Why Donald Trump is a Huge Threat to America

Eight years ago, in July 2016, I published the first political post of my blogging career, titled “Sam Harris on Trump vs. Clinton”. When I wrote it, I thought it would also be my last such post, for as I noted at the time, “For every political argument, there is an equal and opposite rebuttal.”

I still feel that way, but now, in 2024, Donald Trump is once more running for President, which clarifies matters for me. I believe that one cannot be a good president without first being a good person, and that Donald Trump is perhaps the most deeply flawed human being ever to hold that office.

Whether or not that’s true, I have no wish to write a lengthy polemic about Trump myself, and so once again, have decided to let someone else speak for me. I am happy to introduce readers of this blog to my friend Bill McIntyre, who, like Sam Harris, is very well informed and speaks articulately about some of the risks of a second Trump term. When asked, Bill immediately agreed to write the following essay.

Many thanks, old friend.

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Foreign policy concerns rarely drive national elections, but in the upcoming election, perhaps they should. On May 10, 2017, four months after he was inaugurated as president, Donald Trump met in the Oval Office with Russian Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov and Russian Ambassador Sergey Kislyak, in a visit criticized in the press because he provided them with highly classified intelligence information. According to the Washington Post, “A Russian photographer took photos of part of the session that were released by the Russian state-owned Tass news agency. No U.S. news organization was allowed to attend any part of the meeting.”

Since then, Trump has continued to be openly friendly with Russian President Vladimir Putin. Three days ago, he met with Hungarian President Viktor Orbán. This morning Orbán announced that if Trump is elected president, he (Trump) will not provide any military aid at all to Ukraine. Trump has not in any way attempted to deny that report.

Now Trump opposes a bipartisan move to shut down TikTok if it doesn’t divest itself of its Chinese ownership. The problem is that Chinese law openly requires Chinese companies to assist intelligence agencies in that country when requested. So if Trump’s wishes prevail, China could access the private information of hundreds of millions of American teenagers and adults who use the TikTok app.

Revenge always has been – and continues to be – at the center of Donald Trump’s approach to governing. Ukraine did not provide him with an investigation into the Bidens when Trump tried to extort that during a July 25, 2019 phone call with Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky, by withholding military aid unless it happened. Trump was impeached by the House of Representatives after that incident but was not convicted in the Senate. He obviously holds a very large grudge against President Zelensky that blinds him to the very real danger of a nuclear war between our country and Russia if Ukraine is defeated.

Trump has switched positions on TikTok from when he was president. Then he opposed allowing the app to continue operating in the U.S. as a Chinese owned company. Now he takes the opposite position. His reason: getting rid of TikTok in the U.S. will make Facebook stronger, and Facebook refused to support his lies that the 2020 election was stolen from him.

Trump’s attitudes toward Ukraine and TikTok can be dismissed as childish, which they are. But basing foreign policy decisions on such grievances, instead of on what will protect America’s foreign policy and military interests in the world, is a recipe for a third world war.

Vladimir Putin has openly declared that the dissolution of the Soviet Union was the greatest catastrophe of the 20th century. His invasion of Ukraine was the first step in the process of reconstituting the Soviet Empire. We have no treaty obligations to Ukraine. They ask only military aid from us. If Putin defeats Ukraine, Poland is the next country to its west that Putin’s Red Army will invade to reconstitute another chunk of the old Soviet Empire. We have treaty obligations to treat an attack on Poland as we would an attack on our own territory. An invasion of Poland will result in a direct conflict between the Russian and American armies, in other words in World War III, which would turn into a nuclear war once Russian forces became overwhelmed by the combined armies of the 32 NATO countries.

China is another country with a huge nuclear arsenal. It wants to conquer Taiwan, a U.S. ally, just 100 miles across the Taiwan Strait from China, and it is watching our resolve in Ukraine to see how much opposition we would put up to an invasion of Taiwan, an invasion that could result in a nuclear war between our country and China. It also wants domination of the South China Sea, which is also bordered by Vietnam, the Philippines, Malaysia and Indonesia. The Philippines is an American ally. The chances for a future nuclear war with China are quite high.

There are a multitude of reasons why Donald Trump should not be elected president in 2024. Avoiding nuclear war is perhaps the strongest one.

William J. McIntyre, M.D.

