"Sicko"

And speaking of movies, Sicko is the Michael Moore documentary critique of the American health care system that I've been meaning to see, but still haven't gotten around to. Zachary Freier, a Colorado high school student whose comments to my posts have often enlivened these pages, has posted a partisan -- but unusually well written -- review of the film on his own blog.

Give his review a look. And I'm planning to see the movie.

Ingmar Bergman (1918-2007)

The knight playing chess with Death: The Seventh Seal

Photos below, top to bottom: The Virgin Spring; The Magician; Wild Strawberries

Ingmar Bergman died today at age 89. He was one of the greatest movie directors of the past half century. His films, shot in Swedish, were some of the earliest subtitled movies to be widely viewed in the United States. He proved to viewers, to many perhaps for the first time, that movies could be a form of art, not merely a medium of entertainment.

Bergman directed a wide variety of films during his long career. Some were full of warmth and were easily accessible. Fanny and Alexander (1984), an Oscar nominee, was a fond recollection of his Swedish childhood and of the warmth of family life. The Magic Flute (1975), an excellent and highly enjoyable production of the Mozart opera, was sung in Swedish with English subtitles and has been called the best adaptation ever of an opera to the screen.

On the other hand, during the 1960's and 1970's, many of his films were studies of human isolation and inability to communicate, viewed especially from the perspective of women. These films tended toward long periods of silence, with little happening on the screen. Woody Allen imitated (or parodied, depending on the reviewer) these notoriously inaccessible films in a number of his own movies, such as Interiors (1978) and Another Woman (1988). I've tried, but failed, to appreciate them.

It was Bergman's "metaphysical" films from the late 1950's that have always made the greatest impression on me, and probably on most other viewers. These films appear motivated by Bergman's fear of death and search for God, a search that he later abandoned as his career progressed. The photography is shot bleakly in black and white. The settings lie in Sweden, and the movies are illuminated by the characteristic long twilight, or "white nights," of the Swedish summer. The themes are mysterious and haunting.

I'm familiar with four of the films from that period. The Seventh Seal and The Virgin Spring have medieval settings, mystical tales studying the meaning of life and death. The Magician, set in the 19th century, considers the nature of truth and illusion. Wild Strawberries portrays a doctor, near the end of his years, who looks back on the disappointments and missed opportunities of a lifetime.

The photography, imagery and symbolism in all four are stunning.

Some films have a profound effect, especially on impressionable young viewers. These four films certainly had that effect on me the first time I saw them. Rent one or more when you get the chance, and experience film as directed by a distinguished artist.

Visit to Yesteryear

Coney Island: What I was expecting

The reality: July 24, 2007

The Dutch named it Conyne Eylandt, or "Rabbit Island," because the place was overrun with rabbits. The English, with their usual acute sensitivity for foreign languages, thought those words sounded like "Coney Island," and there you are. I was expecting a beach overrun by rabbit-like human hordes, as in the top photo above, but the reality -- even on a hot, beautiful day in July -- was something quieter and in some ways sadder.

Two bucks gets you a one-hour express ride on the MTA's "N" train from Times Square to Coney Island, on the south coast of Brooklyn. I stepped out of the station, not knowing quite what to expect, and found before me a long sandy beach with a rotting wooden boardwalk, a flat Atlantic Ocean with very little surf, a tacky carny atmosphere, and a decaying amusement area called Astroland.

Coney Island also has a pier jutting out into the Atlantic. Believe me, that is the only resemblance Coney Island bears to the beach at Santa Monica.

I couldn't actually bring myself to enter Astroland, but I more or less circum-navigated it. It's located in a strategic area, near the subway terminal. It features a rather interesting and complex ferris wheel ("the Wonder Wheel"), and it boasts of the Cyclone, which was built in 1927 and is one of the nation's oldest surviving wooden roller coasters. A separate landmark, a few hundred yards to the west, is the 271-foot high Parachute Jump, the first such ride ever built, constructed for the New York World's Fair in 1939.

Astroland is to be razed to the ground at the end of the summer. The Cyclone will be reduced to kindling. The Parachute Jump will continue to be maintained as a landmark -- "Coney Island's Eiffel Tower" -- but has not been operated as a ride for many years.

