About a month ago, I hadn’t given much thought to Lady Gaga or Taylor Swift.

All I knew about Lady Gaga was that her early career was mired in mediocrity, and to shatter that, she began to wear outrageous outfits on stage. Which led to wild success. Which led years later to the dress made of meat. That’s about it.

What I know now: that lady can sing.

She and Tony Bennett make an unlikely pair, but they complement each other magnificently on their duet album, Cheek to Cheek. If your musical tastes are broad, you’ll probably recognize many of the tracks, all recorded lavishly with a full orchestra. If I owned the album on vinyl, I would have worn out the grooves, it’s so good. Lady Gaga sings solo on Lush Life by Billy Strayhorn, one of my favorite songs, and she crushes it. And Bennett sounds more soulful than ever.

Taylor Swift’s music? I would not recognize a single song of hers. I would not even  recognize her voice. But she’s been making headlines lately, which has sparked my admiration. In the most recent Time magazine (24 November 2014), she’s says, “I think that people should feel that there is a value to what musicians have created.” This after having removed some of her music from the streaming site Spotify. She certainly doesn’t need their money or anyone’s money, so I have to believe her move is based on principle. And I couldn’t agree with her more.

There’s no simple answer to the dilemma of artist and compensation. Record companies certainly have not been generous with their artists, which is a gross understatement. So even when you purchase rather than stream, the artist receives only a miniscule cut. Some genius needs to devise a way for a portion of each sale to transfer directly to the artist without a middleman, and maybe that’s where many bands are heading. But that’s a tough life, pushing downloads, and hawking CDs out of the trunk of your car without a promotional army. I don’t know the answer to the dilemma, but I’m glad someone with Swift’s pull is drawing attention to these unfair practices.

 
 
You may have heard of this book because of the companion PBS series: How We Got to Now, by Steven Johnson. The book is part history, part science, and reads like a detective novel.

Here’s an example of the fascinating connections that Johnson weaves, what he calls the Hummingbird Effect. In the 1440’s Guttenberg created the printing press. Before this, not many people read; thus, not many people knew they were farsighted. This knowledge, along with the increased opportunity to read, created a demand for glasses, which inspired a surge in lens research, which led to the invention of the microscope, which ultimately led to the study of cells in the body. If this alone doesn’t make you want to go out and buy this book, I don’t know what else I can add.

Okay, I’ll add this. In a related thread, the fall of Constantinople in 1204, which I believe is Turkey now, led glassmakers to migrate to Venice. But since Venice included many wooden buildings that could easily catch fire under the intense heat needed to make glass, these craftsmen moved to the nearby island of Murano, where they refined glass, which led to the invention of lenses (which comes from the Latin lentes, or lentils, because they have the same shape), which led, again, to the microscope, and you know the rest.

I was a poor history student in school. Mostly my fault. But I wonder if I would have been less sleepy-eyed and slack-jawed if these sorts of connections were taught. Nah! My mind was mush. Not 1960’s hippy mush. I just needed more time to incubate. I’m a slow learner. Steady but slow. Even today I don’t feel fully hatched.

Incidentally, I visited the beautiful island of Murano a couple of summers ago. Those craftsmen are still there, part of a vast lineage that has contributed quite directly to the study of diseases. I wonder if they even know.

 
 
The title Nightcrawler refers to hustlers with police scanners who rush to crash sites and other gory scenes to collect footage that they can sell to local news stations. Jake Gyllenhaal (try spelling that name without looking it up) plays Louis Bloom, a snake of a character who quickly learns how to thrive in this cutthroat business.

Keenly aware that this psychopathic crawler has no conscience, we in the audience are usually a step ahead of the plot, which might seem like a flaw. But it’s not. What this achieves, which is a creepy little trick: we know what he’s going to do. We understand him. We’re in his head. Or more to the point: he’s in our heads. And when Bloom does exactly as we predict, there’s a heightened sense of doom, as if we’ve participated. Well, maybe not quite that, but we are with him, reluctantly, which is awfully gripping.