Schubert: Symphony No. 5 in B-flat major The Norwegian Chamber Orchestra

I recently received an email from an old friend, pianist Andy Rangell, that included a link to the video of Schubert’s 5th Symphony presented below. In his email, Andy referred to this performance as “the MOST vibrant performance of this perfect symphony,” and after listening to it, I shared his enthusiasm. I wrote back to ask if he would consider writing an introduction to this piece for me to use here, and to my great delight, he agreed.

Here, then, is Schubert’s Symphony No. 5, as performed by The Norwegian Chamber Orchestra, with notes by Andy Rangell.

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Franz Schubert by Joseph Kupelwieser

On an overcast morning, looking for something uplifting and refreshing to go with my coffee, I decided to listen to a cherished favorite, Schubert’s B-flat Symphony (No. 5). On YouTube the piece was represented by a number of established orchestras, conducted by various luminaries. I tried one, and, in the opening moments, was slightly disappointed by a lack of the special ebullience I associate with this Allegro. Several attempts later, I found myself enthralled with the (conductor-less) vitality and joy of the Norwegian Chamber Orchestra’s live performance.

This symphony has always seemed to me a perfect and miraculous work, with Schubert channeling Mozart (the brusque and dramatic Menuetto movement coming from the sound-world of Mozart’s 40th). It is documented that Schubert (who was 19 when he wrote this piece, a truly Mozartian feat itself) was indeed worshipful in his regard for Mozart.

This Schubert symphony, scored more lightly than any other of his symphonies, is not the discursive and questioning music of so many of his later works. Concise, compact, “classical”, it is yet imbued with color, imagination, and soul. The outer movements are radiantly heady! The inner movements form opposite poles in 3/4 time: the Andante con moto almost seems a radically slow and serious menuet (to begin with)! The actual Menuet, forceful and insistent, reverts to innocent gentleness in its trio section.

From beginning to end, a wonder, this piece, and SO enlivened in the hands of this Northern Band of Angels.

Andy R.

Movie Review: Love Actually

“Children, don’t buy drugs. Become a rock star and they give them to you for free!” – Billy Mack

I’m pleased to introduce readers of this blog to an old friend of mine, Karen Butler, who graciously agreed to write the following review. An acclaimed actor, writer, director, teacher, and critic, Karen has spent a lifetime in the dramatic arts. Her perspective on Love Actually is especially worth-while as, while understanding completely the appeal of the movie, she doesn’t let its obvious charm blind her to its short-comings. I think we can all learn from her example.

Please feel free to leave your comments below. Perhaps we can tempt Karen to review another movie in the near future.

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I enjoy a movie that makes me feel two opposing emotions at once—the original Carrie, for example, had me laughing and horrified at the same time. Or see Derrick’s review of Once Upon a Time in Hollywood where tension and laughter combine. In a somewhat similar vein, Richard Curtis’s Love Actually, has become an extremely perplexing experience for me, with both a champagne sparkle and notes of warm, flat diet drink. (It came out in 2003, was popular, won big awards, and I’ll assume you remember the loosely connected plots, all dealing with love lost and mostly regained.)

Many gems glimmer seductively in this film. What could be better than Hugh Grant’s twitching fanny and rock star imitation, (also check out his characterizations and dance in Paddington 2), unless it’s Bill Nighy doing absolutely everything he does here, grinning, snorting, stripping, hugging. Or Keira Knightley’s glowing bridal entrance (the best since Garbo’s in Anna Karenina), or Colin Firth’s dodgy, charming attempt at Portuguese, or Emma Thompson’s (is she in a fat suit?) reaction to lobsters in the Nativity play. The fire-power acting from every one of the top echelon stars picked by director/writer Richard Curtis couldn’t be better; the direction and camerawork are just fine. At first viewing, this movie enchanted me enough to purchase it, something I rarely do because the means to play it will have changed come next week.

But something about it preyed on me, and in thinking more deeply, my point of view has darkened.

I started out cheerily enough. Bill Nighy’s washed out, aging rock star had me from hello, and he made not a single misstep throughout, nor did his manager, the appealing Gregor Fisher. Keira’s wedding, with the pop-up trumpeters, had me giggling. Rowan Atkinson’s delaying antics with Christmas decoration made me guffaw. Liam Neeson’s eulogy had me in tears. This movie got me right where it wanted me much of the time.

