In Defense of The Irishman

Before we’re finished talking about the films of 2019, I have to weigh in on The Irishman.  If you read its reviews you’d think it was very well-received, but I’ve heard so many friends casually write it off as a sad rehash of films Martin Scorsese made thirty years ago, I feel like I must speak up.

I saw it more than twice, and I loved it because it is so sad – and I confess that I could have done without the framing device of Frank Sheeran’s nursing home memories. I often feel these devices are superfluous, but in this case the story itself is cutting back and forth from the 1950s, when the eponymous Irishman rises through the mafia, to the 1970s when he carries out his biggest hit. So to show him remembering remembering is just too much, and yet…

At its heart, The Irishman is a simple story. Robert De Niro (Frank Sheeran) accepts an assignment from his mentor, mafia boss Joe Pesci (Russell Bufalino), to become the right hand man of labor leader Al Pacino (Jimmy Hoffa). On a road trip with Pesci in all his 1970s Italian-American glory, he gets his orders: he’s going to have to kill Pacino. So simple, and so sad, since he’s naturally developed some feelings for Pacino in all the years they shared hotel rooms and time with each other’s families.

I was an enthusiastic fan of Scorsese’s take on superhero movies published this year. It’s ironic that the movie he was releasing while he published it was one of his least cinematic. Slow and talky, and at times underwhelming in its creation of period atmosphere, it didn’t bother me at all that it lacked spectacle, and felt more like a TV series. I particularly liked hearing Pacino as Hoffa doing a superb Midwestern accent.

It also comes up with an ingenious way of putting a female character at the heart of a mafia story. While I’m sympathetic to the post-#metoo constant questioning of the onanistic male-centeredness of movie plots that get wide circulation, holding Scorsese to that standard is a little like holding Titus Andronicus to it. If your heart doesn’t melt watching Pesci break the news to De Niro that he’s going to have to kill his friend, over breakfast at a Howard Johnson’s, no less – of course they’re the first ones awake, and that breakfast table is a space no woman would ever be seated at  – then your political agenda has gotten in the way of your capacity to feel.


Daughter of a Hitman: Peggy Sheeran (Lucy Gallina) with Jimmy Hoffa (Al Pacino).

In The Irishman, it’s Pacino who’s accessible to women, in particular to De Niro’s daughter Peggy, played by Lucy Gallina when she’s young and Anna Paquin as an adult. It provides the major emotional arc of the movie. While the gangster Pesci’s ham-handed attempts to win his friend’s daughter’s affection go nowhere – in fact, terrify the girl – Pacino the family man makes it look easy.

So when De Niro finally gets the assignment to kill Pacino, it’s not just a crooked union boss he’s killing, it’s the guy his own daughter worships. Who made her a true believer in the labor movement. And who danced with her at family weddings without being gross about it. At the breakfast table at the Howard Johnson’s, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, but in the wider world we have some standards to uphold, some lines never to cross, and it’s a woman who delivers that message.

Beatrice Loayza  writes in The Guardian: “Within these boundaries, Peggy is disconcertingly diminished: Paquin speaks six words in a movie that clocks in at three-and-a-half hours. There may be a potency to such intentional restraint within the film’s elegiac trappings, yet circumscribing Peggy as Frank’s moral conscience remains doggedly frustrating. Is she more of a symbol than an actual person?”

It’s a fair question! The Irishman was written by Steven Zaillian based on a book by Charles Brandt, and I suppose Zaillian could have written a larger plot about the family into that three-plus hours, and it would have been even better. (Like I say, I could have done without the nursing home entirely; without it, it’s essentially a procedural with flashbacks, both of them damn good.)

As it is, The Irishman is a return to one of Scorses’s favorite themes, about the dead end of masculinity. Like Raging Bull, he creates men who are effective in the wider world, which makes them too brutal for their own homes. Scorsese, at age 77, portrays Sheeran as a sad old man, literally sitting with the choices he made. He may have touched more of us a generation behind him if instead he’d fleshed out the ways Sheeran became repulsive to his family. I suppose we’ll appreciate this film more in 20 to 40 years.