In its heyday, before World War II, Coney Island boasted three major amusement parks: Luna Park, Dreamland, and Steeplechase Park. Luna Park closed in 1946, after a series of fires. Steeplechase Park, the last of the big three, threw in the towel in 1964 -- apparently in response to competition from Disneyland and similar modern theme parks, together with some minor 1960's gang activities in the area that scared away visitors. Across the street from Steeplechase Park was a monster roller coaster called The Thunderbolt, which continued to operate until 1983. (The Thunderbolt was actually built over and around a house, a situation made famous in Woody Allen's movie, Annie Hall.) The Thunderbolt was finally demolished in 2000.

Present day Astroland was a smaller amusement area that was revived and enlarged in later years, after the big three had closed. When it shuts down this year, to be replaced by a hotel, the amusement ride tradition of Coney Island will come to an end. What will be left are carnival-type attractions, a few isolated rides such as a carousel and bumper cars, a long boardwalk, and a decent if unexciting sandy beach.

You'll still be able to buy an original Nathan's Coney Island Hot Dog ("Home of the International Hot Dog Eating Contest" -- male world record: 66). And the Cyclone's ghost will live on as the guiding spirit of the "Brooklyn Cyclones," a single-A farm club for the Mets, that plays on the site of the old Steeplechase Park.

And so it goes. The ride back to Times Square seemed to pass quickly as I sat, lost in thought, staring out the window.

Hey there Delilah ...

What's it like in New York City? Funny you should ask. I'm about to take off for a few days to find out. Having no other vacation plans until November, I'm buzzing back for a short visit to check out the Big Apple, bum around the streets, ride the subways, avoid eye contact with the panhandlers, stay clear of steam pipe explosions, drink un-drinkable coffee, gawk at the big buildings, hang out in the museums, and in general absorb a bit of the ambience of one of the coolest cities on earth.

And yes, for those of you who have been back there with me, I'll be staying once more at the Belleclaire Hotel on the Upper West Side, near the Natural History Museum. Prices are unbelievably good (for NYC); the hotel's not bad, if you don't mind sharing bathroom facilities with two other rooms (which I don't); and the neighborhood couldn't be better, just blocks from Central Park. No chance to watch the Yankees play this time, but I do think I'll return for another roam around the Park Slope area of Brooklyn, adjoining Prospect Park. Very nice comfortable area, wouldn't mind living there. (But who could afford it?)

Also, take note! This is the last summer that the amusement park at Coney Island will be open -- after over a century, it falls victim to our changing tastes in having fun. A tough but good-hearted street kid, stabbed through the heart by Mickey Mouse. The death of an American icon, whose gritty charms have been evoked in countless movies and books. I've got to see it before it dies.

And underlying my entire visit is my recurrent regret that I failed to take a year after college to live in this city. I may well have found myself lonely, overwhelmed, broke, stressed out, and probably unemployed. But what an experience, and what memories to look back on!

But for the next four days, anyway, I can still create a few memories.

Bicycle Woes

En route to my traditional Saturday breakfast, I was held up for a few minutes this morning when police stopped traffic, permitting a group of bicyclists to pass. They were biking slowly and deliberately, staring at the road ahead. They looked somewhat grim.

I then recalled that today is the start of the annual Seattle to Portland bike ride. Nine thousand bikers this year -- organizers had to stop taking new applications -- were heading south on a two-day, 200-mile ride. (Actually, almost a fourth of them, the more insane quartile, were attempting to do it all in one day). Bikers' ages ranged from 2 years, 4 months, to 85.

As I later worked my way through my ham and eggs, a thought percolated its way up to the conscious portion of my brain -- I still hadn't got the new bike I ordered.

A little background. In November, Denny and I will be traveling in Laos and Cambodia. Most of our days will be spent hiking or boating or jeeping, or simply being ferried around in a van, avoiding bandits. But one day in Laos and two days in Cambodia will be spent biking. The Laotian day will be a 35 mile jaunt, mostly uphill.

Ordinarily, the thought of biking 35 miles gradually uphill on a good bicycle would not trouble me. However, I have not touched my own bike - or any bike, for that matter -- for some time. Now, you attentive readers will recall that Denny leaped headfirst into his first triathlon last month. He trained for the running and the swimming, but not the bicycling. But despite that lack of training, he finished 85th out of 358 finishers in the cycling portion (he finished 56th overall!). I plan to travel with Denny. I plan to look him in the eye at the end of each day, as an equal -- or at least an approximate equal. I do not intend to spend a day choking on his dust!

