard to catch the killer while others drag their feet.

It’s clear that we have a serial killer on our hands, Burakov reports to a committee of local Communist Party leaders. The most prolific in Soviet history.

The response is not encouraging. Serial killing is a decadent Western phenomenon.

No wonder nothing ever gets done, Burakov confides to his immediate superior: the smirking, urbane, politically astute Colonel Fetisov (Donald Sutherland). Fetisov is on the side of the angels. But he is not a conventionally nice man. He has just been mocking Burakov’s death-odor in front of the committee – Next time, a little less diligence, a little more hygiene – scoring cheap points against his detective in public. But he means to aid him, behind the scenes, in the long run.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The killer (Jeffrey DeMunn) is an anxious little man. He recruits his victims in train stations. Most are young. He lures them into the forest and stabs them to achieve sexual gratification.

The camera lingers on him after his killings.

No glib psychopath he. We see him on the prowl, awkward with potential victims, avoiding police, receiving tongue-lashings from his boss and his wife. Always wretched. Always bracing himself for the hammer-blow. He exudes as much dread in daily life as he does in his execution scene. It’s a haunting performance.

(The movie says little about his background, which is as harrowing as anything else in the story.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

But the heart of the movie is the interplay between Burakov and Fetisov. Burakov is passionate and direct; Fetisov, ironical and cunning. Fetisov, especially, utters some delicious lines.

Burakov: He finds his victims on the trains!

Fetisov: I have never ridden the trains, but they do sometimes impede my limousine.

(Dick, my PhD adviser, used to talk like this; he, too, was on the side of the angels.)

Each man, in his own way, works for the good.

Toward the end of the movie, Burakov and Fetisov recruit a psychiatrist – Max Von Sydow, in a small but winsome role – who, congratulating them on an investigative success, delivers this line: May I say that together, you make a wonderful person.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Now, the inaccuracies. The investigation spans twelve years. The characters don’t age. Burakov has young children; they stay young. This might be an oversight, or it might be a deliberate artistic choice. Not aging, Burakov’s children subtly bring to mind the children who’ve been killed, who’ll never grow up, who haunt Burakov’s dreams.

The more serious inaccuracy – the fabrication – is Burakov’s recurring conflict with the committee of Communist Party leaders, and especially with an ogrish, blockheaded bully played by Joss Ackland (in another entertaining performance) who seethes from the end of the table whenever Burakov reports on the investigation.

I’ve read that there was no such conflict in real life. (Again, I’d have to check the book to make sure.) Bureaucratic idiocies did exist in the Soviet Union, but they may not have been so influential in this case.

The fabrication adds drama to the story, and it makes Burakov’s heroism more poignant; it also establishes why Fetisov must operate as he does. Arguably, the fabrication is artistically necessary. The story isn’t much of a procedural. The haphazardness of the policing (not Burakov’s, but the force’s) deprives this crime story of the usual pleasure that comes from watching an investigation logically unfold. Instead, the movie is driven by its personalities; and these are compelling because of what they must overcome.

I won’t decide whether the inaccuracy is fatal to the movie. I simply don’t know enough. But it remains true that the movie is absorbing to watch, with characters who are movingly played.

“To grandfather in the village”

This is a holiday weekend, which, for Karin, means half-days at the office. Karin’s dad whisked Samuel away for a sleepover, leaving Karin & me with just one child. We used our exotic new freedom to eat inside a restaurant and shop at Goodwill.

We bought Daniel some much-needed shoes. He refuses to walk in them. At home, I carried him to the back yard, plunked him down on the grass, and watched him crawl sadly over and beg to be held.

He’s happy to walk around in socks. It’s shoes that freak him out.

At Goodwill, I also found a volume, published out of India, of fifty Chekhov stories translated by Constance Garnett. Amazingly, I hadn’t previously owned any of Chekhov’s writings. I read “Vanka” when I was little and thought it unbearably sad (for by then I had lived away from my parents). Shirley Jackson’s “Lottery” is light and airy compared to “Vanka.”

Body-text fonts, pt. 3: Melior

The mower is repaired, thanks to Karin’s dad; and the lawn is cut, thanks to me. And just in time, because this has been a rainy day.