Gyllenhaal lost almost thirty pounds to prepare himself for this role, based on a real nightcrawler, Weegee, from the forties. (You can read about Weegee in the November 10 issue of The New Yorker or find his 1988 book, Naked City.) The lost weight makes Gyllenhaal’s eyes look startled and desperate, leaving the impression of an actor inhabiting a role, rather than playing one. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a more realistic portrayal of this depraved state of psychopathy, which remains consistent from beginning to end.

Nightcrawler Bloom does hire a sidekick, Rick (played by Rick Garcia, I think), who does the necessary work of voicing all the questions that we in the audience want to ask. His performance is low key, unassuming, and always convincing. A little subtext about his life would help stir more empathy toward him. But maybe this is director Dan Gilroy’s intent all along: to keep our focus almost solely on the main character.

I highly recommend this flick. Though I do have one qualm. I suggest you skim this next section until you see the movie. Then come back. It’s not quite a spoiler, but it might heighten your awareness at a time when you should be simply lost in the action.

Anyway…

If you haven’t seen the movie…

Stop. Put your pencils down.

I have a problem with the ending. The epilogue, I guess you’d call it. The very last shot. Without being too specific, I’ll say this: we’re left with theme rather than plot. We’re left with a condemnation of television news, which the rest of the movie deals with exceedingly well (though maybe overplayed a bit). The focus should be on this hungry wolf we’ve been with for two hours. I’m not talking about remorse or epiphany or justice, but something. Some small glimpse into what all this means to him. We know the answer. Just some confirmation. Instead of walking out of the theater feeling haunted and creeped out by this guy, we’re let off the hook. As if Gilroy didn’t want to leave us with nightmares.

 
 
After reading Emily St. John Mandel’s novel, Station Eleven, about a flu pandemic that wipes out most of the world’s population within a few days, I realized that this might be the first book I’ve ever read about an apocalypse. I don’t think 1984 would count, right? Or Brave New World? In both books, the world as we know it may be gone, but systems reign. But imagine everything coming to a halt in a matter of weeks. No electricity, no fuel, no Internet, no White Castle. You’re shuddering imagining a society with no sliders.

If our thoughts ever do veer toward wondering what would happen under such dire conditions—and how can they not, given the shock and awe of headlines about Ebola—the details always remain blurry. It’s too damn overwhelming to think about. As I began reading this novel, I wasn’t sure I wanted to think about these grim prospects. But I soon realized that, yes, I did. In fact, it didn’t take long to be drawn in. Maybe because we all take perverse pleasure in gaping at breakdowns? Or more precisely, Mandel’s voice is commanding and eloquent and demands our full attention.

It’s no surprise that this book has been nominated for a National Book Award. While the apocalyptic angle is compelling and fully developed, spanning a period of about fifteen years, Mandel also depicts how particular lives remain intertwined. You wonder throughout how the seemingly disparate pieces will fit together, but in the end, they do, beautifully. It’s an ambitious story, and Mandel’s vision is sparkling.

By the way, I heard on the radio yesterday that nearly 25,000 people died last year as a result of antibiotic resistance. Yet, we don’t hear much alarm over this. As of this writing, one person in the U.S. has died from Ebola. We’re all pretty stupid when it comes to worry.

 
 
Interstellar is an apt title for this broad, bold, majestic movie. Before I headed out to see it, I’d glossed over a few reviews (glossed because I only ever want a general impression), and the consensus seemed to be: see this movie in an IMAX theater to fully appreciate its cosmic sweep. Well, I’m not sure I agree entirely. The slick cinematography requires a canyon-sized screen, yes. But I went to an AMC theater, in the middle of remodeling, everything new where I sat, with state of the art equipment, presumably, but the sound was terrible. Oh, it was loud all right—my ears bled, my elbows rattled—which was fine during action sequences, but much of the time I couldn’t hear the actors speaking during the thumping bass. And, you know, I like to know what’s happening, how the story is progressing.