2019: Screenwriting for the Ages

Pleased as I was to see Parasite win so many big ones at the Academy Awards this year, I would have been just as happy, or maybe more so, if either Noah Baumbach or Rian Johnson had won the Best Original Screenplay award.

Thinking about them – and I’ve been thinking about all three a lot lately – you could feel like we’re in a great period for feature film screenwriting.


Knives Out. A detail that passes for comedy may come back in a very big way.

Three totally different genres, and all three with a very human feel for detail. Parasite, written by Bong Joon-ho and Han Jin-won, has that super-satisfying walk through the looking glass around its midpoint, when the former housekeeper returns with shocking news.

Also, a few times in Parasite, a little extra attention gets paid to one detail about the rich family’s perception of the poor family it’s suddenly gotten intimate with: they don’t smell good, these unwashed people from the ghetto. It’s played for dark laughs, and in a typical drama, this might lead to a detail that makes the denouement a bit richer, but this is no ordinary drama. It leads to the decisive move in the final act: the father taking the insult to heart, shall we say.

Knives Out, written by Johnson, is a very self-conscious comedy, rich with winks at the audience. A detective story, the cross-cutting between time and scenes in the initial round of interrogations provides characterization about the major players at a breakneck speed. You never doubt for a moment that you’re in good hands with this story-teller.


Marriage Story. Lulled into a sense that you can see where the story is going,.

Like Parasite, it has turns that upset your understanding of the whole story – again and again. And it also has lots of consequential details hidden as comedy that turn out to be plenty consequential.

I couldn’t get into Brick, Johnson’s breakthrough back in 2006, but have to concede that his dedication to this genre of detective fiction-obsessed detective stories has really paid off. It’s as funny as A Band Apart and as timely as The Third Man probably felt, and it gets all the playfulness of Wes Anderson across without his twee excesses.

Baumbach just keeps getting better too. Friends complained that Marriage Story lacked plot or was too depressing, but I found it very satisfying. I laughed a lot and couldn’t sleep afterward.

It too has a successfully-executed momentous turn in the plot – when it’s clear that the “nice guy” lawyer played by Alan Alda isn’t up to his opponent. (I love that Laura Dern is winning awards for her role, but what a part Baumbach wrote for her.) That Charlie (Adam Driver) is such an underhandedly distant kind of dad throughout the film, then for his attempt to prove his own playful side to go so disastrously at the end, ranks this writing with the best of Woody Allen at the height of his powers from Manhattan to Hannah and Her Sisters.

If I have one complaint about Marriage Story, it’s the score. I know Randy Newman is a songwriter’s songwriter, and, like Tom Waits, it’s heretical to say anything negative about him, but I found his score treacly. So much so, I wondered at times if it were being played for irony, giving a Douglas Sirk kind of middlebrow tone to a film about the clash between the New York theater world and the L.A. TV world. I honestly don’t get it.

Last year was the first time in about thirty years that I lived outside of a metropolitan area that has lots of cinemas, and it’s sinking in how important the Oscar nominations are to so many people, how they determine what you can actually see on a big screen. Sure, I’d have seen more of the Best Foreign Language Film nominees if I were still in the city, but up here the other people who care about cinema are much more likely to have seen the same 10 or so films you did in the past six months, and the awards and awards speculation go a long way toward defining that list, for better or worse.

In any case, a lot of great writing is still happening.

Fishers Don’t Fish

For the first time in decades I spent last night in a university lecture hall, listening to a riveting talk about fishers, a North American member of the weasel family known for their ability to hunt, by Scott LaPoint, a researcher at Black Rock Forest in the Hudson valley.


The weasel family or mustelidae includes badgers, ferrets, minks, ermines or stoats, sables, wolverines, tayras, and otters. The fisher’s closest relative is the much smaller pine marten. European settlers confused it with the fitch (taxonomy does wonders for your Scrabble game) or European polecat, and that’s where the name fisher comes from.

Fishers don’t fish, though one local stood up during the lively Q&A to say she has seen one raiding her friend’s koi pond.

Fishers are known to hunt animals their own size, hence the first thing most of us learn about them is to watch your outdoor cats and small dogs in rural places where they’ve been seen. They climb trees and are one of the few animals that knows how to hunt porcupine – and this ability to control porcupine populations is a reason they’re often re-introduced.