On the whole, the weather has not been bad, but I haven’t wanted to go out strolling with Samuel and Daniel. I’ve been reluctant to take Daniel out very far: he’s still so small.

It’s not easy to think of good content for this blog when I don’t leave the house.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

This month’s font, Melior, was designed by the great Hermann Zapf.

Speaking of Bond, I suppose the Russians are due to make a comeback as “the baddies” of spy fiction.

The reason is terrible, of course.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Domestic terrorism is featured in British thrillers more and more often. Has this been true of U.S. thrillers? Of the Jack Reacher novels, for example?

It’s fun to read about agents who fight exotic foreigners. I imagine it would be less pleasing to read a thriller about, e.g., a homegrown mass shooter.

On leave; personal limitations; quietism; body-text fonts, pt. 1: Cochin

The weather has turned, dramatically. Temperatures approach the sixties (F).

Karin has been on leave for two weeks:

0.5 weeks in the hospital;

1.5 weeks at home, in front of the TV (all of us, not just Karin), with the occasional visit to the doctor.

We are quite fattened up, due to well-wishers’ generous gifts of food – mainly, pastries and pasta – and our failure to exercise. Daniel, who has been jaundiced, is swallowing more milk now that his tongue-tie is severed.

Samuel loves Daniel. He is, if anything, too affectionate.

I have been reading about Russia’s war with Ukraine; and I’d begun to write about it, when I decided I have nothing of value to say about this distressing event. I daren’t even repeat which pundits’ remarks I’ve found interesting. (This is not meant as a comment on anyone who has been remarking on the war or relaying others’ remarks. It’s just a comment about myself.)

It’d be better if I only talked about what I had for lunch (meat loaf, potato salad, pie), or if I started a new, utterly trivial series of posts. “Body-text Fonts, with Samples from My Own Bookshelves.”

Yes, that’s more my speed. This month’s font is Cochin.

The first knockout stage

… has been played out.

I just finished watching England defeat Colombia in a penalty shootout. This game had a villain: U.S. referee Mark Geiger. He called a very dubious penalty against Colombia, forfeited his credibility with the players, and was generally incompetent. In fact, he was a jackass. Given his history, he shouldn’t have been assigned to the World Cup in the first place.

With Colombia’s disqualification, one half of the playoff bracket looks utterly dismal. One of these sorry teams will reach the final game:

• Russia (KO’d Spain in a penalty shootout after playing bunker defense)
• Croatia (KO’d Denmark in a shootout after an utter snoozefest)
• Sweden (KO’d Switzerland with a goal from a deflected shot, mercifully ending an utter snoozefest so that extra time wouldn’t have to be played)
• England (toothless)

So far, all knockout games between two European teams have been deadly dull. We can expect more of the same for the quarterfinal and semifinal games in this half of the bracket.

The other half is much better. These are its surviving teams:

• France (scored four goals against Argentina)
• Uruguay (scored twice, and at will, against Portugal – seven minutes after beginning to play, and seven minutes after having been scored upon – and with breathtaking technique; dominated play without possessing the ball)
• Brazil (broke down Mexican resistance with two well-crafted goals)
• Belgium (showed attacking prowess by surmounting a two-goal deficit vs. Japan)

Even if France and Belgium should defeat the South Americans in the quarterfinals, we can expect them to give us a rousing semifinal game.

Some frightening teams

Leave it to Alejandro Moreno, the worst commentator I’ve ever listened to, to defend Neymar for weeping out on the field … like a spoiled child … after scoring a tap-in against Costa Rica.

If the Brazilians win this World Cup – and, with all of their talent, they’re poised to do so – I hope they win with Neymar on the bench.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The Colombians may have lost their first game, but yesterday they showed that they’re one of the planet’s scariest teams. They turned on the style in their rout of Poland.

The Colombians also have enough talent to win this World Cup.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The Uruguayans have enough talent and more than enough grit. They won’t fear anyone. They’re used to grinding out results, which bodes well for their fate in the later rounds.

They ground out results against Egypt and Saudi Arabia. Then, this morning, they decided not only to clinch the first place in Group A, but to emphasize how dangerous they are. And so they casually routed the host nation.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Another frightening team is Germany – not for having played well, but for having come back from the dead against the Swedes.