But I never warmed to several of the stories. From the first, Laura Linney’s spineless, masochistic character never appealed. (Your brother is being cared for in a nursing home, sweetheart, so stop pining for that gorgeous co-worker and go get him already! What kind of ninny are you?) Kris Marshall’s British accent, even with his purported big dick, wouldn’t get him four gorgeous babes even if they were American (though it was good fun seeing January Jones before she became wildly famous in Mad Men); the movie stand-ins, though an intriguing idea, were too stammery and juvenile to interest me; Liam didn’t mourn his dead wife very long before flirting with a super model; Colin Firth took no time at all to fall in love with his Portuguese friend; I fear for Keira’s new marriage if she’s impressed by her husband’s best friend’s signage ability; Hugh lets macho competitiveness get in the way of a potential sweetheart; Alan Rickman is a dope if he hurts darling Emma Thompson, even though Heike Makatsch’s eyes may be the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. And the movie just seems dated—twenty years was a long time ago—older men with younger women; women have unimportant occupations while men run companies and countries. And hey, aren’t we beyond fat jokes?

Not to hit this nail too hard on the head, but the time is ripe: this movie is almost completely male-centric. (Ah me, yet another tale of Mice and Men—I exaggerate; no mice.) Women are tired of always being secondary characters, supporting players, background, atmosphere, in place only to swell the scene. Aside from Linney’s failed, gutless romance, and the vanilla insipidity of the stand-in story (Just Judy does make the first move to kiss her indecisive beau, I’ll grant), all the stories tell of distraught men angling for women to come comfort them. Men drive the engines, women play the caboose. Emma almost wrenches the story of Alan’s unfaithfulness into female terrain, but that’s not due to the writing, it’s that she’s one of the better actresses on the planet, with depthless presence, wisdom, and emotional maturity.

And yet I freely admit the diversity in casting was imaginative and before its time, and young Olivia Olson’s singing dropped my jaw. And I wanted everyone’s prickly situations to work out. And I got teary in all the right places. And the swelling music got to me. And the ending had me rooting for love in all those many, many faces and embraces. And it all comes right in the end. But is a message of love served by the undoubted missteps? Perhaps, perhaps not. Please judge for yourself.

It’s interesting to feel so good and so blah about a movie all at once, and therefore I remain divided about Love Actually and my reaction to it. What’s yours?

Written and directed by Richard Curtis; director of photography, Michael Coulter; edited by Nick Moore; music by Craig Armstrong; production designer, Jim Clay; produced by Tim Bevan, Eric Fellner and Duncan Kenworthy; released by Universal Pictures. Running time: 128 minutes. This film is rated R.

WITH: Alan Rickman (Harry), Bill Nighy (Billy Mack), Colin Firth (Jamie), Emma Thompson (Karen), Hugh Grant (Prime Minister), Laura Linney (Sarah), Liam Neeson (Daniel), Martine McCutcheon (Natalie) Heike Makatsh (Mia) Rowan Atkinson (Rufus), Lucia Moniz (Aurelia), Martin Freeman (John) and Joanna Page (Just Judy).

Karen Butler

Movie Review: Once Upon a Time in Hollywood

“I’ve got a flamethrower in my toolshed.” – Rick Dalton

Quentin Tarantino’s new film, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, opened three nights ago at my local multiplex. As regular readers of this blog can attest, I’ve been an unabashed fan of Tarantino’s work ever since Pulp Fiction was released twenty-five years ago, and have proclaimed more than once that his first movie, Reservoir Dogs, was the best first movie since John Huston’s The Maltese Falcon. I also thought that Jackie Brown, the two Kill Bill movies, and Death Proof were unqualified successes. Beginning with Inglourious Basterds, however, I began to have reservations about Tarantino, reservations which increased with Django Unchained and The Hateful Eight. This is not to say that those two films don’t have a lot going for them, they do, but it seemed to me that in both of them, Tarantino fell victim to the siren song of commercialism, and in his desire to put butts in the seats, so to speak, relaxed his artistic standards. In my review of Django, I wrote, “I would like to see Tarantino return to the more balanced approach of his earlier work, in which spectacle had no part, and violence, while integral to the lives of his characters, was not the film’s reason for being.”