And so. Three weeks ago, I pushed my old bike, my long disused and neglected bike, down the sidewalk to my neighborhood bike shop for refurbishing. Ok, I admit it had been a while since I rode it. It was covered with dust. The tires were flat. It did look sad, and a tad rusty in places. But I thought, well, hey, with new tires and maybe a new chain, it'll be good as new. The mechanic studied the dusty hulk (and me) with much the same expression on his face as had the painter who painted my house in April. Disbelief and mild disgust, tempered by a gleam of avarice. He studied parts lists, scribbled numbers, and gave me a bid. It would be cheaper to buy a new bike, he assured me.

And how much would that be, I wondered. About $350, he opined.

I gulped, scratched my head, and agreed that a new bike probably would be a good idea. He showed me the bike most equivalent to the one I'd ruined. Ok, I said, always the crafty buyer. I'll take it.

Oh, we don't have any, he chuckled. They did not, I was given to understand, have much demand in today's booming economy for bikes that were this cheap. This one was just a demo, sort of an ornament.

But I can order you one. It will take from one to three weeks for it to arrive.

The weeks available to me for training, before hitting the rutted roads of Laos, were diminishing before my eyes, but what could I do? I left my name and phone number. He'd call when my bike materialized, he muttered, turning already to the next customer.

And so today -- three weeks to the day -- I returned to the shop. Gosh, I was just wondering if you forgot to call when my bike arrived, I chuckled, my eyes narrow with suspicion. "Huh?" the kid behind the counter riposted. What did you say your name was? -- Need I say more? They had no record of my order. -- What model did you order? I didn't know. Well, what was the brand? "Huh?" I explained.

The bike shop kid rolled his eyes, barely perceptively. His tattooed biceps twitched nervously, as he gazed slightly above my left ear. Sorry, dude, best I can do is suggest this brand. He showed me a bike. This one could be the one the guy you say you talked to meant to order. It's about $350. Ok, I replied eagerly. I'll take it.

The Seattle sun was out. At 9:30 a.m., it was already warm. I visualized getting back in the saddle, as it were, for a few hours.

Oh, this is just a demo. We'll have to "build" one for you. Could you leave your name and phone number?

Of course I could! I'm no naive newbie, still wet behind the ears! I know all about ordering bikes. Actually, I have no idea what he means when he says he has to "build" it for me, but he's a professional, right? He's sure it'll be ready for me in about a week.

I just hope that next week he doesn't ask me what brand I ordered. Damned if I can remember . . ..

Executive Privilege -- We've been here before

U.S. Supreme Court

UNITED STATES v. NIXON, PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES, ET AL.

CERTIORARI BEFORE JUDGMENT TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA CIRCUIT.

No. 73-1766.

Argued July 8, 1974.
Decided July 24, 1974.

Following indictment alleging violation of federal statutes by certain staff members of the White House and political supporters of the President, the Special Prosecutor filed a motion under Fed. Rule Crim. Proc. 17 (c) for a subpoena duces tecum for the production before trial of certain tapes and documents relating to precisely identified conversations and meetings between the President and others. The President, claiming executive privilege, filed a motion to quash the subpoena. The District Court, after treating the subpoenaed material as presumptively privileged, concluded that the Special Prosecutor had made a sufficient showing to rebut the presumption and that the requirements of Rule 17 (c) had been satisfied. The court thereafter issued an order for an in camera examination of the subpoenaed material, having rejected the President's contentions (a) that the dispute between him and the Special Prosecutor was nonjusticiable as an "intra-executive" conflict and (b) that the judiciary lacked authority to review the President's assertion of executive privilege. The court stayed its order pending appellate review, which the President then sought in the Court of Appeals. The Special Prosecutor then filed in this Court a petition for a writ of certiorari before judgment (No. 73-1766) and the President filed a cross-petition for such a writ challenging the grand-jury action (No. 73-1834). The Court granted both petitions. Held:

* * *

4. Neither the doctrine of separation of powers nor the generalized need for confidentiality of high-level communications, without more, can sustain an absolute, unqualified Presidential privilege of immunity from judicial process under all circumstances. See, e. g., Marbury v. Madison, 1 Cranch 137, 177; Baker v. Carr, 369 U.S. 186, 211 . Absent a claim of need to protect military, diplomatic, or sensitive national security secrets, the confidentiality of [418 U.S. 683, 685] Presidential communications is not significantly diminished by producing material for a criminal trial under the protected conditions of in camera inspection, and any absolute executive privilege under Art. II of the Constitution would plainly conflict with the function of the courts under the Constitution. Pp. 703-707.