The reclining leather seats were so plush that during quieter moments in the film, I had to listen to the guy behind me snoring. I was tempted to throw popcorn at him, but that didn’t seem wise. I didn’t care to be a headline. So after an hour or so, I moved, which made me feel like a schoolboy because the seats at this revamped AMC are assigned when you buy the ticket. The old woman in line in front of me hated this as much as I did and wanted her dissatisfaction reported to the manager.

Back to the movie. Did I mention it was loud? Rollercoaster loud. And when the actors weren’t talking, this made for one hell of a ride. Buckle up. Yank me wherever you like. Because there’s no way to predict where the next turn will take you. The entire movie is wildly imagined—this is the same Christopher Nolan who brought you Inception—and firmly in control. Much of the time, you won’t be able to follow where you’ve even been—I’m guessing Nolan didn’t always quite know either—but it doesn’t matter. Kick back and enjoy the fun. Just don’t recline and fall into a snoring slumber.

The story is not meant to be linear or fully understood, I think, because it’s about black holes and wormholes and the harnessing of gravity and potential life in other galaxies. Even if you understand the physics tossed around, you’d still need to mute the analytical side of your brain and give in to the stunning visuals and sit there and admit, well, yeah, maybe, could be…who knows? (I had a harder time doing this with Inception because I know a bit about the psychology of dreams. How does the science hold up in this movie? I’m not sure, but from what I’ve read, scientists point out a few flaws but insist it’s far more plausible than the movie Gravity.)

There are some big name actors here, all holding down the galactic fort pretty well. Matt McConaughey appears in about every shot and will probably earn another well deserved nomination at Oscar time. Jessica Chastain could earn another for best supporting.

The movie is almost three hours long, well worth your time though. And there are plenty of quiet, floating in space moments for a bathroom break. Finally, don’t worry about being confused now and then. You’re meant to be. By the end, everything falls together nicely. Here’s the irony. The interstellar story, stunningly beautiful, becomes secondary to the personal one involving one small family trying to eke out a living on a dying farm. 

 
 
This past Sunday at 2:00 a.m., we Illinois residents pushed back the clock an hour. I mention Illinois because I know some states don’t mess with this twice a year ritual. And no, I didn’t stay up until 2:00 to adjust the clock. It’s one of those annoying yet satisfying tasks I tackle bright and early upon awakening, satisfying because it feels like I’ve been given a fresh start, a reboot.

But there’s something peculiar about the resetting. For example, I keep the clock in my car eight minutes fast. When I “fell back” on Sunday, I changed only the hour. While I was at it, I could have easily adjusted the minutes too. It’s not as if, when I glance at the clock in my car, I’m fooled. I know precisely how fast and I make the quick calculation each time I look at it. I suppose the illusion of an extra eight minutes provides some level of comfort. Or maybe this is a throwback to a time when clocks ran a bit sluggishly with each passing day, and I’m trying to stay ahead of that? My little insurance policy.

But when I reset the clocks in my kitchen, I made sure that those were set to the correct time. Which is a bit tricky with the digital stove clock. I checked the correct time on my phone, set the time on the stove, then had to press ENTER for the clock to begin its “ticking.” But by the time I pressed Enter, what if time had advanced a minute? Then my stove clock would be a minute slow. Which would cause some consternation. Think about it: do you know anyone who intentionally sets their clocks too slow? I could just set the digital kitchen clock one minute fast, or eight minutes fast for that matter, and do the mental subtraction that I perform in the car, but I feel this compulsion to keep the kitchen clocks accurate. And I don’t know why!

About ten feet away from the kitchen, there’s another clock in the living room, but because it uses double A batteries, the time is always a little off, so I usually set this one about three or four minutes fast. But I never care that this clock is unreliable. As long as I’m aware of its unreliability, I’m okay.

My wife’s alarm is set 40 minutes fast! She presses the snooze button about five times before dragging herself out of bed. According to my logic, if the time on her alarm were more accurate, she’d be able to gain an extra 40 minutes of uninterrupted sleep. But logic, as I’ve described above, plays little role in how we feel about time.