We hear, but are yet to see, coyotes outside my house, and see a fox every once in a while. A fox runs like a dog, but fishers leap keeping their pairs of legs, front and back, together, like squirrels or rabbits. There is gruesome video on Youtube of a fisher killing a fox that I wish I’d never found.

I was shocked to see how many animals known for their fur still get trapped every year, consistently about 500 bobcats every year in New York state alone – and over 1,000 fishers, though that number swings up and down.

Fishers are thriving in the Northeast woods, but efforts to re-introduce them in northern California are struggling, possibly because California has large cats that hunt them, but largely, it is believed, because illegal pot farmers apparently use lots of rodenticide – a horrible way to die for the rodents and the bigger carnivores that hunt them.

Music To Impeach the President By

I like to picture Woodward and Bernstein in the fall of ’73, having a beer to celebrate another hard-fought article, the juke box blaring “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” I also like picturing Katharine Graham in a floral moo moo, mixing a martini to the rhythm of “Killing Me Softly With His Song.”

I love picturing custodians at the U.S. Capitol finally getting to mop the floor of a hearing room one evening, one sneaking a transistor radio in to keep the crew working at a clip, “Ain’t No Woman (Like the One I Got)” echoing off the marble. I even like picturing Pat Nixon snapping her fingers to “Sweet Gypsy Rose.”


Todd Rundgren.

I can practically hear Peter Rodino of the House Judiciary Committee, re-reading testimony in his suburban New Jersey home, hollering at his teenagers, “Turn that crap down!” in reference to “Smoke On the Water.”

One thing is crystal clear – as clear as Russell Thompkins Junior’s falsetto. The Top 40 music of the Watergate Era was better than it is now. Hands down. You could even say it was the best era of pop music ever.

I know I’m not the only person who credits the music of his childhood with a certain magic. There will never be a moment like walking barefoot through a patch of clover while Denny Laine’s delicious guitar starts the epic “Band On the Run” on WFIL of Philly for the first of several times on any given day in the summer of ’74.

I heard it all anew during last month’s impeachment debate. I couldn’t bear the cross-examinations, so I started listening to Spotify while reading live-streams. Naturally I wondered if the Watergate hearings could possibly have been this dumb (They weren’t.), but I wasn’t about to follow two impeachments at once, so I conjured the Top 40 playlists of ’72-’74.

All of the above-mentioned were Top 40 Hits between the break-in in June of ’72 and the resignation in August of ’74, with lots of AM and FM radio play. Stevie Wonder, War, Barry White, Elton John and Paul Simon were the Ariana Grandes and Taylor Swifts of those years.

It’s easy to be a connoisseur with the benefit of hindsight, to look back at a period 10 or 20 (or, oh God, almost 50) years later and cherry-pick the best music. For every record that Nick Drake or Television or Gil-Scott Heron sold, Tony Orlando and Dawn sold many times more. For every time I play The Tumbleweed Connection for friends until they admit that they feel the genius of Elton John, I have to change the station in the car because, well, “Crocodile Rock.”

And yet, the hits of this period were better than any other period. Taken at face value, the pop music of the early 70s was astonishingly diverse in its genres, including lots of tributes to past decades. It’s like the generation raised on the post-war love of everything new, new, new had suddenly had enough.

Folk, jazz, and blues, sure, but also ragtime and country swing were all vehicles for hit songs. “Do the Locomotion” and “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” both made weird comebacks. Record-buying teenagers and the radio-listening public, which was just about everyone, were apparently pretty damn open-minded.


The Stylistics on Soul Train, 1974.

Inter-racial love, often tragic, was a common theme to write songs about. For a time of political upheaval, the music was surprisingly sincere and innocent, and unabashedly loopy.

The music biz, like all other media, was primitive in its ability to cater to subcultures. Radio was starting to re-segregate the races, but at least it hadn’t settled into its 80s slump of heavy-handed record companies over-producing lots of stuff that all sounded like the same few genres – and a phony iteration of them at that.

In the 70s a bunch of potheads with handlebar mustaches had a shot at a distribution deal if their songs were quality. The public, which is fickle, got behind some novelty tunes such as “The Streak,” but also rewarded lots of top shelf artists for their adventurousness, and made their music timeless.