5. Although the courts will afford the utmost deference to Presidential acts in the performance of an Art. II function, United States v. Burr, 25 F. Cas. 187, 190, 191-192 (No. 14,694), when a claim of Presidential privilege as to materials subpoenaed for use in a criminal trial is based, as it is here, not on the ground that military or diplomatic secrets are implicated, but merely on the ground of a generalized interest in confidentiality, the President's generalized assertion of privilege must yield to the demonstrated, specific need for evidence in a pending criminal trial and the fundamental demands of due process of law in the fair administration of criminal justice. Pp. 707-713.

(The above are official headnotes (or summaries of portions of the opinion) from the opinion.

The decision was unanimous, 8-0, with Justice Rehnquist not taking part because of his prior involvement in the administration.

* * *

Item: President Bush orders former White House counsel Harriet Myers to refuse to comply with a subpoena issued by the House of Representatives.

WASHINGTON - President Bush ordered his former White House counsel, Harriet Miers, to defy a congressional subpoena and refuse to testify Thursday before a House panel investigating U.S. attorney firings.

"Ms. Miers has absolute immunity from compelled congressional testimony as to matters occurring while she was a senior adviser to the president," White House Counsel Fred Fielding wrote in a letter to Miers' lawyer, George T. Manning.

MSNBC 7-11-07, from Associated Press

"Anyone Can Cook"

I'm not going to write a movie review of Ratatouille. Everyone by now has heard of it. A Pixar creation, and Disney's best release perhaps in decades. You've read the reviews. The first movie I've seen for years, maybe ever, that has received 100 percent favorable reviews from the critics, or at least from the large number that are published on the Rotten Tomatoes website.

But you "foodies" living in Sonoma County -- you guys have to see it. The whole world of food preparation and appreciation is spread before us, like a tasty French pique-nique. The experimenting with combinations of contrasting flavors. The technical skills required of the cooks. The jealousies within the kitchen staff. The tension between chef and waiter. The seeming chaos within the kitchen, contrasted with the quiet perfection of the dining room, on opposite sides of a swinging door.

And -- Doug and Juliana take note -- the tyranny of the Restaurant Critic. The aptly-naned Anton Ego, a formidable food snob (with the voice of Peter O'Toole), who can destroy a chef's career with one well-chosen, sneering word in his newspaper column -- but who proves in the end that he has a heart, as well as a stomach. And finally, the danger that heirs to the name of a famous restaurant and chef will exploit the name to market -- in this case -- junk food.

And underlying all is the film's assertion that even the most despised of outcast groups can bring forth artistic genius -- the sewers and garbage dumps of Paris can send forth a rat with the sensitivity of an aesthete and the soul of a poet. The hero, Remy, indisputably a rodent in a kitchen, rises to become the greatest chef in Paris, with the help of his goofy human friend, Linguini. And he does so, ultimately, without turning his back on a horrifyingly huge pack of his scurrying relatives -- a family of ever-starving scavengers for whom, as his Dad explains, "food is just fuel."

The film works on many levels. And now, before these random thoughts of mine evolve, in fact, into a review, let me just leave you with one thought:     See it!

Kids! Don't they do the darnedest things?

Or, do you know where your son is tonight?

Two Florida teenagers, ages 14 and 16, were arrested this week. They are accused of beating and raping a woman (apparently chosen at random) in front of her 12-year-old son, and then forcing the boy to have sex with his mother. They then beat the boy and poured "numerous household cleaning liquids" into his eyes.

The father of the 16-year-old was perplexed. ''My son has a good heart,'' the father said. ''I can't believe my son would do something like this."

Source: New York Times 7-6-07

Et in Arcadia -- non ego.

Last night saw the opening of this year's Seattle Chamber Music Society summer festival, the first of 14 nights of music during the month of July. St. Nicholas Hall at the Lakeside School was sold out for the performance of trios by Debussy, Beethoven, and Shostakovich. Many non-paying music lovers also stretched out on the lawns outside the Hall, picnicking and listening to the performance inside through speakers provided for their enjoyment.

Now in its 26th season, the festival features internationally recognized players from orchestras, chamber groups, and college faculties across the United States and from abroad.