Throughout the day on Sunday, whenever I glanced at the clock, it was always, well, about an hour earlier than I expected. This was a warm luxury, an unexpected gift. I could kick back and spend a few more minutes reading the paper and filling in the crossword puzzle, and when I was done, I still had plenty of morning left.

Neuroscientist David Eagleman has conducted clever studies on our perception of time. You can find his site
HERE. (Look for the New Yorker article that featured him.) And psychologist Philip Zimbardo has delivered a TED Talk on how our attitudes toward time affects our happiness and success, and you can find that link HERE.

Right now I feel as if I’ve spent enough time thinking and writing about this. I’ve read that sitting too long is not good for the body. Also, I’m looking forward to marching upstairs to find myself a snack. This looking forward has certainly altered my perception of how long I’ve been sitting here. And my perception, of course, would be altogether different if I had to march upstairs to grade a set of papers. This logic I understand.

 
 
I trust I’m not the only one tired of and disgusted by the most recent round of campaign ads on television and the radio. From both sides. As soon as the ad begins, my skin crawls, and I leap for the remote. I’ll change it to the TV guide channel, C-Span streaming an empty Senate chamber, a black screen, anything but another insipid ad. And the same ones appear over and over, maybe ten times each hour, though it feels like far more.

They’re all the same and fall under one of these types:

1. The family endorsement, which is particularly grating, not to mention unconvincing. So, you get your sister (or your wife or your dog) to vouch for you, to say you’re a good guy. Big deal. Why is that even a consideration? It’d be pretty sad if your own family didn’t support you.

2. The rhetorical question, dripping with sarcasm. “Did you really think no one would find out?”

3. The dramatic background music, ominous when referring to the opponent, which shifts dramatically to light, tinkling piano when the ad turns to the endorsing candidate. With no transition between the doom (if you elect the other guy) and hope (me me me).

4. The one where the candidate is shown in a factory or school, surrounded by a group of supporters all nodding in sync—and nodding more enthusiastically than you’ve ever seen anyone nod.

5. The dramatization, in which a husband and wife speak about their worries of the future and how a certain candidate in office would mark the end of civilization. Or when one woman calls another woman who calls another woman to share their concerns on women’s issues, as if all women automatically agree with one another.

6. The ones that pair footage of tragedies with the policies of a candidate.

7. The innuendo ad, in which “politician” is a dirty word. Aren’t all elected officials politicians? And if these politicians have been in office for a long time, the ads equate longevity with corruption. Can’t 30 years in office simply imply sincere commitment?

8. The leisurely ads that discuss the other candidate’s attack ads, while ignoring the ones that they’ve aired and endorsed.

9. The newspaper quotes, some of which are accurate, but mostly taken out of context.

I have a few proposals. Let’s stop all these ads. Instead, networks can grant each side a block of time to lay out its argument. If networks need to break up this block with commercials for soap or soda, I’m okay with that. It’s not like this will make the process any less dignified than it already is.

Under the present system, how much time do elected officials actually devote to raising money? (Devote, as in devotion.) Quite a lot, if the frequency of television ads is any indication. If politicians didn’t have to devote all this time stockpiling cash to get elected, maybe they could actually govern and get something done.

Or maybe there’s some middle ground. Since politicians are so adept at raising money, let them keep scrounging and then broadcasting their petty ads, but at least half of all the money they raise must be earmarked for city services or bridge repairs or donated to a food pantry—or something other than promoting and tearing down candidates.

Or let’s try this: the frequency of the ads must decrease proportionally to the frequency of early voting. That would have driven me to the polls weeks ago. 

 
 
No matter what movie Bill Murray stars in, he’s always Bill Murray. For most actors, this would pose a great problem, but not for Murray. Maybe because he doesn’t allow a role to restrict him. He does more or less whatever the hell he wants for fun—both on and off the screen. He doesn’t have an agent or a publicist. He doesn’t even use a regular phone for business but an 800 number that might or might not get through to him.
This live in the moment spirit fits his most recent role in St. Vincent perfectly. He plays Vincent, the cranky old neighbor with a soft side, who becomes so desperate for cash that he sits for the new neighbor’s kid next door. Sits meaning, he takes him in his beater of a car wherever he goes: to the racetrack, bar, or hospital.