We who were kids in the 70s, came of age in the 80s, and got deep into the subcultures of the 90s took it as an article of faith that the monolithic nature of media was the enemy of free thought. We believed that a Kurt Cobain or a David Foster Wallace should have to answer for any commercial success they might enjoy, since commerce was corrupt, and already – more insidiously still – starting to figure out how to package “alternative” aesthetics.

It was around this time that Tarantino showed up with his soundtracks full of early 70s pop and soul – these curiosities from our childhoods that somehow sounded so good. (It’s funny now to think that Reservoir Dogs, which used “Stuck in the Middle With You” so memorably, is now older by far than Steelers Wheel was in 1992, when the film came out.)


Stealer’s Wheel.

Which brings me back to Watergate. We grew up believing that the monolithic “media” was the great nemesis. We cheered when the Internet came along and hastened the fracturing of all the media markets. You could listen to better music any time you wanted. Have access to better TV any time. And you didn’t have to listen to David Brinkley anymore. It felt amazing. We ended up with a landscape where people had far greater choice over what media they tune into, but we never fully thought through the downside of so many people getting their news from political operatives who would make E. Howard Hunt blush.

Recently I watched The Seventies episode about Watergate. (It gets the dirty job done in less than an hour – I recommend it.) It’s painful to remember that that series first aired on CNN in 2015, and one of my few critiques of that series is its over-reliance on newscasters. It seems at times like a sad homage to the era when newspeople commanded some respect. Where objective truth mattered at least a little. And this was before You Know Who.

D.T. is about as serious a president as Shirley MacLaine would be if everyone on the Left got behind her and then refused to admit that we’d made a mistake, and Walter Cronkite would have called bullshit on us. Lest we forget, one of the biggest first strikes against the media as we knew it growing up was the Fox Network in the 90s. The same company that brought us The Simpsons and In Living Color went on to align itself with the radical wing of the Republican Party. Fox’s enduring ability to cast itself as the anti-establishment truth-tellers decades after it’s already become the establishment is the number one story in American media of the past generation. And here we are.

So, you could argue that there’s a meaningful correlation between the quality of Top 40 music and the ability of a credible press to do its job and call out corruption. If there’s just one media mountain, and we all more or less agree on what the standard is for climbing it, then the good stuff – the good reporting, the reasoned columnists, the best song-writing, and best guitar players – will find a place on it.

But that’s overthinking it. Just listen. You can find the playlist I made just for impeachment on Spotify: Songs of the Watergate Years.

So get mad. Get even. Get funky. But don’t lose your sense of humor, and don’t stop believing in Higher Ground. We are better than all this, and our music can and should be this good all the time:



“My optimistic nature is conspiring with my impatience with mean-spirited people, assisted by my oldest vice, laziness, to make me a political hermit at the exact time when the people and country I love need me to be engaged…”


…or so goes the chastisement I give myself every day.

I know I’m not the only person who’s feeling this, and I admit that at times it’s overwhelming: It leads to both political inaction and the inability to focus on anything else. But where exactly do you begin, except by refusing to tune in? What can you  say that’s constructive when so much untruth is is in the air?

For most of 2017, ’18, and ’19 I let it go, but the arrival of 2020 feels like something’s gotta give, not in the nation, in my personal abstention.

It has been obvious for some time that the guy who finished second in 2016 has a nose for when to say something outrageous to change the conversation whenever it’s not going his way. Assassinating Suleimani the week his own impeachment was getting real was something we could have predicted, based on past behavior. And then to publish this for his 70 million Twitter followers:

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10 months before the election. What will 10 days before bring us?


Where do you begin? Two minutes after he announced he was a candidate for president in 2015, he accused Mexico of sending “rapists” to the United States, and today the national conversation hasn’t gotten past the question, “Is he racist?”

And the Left seems consumed by bogus questions like “Is Bernie Sanders sexist?” or “Is Elizabeth Warren an elitist?” I emphasize seems because all is obviously not what it seems in public anymore, and the conversation has been kept alive all this time by those among us who, let’s just say, seem to relish the fight.