Before Toni Kroos scored his last-minute goal, the citizens of all the other countries had been licking their chops. The Mexicans, especially: their team would’ve qualified for the next round if Sweden had held Germany to a draw.

Instead, Group F remains unsettled. Germany, Mexico, and Sweden all will be excellently positioned if they win their respective upcoming games. Theoretically, even the Koreans could advance.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Also frightening – but still unproven – are the Croatians, the Belgians, and the English, all of whom have easily qualified for the knockout stage. They all looked quite good against their group opponents, but I wonder how they’d fare against Colombia or Germany, or even Mexico.

Some links pertaining to the World Cup

It’s the summer’s solstice, but you wouldn’t know it from South Bend’s dark skies and pouring rain.

In Russia, the World Cup has continued its string of bizarre matches.

Colombia was upset after suffering an early red card against Japan.

Poland was upset by Senegal, who scored a wacky second goal.

Spain defeated Iran with another wacky goal.

Argentina was badly upset by Croatia.

I could discuss many more games, in minute detail. But I’ll leave it at this: general weirdness is this World Cup’s main theme.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The trappings have been more wonderful than the games themselves. The crowds, in national dress, have lent their usual pageantry. The stadiums also have been lovely to behold – even on TV; even the one in Yekaterinburg, which has seats built on high stilts outside the stadium proper. (Yekaterinburg, I learned today, is east of the Urals, which makes this World Cup the second one held in Asia.)

And here is Telemundo’s rousing musical theme for the tournament. It’s played during every commercial break. It builds gradually. At the end, it introduces vocals, sounding very Russian.

A sputtering start

Who will seize control in this World Cup? So far, none of the “powers” has seemed capable. Germany has lost to Mexico; Portugal and Spain have drawn against each other (these teams have shown perhaps the best potential); Argentina and Brazil have drawn against Iceland and Switzerland, respectively. Only France has won – against Australia – but hardly in a convincing fashion.

Russia, the host nation, scored five times against the dismal Saudis without playing especially well. I expect the Russians to qualify for the next round, and then to get knocked out.

Only Uruguay – not a “power,” but still a team to be reckoned with – defeated its opponent, Egypt, in its usual manner. It eked out a 1–0 victory in added time, with a goal by a central defender. Uruguay will be very comfortable in games like those that have occurred so far.

Belgium, England, Colombia, and Poland have yet to play any games. It’s too early to say how they will do.

A prank; a vote; a forthcoming event; a new tutee; Zlatan

We’re well into June. The high schools have had their graduations.

At the school where I used to work, the seniors did an especially good prank. They put LimeBikes everywhere inside the building.

It was effective because whenever a janitor would try to remove a bike from the school, the bike would play a recorded message, threatening to call the police.

Eventually, though, the bikes were brought out into the parking lot.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Today, FIFA’s members voted to select the hosts of the 2026 World Cup.

They chose Canada, Mexico, and the United States.

Morocco was the losing candidate.

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David will arrive in South Bend tomorrow night. He plans to watch the first week or so of this year’s World Cup with his family.

The first game, Russia vs. Saudi Arabia, will be played tomorrow morning.

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At IUSB, my newest tutee is a middle-aged woman from Mexico. We held our first session today. Afterward, we tried to schedule our next appointment.

“Let me view my calendar,” I said, and I brought out the schedule of World Cup games.

My tutee immediately understood.

“Such-and-such hour is no good,” she said. “Two of Mexico’s group opponents play at that time.”

We agreed to meet at 10:00am, the hour of inactivity between the 8:00am–10:00am game and the 11:00am–1:00pm game.

She told me that two years ago, during the Euros, she’d been in the stadium when Zlatan played his last official match for his national team.

“I don’t have much regard for Zlatan,” she said. “I think Sweden has more success without him.”

I told her I thought Sweden’s success was beside the point.

“Well, my husband likes Zlatan,” she said. “I suppose you like Zlatan?”

“Zlatan is incredible. You should read his book.”

Apart from our disagreement about Zlatan, we had an excellent tutorial. I think she’ll be a very good student to work with.