I’m happy to report that in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, Tarantino has taken a significant step in that direction. This is primarily a story about Hollywood in the late ’60’s, and about two men: Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio), a former TV star whose acting career appears to be in a death spiral, and Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt), Dalton’s longtime friend and stunt double. It also deals with the Charles Manson clan, and with actress Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie), who lives with her husband, film director Roman Polanski, in the house next to Dalton’s in Beverly Hills.

Here, just to give you a taste of the movie, is the trailer for Once Upon a Time in Hollywood.

It has to be said that in this movie, Tarantino once again indulges a writer’s prerogative – which we saw him exercise for the first time in Inglourious Basterds – to alter history to suit his own purposes. Tarantino is more concerned with creating entertaining and effective cinema than with historical accuracy, and I, for one, am happy to accept his right to do that. We don’t go to the movies – not a Tarantino movie, at any rate – for a history lesson.

Having said that, I have to call your attention to the extraordinary detail that Tarantino lavishes on the props and sets in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. We’ve come to expect this in a Tarantino movie, but in Once Upon a Time, he outdoes himself. He succeeds completely in re-creating the Hollywood of the late ’60’s, right down to the billboards, movie marquees, and bus stop posters.

In my review of Django Unchained, I referred to Tarantino as, “the rightful heir to Hitchcock’s title, The Master of Suspense”, and this movie provides additional evidence, if any were needed, for the legitimacy of that claim. The vast majority of the audience knows who Charles Manson was and what he and his followers did in the summer of ’69. This awareness creates a suspense in the viewer that is absolutely palpable, and which increases with each successive scene. This may well be the funniest film Tarantino has ever made, but the comic moments are so fraught with tension that you may not know whether to laugh or hold your breath. In that context, I invite you to watch carefully for the Mexican standoff without which no Tarantino film would be complete.

I can’t conclude this review without telling you of my one reservation about this Tarantino movie. I can watch a Tarantino film, with all of its violence and crude language, with a certain amount of detachment. After all, I’m used to crude language; that’s the way more and more people talk, especially in the movies. I’m also used to movie violence, and I like seeing the bad guy get the stuffing knocked out of him as much as the next person. But when a woman, especially a defenseless woman, gets the stuffing knocked out of her by a man in an unspeakably brutal way, that bothers me. I felt that way watching The Hateful Eight, and I feel that way about one scene in this movie too. I can’t help but wonder if the director is pandering to that segment of the audience that enjoys seeing a woman brutalized.

That one objection notwithstanding, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is a masterpiece, one you shouldn’t miss. It features the extraordinary screenplay we have come to expect from Tarantino, along with exceptional performances by Brad Pitt and Leonardo DiCaprio. I won’t be surprised if both of them receive Oscar nominations for Best Actor. If you’re like me, one viewing will not be enough.

Derrick Robinson

Concert Review: Marc-André Hamelin at The University of Washington

Marc-André Hamelin

Three nights ago, in his second appearance in Seattle in the past year, pianist Marc-André Hamelin gave a recital at Meany Hall at the University of Washington, and, as is typical for Hamelin, the program included both the well-known and the unknown. He led off with the magnificent Chaconne from Bach’s Partita No. 2 for solo violin, in its transcription for piano by Busoni. This is a colossal work, one I have written about at some length elsewhere on this blog. I will add only that Hamelin’s interpretation was in every way worthy of Bach and Busoni’s creation. Bravo to all three!

Concluding the first half of the program was the Sonata No. 3 by Samuil Feinberg (1890-1962). This was the first time I’ve heard this sonata, which was written in 1916 and which is, perhaps, more accessible than the Sonata No. 4, which I heard Hamelin play last year. The Sonata No. 3 is a giant piece, full of thorny complexities and challenging harmonies, and an extraordinary workout for the pianist. It is also a cry from the heart, and for me at least, it was the centerpiece of the recital. Feinberg was a composer of obvious gifts and startling originality. How is it possible that his music has remained in the backwater of the piano repertoire for so long?

But not any more! Hamelin has been programming Feinberg in his recitals for some time, and is planning to release an album of the first six of his twelve sonatas. I have to wonder if in years to come, Feinberg’s name will forever be linked with that of Hamelin.

Hamelin rightly recognized the effect that the Feinberg sonata might have had on the audience, and before embarking on the second half of his program, he remarked, “I hope the following will provide a little bit of relief from what you just heard.” The piece that followed – Alexis Weissenberg’s “Six Arrangements of Songs Sung by Charles Trenet” (1950) – was well-chosen for that purpose. The six pieces brought to mind words like tuneful, charming, boisterous, humorous, elegant, and wistful, but regardless of the mood, there is something unmistakably French about these arrangements. Listening to them, I could easily imagine myself in Paris, overhearing music emanating from a nightclub somewhere down the street.