As I noted above, I am optimistic by nature. I think there are millions of us who haven’t been engaged so far – except for Election Day, 2018, and that was a good day for us. As the days get longer, we’ll be coming down from the hills.

I predict that 2020, among other milestones, will be an explosive year for art, poetry, film, and music.

Then, as the days get shorter, we’ll be engaged. There will be a whole lot of disinformation, frayed feelings, and strange bedfellows. More action, and less and less of the pale cast of thought.

My First Haka

I was ignorant till last week of the haka, the Maori dance. Often known as a war dance since its popularization by New Zealand rugby team, it apparently has lots of other ceremonial uses as well.

Here are two elite schools in New Zealand bringing their best haka to their annual match. Remarkable to see the student bodies themselves doing it, mixed with the beanie cap aesthetics of the English public school system. Weirder than a Philippine prison yard doing the “Thriller” dance.

I can imagine it having its desired effect, especially if a team sprung it on you without warning. I did a search of it to see how controversial it is in the whole authenticity-versus-appropriation discussion, and its Maori critics seem focussed on the specific circumstances when they feel it’s inappropriate; over all it’s rather widely adapted as a New Zealander thing. Becoming the leader of a prominent haka seems to be a coveted position – an honor almost always reserved for a young man of Maori descent.

Tokenism? I have nothing to say on the matter, living in a place where most of the indigenous people are long dead, their closest descendants far away.

One of the scariest parts of it is the hyper-precise timing, something militaries around the world do to intimidate. If they’re capable of this type of precision and coordination, what else could they do to us?

Compare it to this wedding haka at what looks like a mixed wedding. Rhythmic and full of that part of feeling that’s bordering on mania: too much juice; bat shit crazy.

Knowing nothing about it, it sure seems like it’s not just to scare people, but to use the occasion of a life milestone to open up the hood of the car of “civilization” and its institutions – school, adulthood, marriage, the family, the nation, the passage of time itself – to look at the motor, and show off what’s inside: raw emotion and the threat of violence, but also loyalty. (Pardon the automotive analogy. I am still really just a guy from New Jersey.)

And about that Philippine prison…there was a time when it wouldn’t be Christmas if I didn’t get to see The Grinch Who Stole Christmas on TV. Now it just ain’t Halloween without the scariest, most  beautiful “Thriller” video:



Raking Leaves

“Who do you think you are? Andy Goldsworthy?” isn’t something you hear every day. So when my neighbor asked me that last fall,  I took it as a compliment.

If you told me just two years ago that the most rewarding part of my day, and my creative life, would soon be raking leaves, I would have wondered if I was on my way to drug addiction or maybe a head injury. But here I am most mornings, cerebrum intact, stone cold sober as a matter of fact, tweaking the piles of leaves in my back yard, nudging them into semi-concentric waves.

You have to do something with these leaves, and it seems like a lost opportunity to blow them into a pile in the woods once a week. And once you start – once you stop once or twice to appreciate it as a vision, it’s harder to stop than to keep at it.


My first intersecting line, with wind blowing toward the lower left.

You can create a soft line at the edge of a leaf-covered patch of grass by raking away from it – and a harder one at the edge of a pile by raking toward it, especially when the leaves are damp.

It was the 2017 documentary about Goldsworthy called Leaning Into the Wind that made me take leaves seriously as an artistic medium.  That film gives one a pleasantly weird feeling, partly because Goldsworthy himself is such a slow-talking hobbit of a man, and partly because it forces you to keep revisiting a question: “Is he dressing the set for a deceptively elaborate photo, or is this photo or video I’m looking at the documentation of an artistic practice itself?”

In my case it’s all about the practice. At least in October. It’s a little like cutting hair that grows back again overnight – and like the feeling you get when you leave a barber and tussle your own hair so it’s imperfect just the way you like it. It’s also about looking at the lines as if they’re in motion and imagining where they’re going – and then rake them there. In that way, it’s more like animation.


Is it art? Sure. Can you go public with it, give people the chance to appreciate it on a bigger scale? I suppose you’d have to find a bigger venue than my yard, and more people and more rakes.

One day the Fedex guy drove up and caught me in the act. “I can’t remember the last time I saw one of those,” he said, meaning a rake. A little overstating it, in my opinion: They weren’t steel sheep shears, after all; you can still buy a rake at the hardware store.