Chile 0 (3), Portugal 0 (0)

I recall those shocking days when Russia and Qatar were awarded the hosting rights of the 2018 and 2022 World Cups. Everyone in the West screamed bloody scandal. Especially the English. … And now, it’s reported that Prince William, his Prime Minister, and their cronies negotiated an illegal trade of votes with officials from South Korea (another bidding nation).

Gloat, gloat, gloat.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Today, Portugal and Chile played the first semifinal game of this Confederations Cup. I turned it on and viewed it for ten minutes. “No goals in this game,” I foresaw.

I watched Netflix. Then I turned the game back on and viewed during minutes 83–90. Still no goals. I regretted my decision to report on the tournament.

The announcers kept saying what a good game it’d been. Maybe they were right. I couldn’t tell.

The thirty-minute extra time started slowly and finished with a flurry of attacking. The Chileans should have been awarded a penalty kick, but VAR did not intervene. Then, twice, they struck the goalposts.

The shootout was more straightforward: three shots, three goals for the Chileans; three shots, three misses for the Portuguese.

Mexico 2, Russia 1; Portugal 4, New Zealand 0; New York City FC 2, New York Red Bulls 0

Today’s Confederations Cup games were played simultaneously. I watched Russia vs. Mexico, which was shown on regular TV.

The Russians started well. Two of their attacks should have resulted in penalty kicks. Neither the referee nor the VAR system awarded any foul, however.

The Russians scored the first goal after a frantic sequence. One shooter struck the upright. Another saw his shot blocked. A third shooter missed the ball altogether. He did manage to slip the ball to the eventual goalscorer.

At that time, the Russians led the group. Things looked quite rosy for them. But then the Mexicans scored with a looping, headed shot.

In the second half, the Mexicans corrected their tactical imperfections. They scored again with another looping, headed shot. The assist came in high and long – all the way from the Mexican defense – and, as he lunged for the ball, the goalscorer was kicked in the chest by the Russian goalie.

VAR disallowed a third Mexican goal. … One of the best Russian players was red-carded. … The Russians looked very tired. … Finally, the whistle was blown, and the host nation was eliminated from the tourney.

At the same time, Portugal defeated New Zealand.

Then FOX showed an MLS contest between the New York Red Bulls and New York City FC. The announcers called it the “New York Derby.” Only, they didn’t say “Derby,” as in “Kentucky Derby”; they said “Darby,” which is how the English pronounce the word. They also talked about the “Texas Darby” – Houston vs. Dallas – as well as other MLS “Darbies.”

Wankers.

Portugal 1, Russia 0; Mexico 2, New Zealand 1

I was occupied with tutoring, and so I missed Portugal’s victory over Russia. It seems to have been a dull contest. The Portuguese scored early and then defended all the rest of the game.

I did get to watch Mexico vs. New Zealand, which was entertaining. In the first half, the Kiwis disrupted the Mexicans’ attacking rhythm. Also, Chris Wood, a truck of a forward, gave the Mexican defenders fits. He eventually scored a goal. The second half was very different. The Mexicans realigned themselves tactically; came out at full speed; and scored twice, due to the slipperiness of Javier Aquino, their tiny winger.

In stoppage time, the two teams got into quite a scuffle. The referee ordered a long break so he could consult the Video Assistant Replay system about whom to punish. I was licking my chops – I thought he’d give out several red cards – but he didn’t give out any.

Russia vs. New Zealand

I was eager to watch this game.

Gone from my thoughts was the flaccid Russia of last year’s Euros.

Gone was the blundering Russia of the 2014 World Cup, whose players, under Capello, were fearful.

I hoped to see the slick Russia of the 2012 Euros, the Russia that put four goals past the Czech Republic (before being dumped out of that tourney by the Greeks).

New Zealand, I thought, would be the ideal victim for such a Russia.

Unfortunately, I missed the first half. I got the kickoff time wrong and turned the game on rather late.

The Russians were ahead, 1–0, but only because New Zealand had scored for them. Empty seats blighted the stadium in St. Petersburg. From his V.I.P. box, Putin cast an irritated scowl.

As I watched, it became clear that these Russians were no better than, say, Peru. (The FIFA rankings have them beneath Venezuela, but that’s not right.)