Besides the exceptionally good music, one of the pleasures of the festival is the opportunity to spend warm summer evenings on the Lakeside campus, and -- for some of us, at least -- to fantasize that we had spent our high school years in this halcyon environment.

I myself breezed through high school in a Northwest logging community. Until I arrived at college, as a freshman, I trusted that I had been well educated. After my first week of college, I realized that my high school had somehow overlooked teaching me how to think. One fourth of my fellow freshman were from prep schools, mostly East Coast. They had the self-assurance, at least on the surface, of young people who were simply climbing up, in a natural progression, one more rung on the ladder of critical thinking. They were not still trying to figure out how that ladder itself was constructed!

As a small town, Pacific Northwest kid, I really can't see myself as having ever fit in to the social milieu of Choate, Exeter or St. Paul's. But Lakeside, which I discovered after moving to Seattle following college, seems to offer much the same academic rigor, but more accessibly and with closer ties to the local community. Its student body, at least today, is coed, non-residential, diverse and inclusive. Its teams play in the same athletic conferences as other local high schools.

According to the school's website, the assistant headmaster described this year's graduating class as "variant," which was defined as:

a group of young people, who, in addition to their many talents and successes, has shown a certain quirky predilection for varying from the norm and a tendency toward change. "When I think about the variability in the sum of the 127 seniors in this class," Mr. Healy said, "all of whom are independent, distinct, and most of whom have experienced bouts of randomness, I really do think that 'Variants Add.'"

I think I would have loved it.

Lakeside has its claims to fame. A couple of geeky classmates -- Bill Gates and Paul Allen -- went on to a measure of success in the computer software industry. And the campus now sports prominently a Gates-Allen Hall as testimony to the happy fact that you don't need to be a football hero to be remembered fondly by your alma mater.

Literature has yet to do for Lakeside what John Knowles did for Phillip's Exeter in A Separate Peace. But the most atmospheric description of Lakeside from an outsider's perspective that I've read to date is from Tobias Wolff's memoir, This Boy's Life (Leonardo DiCaprio starred in the movie version). Young Wolff came to Seattle from his small town high school to take the SAT-like test for admission to private high schools, a test that was administered on the Lakeside campus.

After lunch I walked around the campus. The regular students had not yet returned from their Christmas vacation, and the quiet was profound. I found a bench overlooking the lake. The surface was misty and gray. Until they rang the bell for the math test I sat with crossed legs and made believe I belonged here, that these handsome old buildings, webbed with vines of actual ivy to which a few brown leaves still clung, were my home.

And in summer, it only gets better. Is there perhaps an element of snobbishness in wishing I'd had the opportunity to attend a private high school, and one so beautiful? I hope not, and I think not. My wistful yearning isn't a wish that I'd been viewed as somehow "better" than others, but a regret that the education that commenced for me in college had not begun four years earlier, back when I know I was ready, and open to it. Lakeside School is a beautiful campus, but so actually was my own high school, the architectural styles of the two being uncannily similar. The beauty I missed before I was 18 was the intellectual beauty of working with an excellent faculty and of associating with bright students who might have shared and sharpened some of my own interests during those four formative years.

Such were my musings, walking about campus before the performance and during intermission. Thanks to the Seattle Chamber Music Society, not only for its nights of stirring chamber music, but also for once more giving us the excuse to walk about this interesting and beautiful school, a school that continues to produce outstanding graduates.

Scooter Skedaddles

President Bush today commuted the 2 1/2 year prison sentence handed out to former Cheney aide "Scooter" Libby. The jail sentence, following conviction on charges of perjury and obstruction of justice, had been imposed by a Bush appointee to the federal bench. The sentence was called "excessive" by the president. The president acted after the U.S. Court of Appeals announced that there was no valid reason to delay Libby's imprisonment pending appeal.

The president, taking time from his Maine meetings with Russian president Vladimir Putin, noted that Libby was a "first time offender with years of exceptional public service."

Hours later, the White House announced that President Bush would begin an investigation into all prison sentences handed down over the past five years by the federal courts. A presidential commission will identify all first time offenders with previously blameless lives. The president will commute the prison sentences of all such first offenders.

"It's only fair," stated a spokesman for the president. "The eyes of the world are upon us. After all, we aren't some banana republic where the generalissimo's henchmen get special treatment."