With lines from morning shadows.

Not a comment at all about the geometry in the deciduous piles around me, but I’m still good for a minute-long chat with anyone, and he kept talking, chipper as ever while dealing with a giant box of cat food that blocked his vision. Seeing a man struggle with a box with the word “Chewy” printed across it looked to me like an artistic expression.

So far, I figured, I’ve gotten few to tune in. But once you start, everything starts looking like art.



How Did I Get Here?

I’ve missed your birthdays, your anniversaries, and a few funerals. I chose to leave town and you’re excused if you never want to see me again. I moved from New York City to the Central Hudson Valley at the end of last summer. Since then, I’ve often asked myself, “How did I get here?” occasionally peppered with “Am I right? Am I wrong?”

Only once or twice did I say to myself, “My God, what have I done!”


Minnewaska Sate Park, with the Catskills in the distance. The English tried renaming them the “Blue Mountains,” but the Dutch name meaning “Cat River Mountains” stuck.

Mostly I feel like life started over last fall, and there was nothing before it, when I moved to a hamlet in Ulster County. It’s near Stone Ridge, which is near Kingston. When friends visit I take them to High Falls or Rosendale and limit my history lesson to the ten minutes it takes to get there, but I insist that they hear it, because you can’t get your head around the place without it:

You have to remember, I tell them, that well into the 1800s cities weren’t industrial, the country was. Most of the forests got leveled for farms and dairies, yes, but also for fuel for tanneries and ironworks. My area, the Roundout Valley, had its first boom in the 1830s after the Delaware and Hudson Canal came through.

So to ship coal from the Poconos to New York City you put it on a barge that crossed the Delaware on a viaduct and descended through the Western Catskills till it joined the Rondout Creek and followed alongside it for its last 25 miles before it reached the Hudson.

That’s going about 80 miles out of your way just to work with gravity. Railroads made this obsolete by the 1850s, and the area had its first bust. Then came the cement boom after the Civil War. Towns like Rosendale discovered that certain layers of their dolostone were perfect for making cement. Much of the cement that made New York City and monuments around the East Coast came from these canal towns. You can still see the kilns where they baked dolostone to prepare it for pulverizing at random places on walks in the woods.

Then that went bust when synthetic cements became more cost-effective, and finally the small-production dairy business, which was always up and down, went bust for good a generation ago.


The ruins of a cement mining operation, now flooded. Rosendale, NY.

At this point I try making eye contact, and my friends are either hooked, or we change topics to cooking and Netflix.

If there’s a pall of sadness around the Hudson Valley, even on a beautiful day, it’s because it’s been post-industrial longer than it was ever industrial. It’s the original depressed place, where artists have been going to get away from ambition for generations now.

In all the years I was a visitor here, I often got lost. As someone with a good sense of north, south etc., I can drive without a map in many places, but here I was easily disoriented. I realized one winter night while reading a history of the Ice Age (as one does up here), that we can thank the last major glacier 13,000 years ago for the geological oddities in these towns.

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Near the point of the lowest arrow the glacier breeched the western wall, creating odd southwest- to-northeast-flowing riverbeds.

The rivers run northeast! It defies the senses of most people who grew up anywhere else on the East Coast. The ice that was carving the Hudson Valley got too high for a time and broke through the western wall of rock in a southwestern direction, and now water flows out in the opposite direction…

..and that’s why gravity-based transport of the 1830s came this way; and why I get a text every time someone comes to visit for the first time saying they got lost.

We imagine that back in Brooklyn we’re remembered with tomb-like, pitiable epithet, “moved upstate.” Meaning we retreated. Couldn’t take it. Gave up. Nobody likes a quitter! And that’s all half-true.

Up here neighbors say, “This is not upstate,” meaning we haven’t reached the boonies yet. I have thousands of peers around me who work on the Web and now want to live a few hours from the city but no more, so that they can go in for a meeting or a day or so of work or play.

I still get in to the city once every 6 to 8 weeks, it seems, but more often when I get a free day I want to go further: further north, higher in the mountains, deeper into the boonies. To some perch where I’m more likely to get the feeling it’s just me and this big, living mountain range.