The movie’s opening scenes start off a bit clunky, but the movie soon settles into an easy rhythm that pulls you along. You know where you’re going to be pulled, as the storyline is predictable, but you don’t mind in the least because Bill Murray is leading the way. Following a script for sure, but clearly adding his own nuanced improvisations. The other two improvisational actors, Chris O’Dowd, brilliantly cast as a Catholic priest, and Melissa McCarthy, as the neighbor, bring a spontaneity that also helps to downplay the predictability of the story. Naomi Watts plays a vital role, and she does fine, but her character is thinly drawn and easily forgotten. The neighbor boy, played by Jaeden Lieberher, about ten years old, has some remarkable moments. I suspect that name will sound familiar to many in a few years.  
The movie’s not going to win an Academy Awards, but it’s a solid effort, sweet, funny, touching, and very enjoyable.

As the credits rolled, Bill Murray sits on a lawn chair playing with a hose, clearly for his own amusement. No one in the theater left, no one even stirred. To understand why so many of us are mesmerized by this guy, pick up the November 6 issue of Rolling Stone. I had a few minutes to kill before the movie and happened to see the magazine at Target and read it afterward. I could quote the entire article, but I’ll limit myself to this story in the opening paragraph.

While in a cab, Murray finds out the driver is a saxophonist, who never has time to play. So Murray tells him to pull over, to get his sax out of the trunk and play, while he, Murray, drives. Then they pull over at a BBQ place so the cabbie can play for a crowd. Read the entire article. It’s inspiring.

Coincidentally, I’m also reading Live from New York, the 2002 edition about Saturday Night Live, featuring short interviews of the main players and writers and producers, nearly all of them compelling. Bill Murray comes across not only as wildly creative and spontaneous, but articulate and insightful as well.

Chevy Chase left the show after his first year, stirring resentment among some. When he returned to host, he and Murray, minutes before a live show, got into a scuffle, prompted by other cast members, mainly Belushi. Murray was hoping to throw off his timing, which didn’t work. But he did manage to bring Chase’s ego down a notch, a big head being one of the few sins in St. Vincent’s, or Murray's, world. 

 
 
Question of the Day. Do I point out the mistake to the cashier at Dunkin Donuts? If so, I'm sure we would have a long discussion about the irony of the sign, about mistakes seen elsewhere, how maybe the mistake fits in with the Dunkin mode of spelling, about the laxity in public discourse and how this will lead to the fall of civilization...

At the very least, I'm going to begin a gallery of such signs and post them here. Feel free to add your own. 

So what do you think: point out the mistake or no?
 
 
I go through spells when I ignore fiction. Then I ache for a novel I can savor. Well, I have found one: Anthony Doerr’s All the Light We Cannot See. I found myself handling the book gently, reading slowly, pausing, flipping back to previous sections. This is a masterful work.

The narrative switches back and forth between a young blind girl living in occupied France and a German cadet in training with the Third Reich. The chapters are short, the drama is intense, the truths are precise. A lovely book.

In nonfiction, I just finished Robert Hilburn’s biography, Johnny Cash: The Life. I haven’t read much about Cash, so I can’t say this is the definitive bio, but it’s damn good. The details are so richly conveyed that Hilburn doesn’t need to offer psychological theories about what drove Cash. He doesn’t need to provide lofty sociological frameworks. He simply tells the story and trusts the reader to understand why Cash was so driven and often lost and always taken with the downtrodden in our world.

I didn’t realize that some of Cash’s best known hits were recorded when he was in his 20s. I did know that some of his best work was recorded during the last few years of his life, and the section on his collaboration with Ric Rubin is especially fascinating. Even if you’re not a big Cash fan (and if not, just listen), you will still enjoy this story.

After I finished the book, I happened to catch Walk the Line on television. I liked the movie when I first saw it, but after reading the bio, the movie strikes me as caricature. Read the book. And listen to When the Man Comes Around or his version of Hurt.