The Kiwis were vastly worse, though. They looked like a team of schoolboys. Their only standout was their goalie, who made some startling saves. (His club, in Germany, is in the third division, and so I hope that this tourney brings him wider notice.)

But the onslaught could not be held back. Around the 70th minute, a neat maneuver resulted in a tap-in for the Russians. Such was what I’d hoped to see.

Yet another Confederations Cup

It used to be that in each four-year cycle, the world would get to peek at an Oceanian team only twice: (1) during a brief World Cup qualification playoff, which the Oceanian team would lose; and (2) during the Confederations Cup.

This year, however, there are two traditional Oceanian teams in the Confederations Cup: New Zealand and Australia. The latter team defected to Asia some years ago and recently won the championship of that continent. But we all know better. Australia is not in Asia.

An honorary third Oceanian contestant is Chile, by virtue of its claims upon Easter Island and Antarctica.

Like Oceania, Europe supplies three contestants: Russia, Portugal, and Germany. The field is rounded out with Mexico and Cameroon.

So much for the contestants. Now, their division into groups.

A: Mexico, New Zealand, Portugal, and Russia.

B: Australia, Cameroon, Chile, and Germany (this is the Group of Death).

Notice that alphabetically Group B has the first four teams, and Group A has the last four. This is appropriate, just as it is that an Oceania-heavy tourney should be played in Russia. It’s the World Turned Upside-Down.

I plan to report on this important tourney.

The British situation

Is the UK doing away with council housing?

Farewell, then, to the Britain of my imagination. The UK’d might as well get rid of its fish-and-chips shops and its London fog.

Not all Britons are very keen on council housing. I even happen to agree with those who, in 2008, opposed the inclusion of council flats in luxurious buildings.

Council flats shouldn’t have a hint of luxury about them. They ought to be squarely on the dingy side.

If council flats weren’t dingy, we wouldn’t have such brilliant movies as the Mike Leigh-directed All or Nothing or Andrea Arnold’s Fish Tank and Red Road …

or such brilliant songs as the Orb’s “Little Fluffy Clouds” …

(see these reminiscences of the Orb’s two members, Youth and Dr. Alex Paterson, about composing music, together with the KLF, inside a council flat).

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As I type this, Ireland Rep. are outplaying and defeating Sweden in the Euros. Yesterday, Ulster lost narrowly to Poland, and the day before that, Wales beat Slovakia. On the whole it’s been a good showing by the British Isles.

On the whole.

The English continue to disappoint their backers. During their game against the Russians, they were lions in possession but mouses in front of their opponents’ net. They squeaked in just one goal, a free kick, only for the Russians to equalize at the death. Then the Russian supporters chased the English supporters up and down the stadium and beat them up.

The Swedes have just equalized against the Irish.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

“I’m looking forward to Belgium’s game against the Italians,” I tell Karin. “The Belgians have been playing wonderfully these last few years.”

“Yes,” says Karin. “It must be because of Poirot.”

A cloudy autumn day

I’ve been doing research about Hawaii, in case I should ever find occasion to live there.

I think I will be avoiding Hawaii. …

The Ecuadorians have been progressing through the sub-diecisiete World Cup. Our latest victims, in the round of 16: the Russians.

This morning, I went for job training at the downtown office of the school corporation. How sad, I thought, that I’d miss seeing the highschoolers dressed up for Halloween. … But the training ended early. I walked to the school to do a couple of hours’ work. It turned out, few of the kids were in costume; but one of the teachers did look like Bo Peep (correction: like Dorothy, from The Wizard of Oz). … After school, I visited Mary at her job, and then I went to Karin’s apartment and visited Jasper, and he and I snuggled for a long time, until he got bored. I had planned to spend most of the day downtown, buying books, but this was a good thing to do instead.

The gringos vs. FIFA

Old news: in Switzerland, the U.S. government has caused a dozen or so of FIFA’s bigwigs to be arrested.

No doubt these bigwigs are guilty of corruption. No doubt they’ve violated international law – or, under U.S. jurisdiction, U.S. law. I don’t know the details … but I’m sure the gringos can legally justify the arrests.

According to the Russians, this is just “another case of illegal extra-territorial implementation of American law.”