If you sit on my front porch and look in one direction, it’s the flat Roundout Valley. Look in the other, and it’s uphill. The foothills, where the Catskills begin. A good place to sit and think.


An Easter Errand

I had no plans this Easter except to read a few poems, do some stone work in the yard, and have pork chops with my wife. I ended up going to a church – long enough to haul a deer carcass away from its steps and into the woods behind it.

It started last weekend on Palm Sunday. A deer had been hit and was lying dead near the road in front of the historic church next to my house. I know the church has a small congregation of long-time residents, and figured one of them would take it on himself  to persuade the town to send a truck out. Certainly before their marquee weekend.

Notre Dame burned. Good Friday came. The deer was still lying there. I asked a neighbor, who told me I could try calling the town, but by Friday on a holiday weekend they would probably give me a runaround.

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I don’t know about the Methodists, but the Catholic churches I grew up in were all adorned with the Stations of the Cross: fourteen plaques of sometimes graphic violence for the semi-literate, showing the murder that’s a part of our central mythology. One that always got me was Number 13: “Jesus is taken down from the cross,” or sometimes, “Jesus is laid in his mother’s arms.”

It always shows a lifeless Christ, heavy in the arms of someone. Its point seems to be, He isn’t merely dead, he’s really quite sincerely dead.

This occurred to me on Easter morning. I slept late – I’d been up late. As faithful readers know, I’ve been too busy to blog lately. The Sunday service next door was already finished. I thought of the limp and bloody body of Christ when I put my garden gloves on and walked around the church to see the deer. Scavengers had chewed through her hind leg, and a wild tomcat was helping himself when I got there. Her eyes had already been eaten out, but she was otherwise intact.

A woman I met at an antique stand this week told me a story about a fawn she found in her yard that was trying to avoid being eaten by a fisher. I’ve never seen a fisher that I know of,  but they’re a feisty species of wild cat that chicken and pet-owners fear.

I have nothing against fishers and suppose one is entitled to eat a fawn if they can find one. Likewise I had nothing against this cat, nor the coyotes and vultures who would feed on this deer – and who could do so more safely away from the road. So I grabbed her by her back hooves and pulled her many yards behind the church’s shed, to a clearing in the woods.

It was odd feeling the weight of the deer’s body resisting my pull at first – and feeling the reverberating friction of its bumping against tree roots – a final scratch of its neck. Within a minute I got used to it. Some animals you’ll never touch alive. Only when they’re dead do you feel how soft their fur is.


Judging by the amount of deer droppings in the clearing, it was a place she was used to feeding, and now she’s being fed on there. Later we brought her forsythia branches and incense and wished her a peaceful rest.

Deer are regarded as a nuisance in the country. They eat gardens and make driving slower at night. Such peaceful creatures though! We vowed that no matter how long we live here we we would try to keep regarding them as good neighbors, friends even.

Michel Legrand

Rest in Peace, Michel Legrand. Though it seems like you could write about little else these days besides politics and the death of the great artists of the 1960s, Legrand is a big one.

A composer of film scores and film songs, he straddled the world between the New Wave and the middle brow establishment. He was the French Mancini and Lalo Schifrin and Bachrach, and made music with Miles and Coltrane. Few of us can forget the first time we ever watched The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (and I’ve written in the past about Jacques Demy’s next film, The Young Girls of Rochefort).

Not long after discovering that, my wife and I watched The Donkey Skin (Le Peau D’Ans) and were blown away by the twisted Freudian fairytale.

It was years later when my mother gave me a CD of Legrand playing solo piano. I put it on for some background music one day, and my wife came into the room, spatula in hand, and recognized one of this songs, singing its chorus from memory.


Legrand made music for 250 films…and looked good doing it.

“Is this from Le Peau D’Ans?!”

I looked it up and it was. Music is alchemy to me, and I was amazed that she remembered it so many years later, having heard it once. I guess it’s not so amazing, considering that’s what musicians do, put aural nuggets into our brains that we can’t forget. They add spiritual substance and feeling to narratives, and everything else.

His niece, incidentally, is Victoria Legrand, a graduate of Vassar and one half of the band Beach House. Rest in peace, Uncle Michel.