But I don’t think it is illegal. Or I’ll assume it isn’t, for discussion’s sake.

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Nor will it matter to what I’m going to say that the arrests are being done in a vindictive spirit.

What if the U.S., and not Qatar, had been awarded the 2022 World Cup hosting rights? Would the gringos have pursued the bigwigs? I doubt it.

But I won’t dwell on this.

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What interests me is how FIFA’s members will react to the arrests, and what all of this means for international tournaments.

FIFA’s members, the national soccer bodies, determine how FIFA is governed; and up until now, what they’ve done is to insist on FIFA’s (and their own) autonomy from sovereign states. No national soccer body is permitted by FIFA to be housed by an interfering state. A national soccer body is punished by FIFA if the state which houses it does not refrain from meddling in its affairs (and in those of the soccer bodies of other nations).

This is to preserve the integrity and voluntariness of the sport. FIFA wishes to arrange neither gladiatorial contests between slaves, nor “champion” warfare between nations.

Punishment takes the form of simple banning. FIFA isn’t going to confront anybody with planes and tanks, but it may disallow teams from playing in tournaments.

There are lighter bans, too.

For example, in 1993, the Aussie government refused to allow Diego Maradona to play against Australia in a World Cup qualifier. (Aussie law blocked convicted drug offenders from entering the country.) FIFA judged that this was an unwelcome political intrusion upon the sport, and threatened to move Australia’s home game to a neutral site. The Aussie government relented. Maradona was allowed to play.

Notice: the Aussie government could have permitted its soccer federation to receive punishment. Or, in protest, it could have withdrawn the Socceroos from the World Cup. It did neither of those things. It chose to refrain from enforcing the law of the state.

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Faced with lawbreaking, the U.S. government also could have chosen this option. But instead it has chosen to prosecute FIFA’s elected officials.

Let me stress that in the present case, the gringos aren’t just reacting to a crime. In effect, they’re enforcing their own idea of how FIFA should be governed, not minding that these officials were elected, wisely or foolishly, by FIFA’s other members.

Now usually when the U.S. government behaves like this, there is little that the opposition can do. But this time the opposition has a good deal of clout. The national soccer bodies have the power to impose some kind of ban against the U.S. Soccer Federation.

Will they do it? My guess is, no. Should they do it? Well, yes, if they want to preserve their autonomy from the states.

This is the situation. X, Y, and Z have long been coming together to hold a sporting contest – jointly deciding how to hold it. Those who won’t cooperate simply are left out. But now the godfather of one of the contestants is insisting, coercively, that the contest not be held in a certain way.

Suppose X, Y, and Z acquiesce. Whose contest is it, then? Is it still theirs? One thing, for sure: it’s the godfather’s. The participants, X, Y, and Z, are no longer making the decisions of this joint activity all on their own.

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Do the various national soccer bodies really want the gringos to have de facto veto power over them?

My guess is, they’ll put up with it, because the U.S. has a lot of political and cultural influence – as well as a lot of money, some of which will trickle down.

In effect, the soccer bodies will be selling out, again … and then again … and as long as they continue to allow the U.S. to have de facto veto power. And by selling out to this (de facto) administrator, they’ll be privileging one participant over the others; and not just for one tournament (as Qatar is being privileged for 2022) – or even for a handful of tournaments – but indefinitely.

If the soccer bodies set out to contain corruption on their own, they’ll at least be able to do it with some fairness. The sporting benefits of corruption will be spread out more or less evenly around the world. Contestants like Qatar will have fifteen minutes of glory, and that’s all.

But if the gringos have veto power over the governance of FIFA, the sporting benefits will skew towards them. I couldn’t specify the mechanism. But we all know how it’ll turn out.

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For the sake of sport, then, I think that what the gringos are doing is bad, and that FIFA will be shirking its sporting duty if it doesn’t punish them. This isn’t yet an argument about morality (though one may try to draw further moral lessons from it). Morally, is U.S. hegemony in global affairs a bad or a good thing? I know what I think about that, but I don’t have the time to discuss it here. It’s taken long enough for me just to hint at how tacky it is that the U.S. should dictate sporting justice. Moral justice is yet another problem.