Here is a video from 2009 of Hamelin playing the third piece from this set, “En avril, à Paris” (April in Paris).

Next on the program was another piece that was new to me, “Cypresses”, by the Italian-American composer Mario Castelnuovo­-­Tedesco (1895-1968). Composed in 1920, “Cypresses” is a very inward looking piece and reveals a strong influence of Debussy. In it, Hamelin created a sustained, reflective atmosphere, at least until it was rudely interrupted by a cellphone in the row behind me.

The final two works on the program were both by Chopin: the Polonaise-Fantasie, Op. 61 and the Scherzo No. 4 in E Major. In the Polonaise-Fantasie, Hamelin adopted a more relaxed tempo than one often hears, which lent it a more introspective quality. Hamelin obviously has a deep love for Chopin, which together with his extraordinary touch, made of this well-known piece a very personal statement. The Scherzo No. 4 is the most light-hearted of Chopin’s four scherzi. Although it has its reflective moments, it brought the evening’s program to a close on a joyous, upbeat note.

Everything Hamelin does, he does masterfully, and at the end of his program, the Seattle audience gave him a prolonged standing ovation. In return, Hamelin gave us one encore: Debussy’s “Feux d’artifice” (Fireworks) from Book 2 of his preludes. Here is a video from 2007 of Hamelin performing the same piece.

Without ever neglecting the staples of the piano repertoire, Hamelin has done yeoman’s service in bringing the music of lesser­-known composers to the attention of the public. Whatever he plays, he plays with consummate authority, and like all great pianists, he opens wide a window into his heart and soul. This was my third time hearing him in person. Hopefully there will be many more.

Derrick Robinson

Nine Years of Blogging

This month marks the ninth anni­versary of “Derrick’s Blog”. I began writing it in August 2009, and in the nine years since, not a month has passed without my adding at least one new post. When I began writing it, I had no idea how many people would read it. I just wanted to share my love of music – and selected books and movies – with as many people as I could. I’ve also published a few concert reviews and interviews over the years, categories I didn’t envision at the outset.

Nine years, 150 posts, and 100,000 words later, there have been more than 144,000 hits on my blog. The most popular post of all time has been Valentina Lisitsa: Four Encores with over 9,000 views. Next in line are My Interview with Lola Astanova and Anna Netrebko: Three Encores. The picture changes somewhat if we look at just the past 12 months, during which my interview with Lola Astanova takes over first place with more than 3,000 views, followed by Saint-Saens’ Carnival of the Animals and my review of The Winds of War and War and Remembrance.

I’m especially pleased with how many countries have viewed my blog, 176 as of this writing. The country with the most views is, not surprisingly, the United States with more than 36,000. Germany, United Kingdom, France, and Canada round out the top five. At the bottom of the list, there are 22 countries with one view each, including Iran, Afghanistan, and – who would have guessed it – Vatican City.

At this point, I’m planning on taking a break from this blog and starting a new one, which should debut in a month or two. I have no doubt that I will return to “Derrick’s Blog” from time to time to write about other books, movies, and music that I’m excited about. In the meantime, I encourage you, dear reader, to scroll to the top of this screen and click on the link to the Table of Contents for a complete listing of all my posts to date. Below that you will find a link to My Heart Still Hears, where you will find my complete haiku. I hope you find one or two that appeal to you.

Soon there will be a link to a new blog as well. I hope you will take a look at that too.

Derrick Robinson

Book Review: Catch-22 by Joseph Heller

Catch-22 by Joseph Heller; Simon & Schuster Paperbacks, New York, 2004

Catch-22 was first published in hardback in October 1961; a paper-back edition followed a year later. It has now been translated into at least 21 languages and sold more than 10 million copies. I read it for the first time 50 years ago, and it has been one of my favorite books ever since. I must have read it a dozen times. It is one of the few books I know that can make me laugh out loud no matter how many times I read it, and that never fails to impress me with its wit and wisdom.

There is a great deal of critical analysis of Catch-22 available online, as well as a number of informative interviews with Joseph Heller. This review is not an attempt at further analysis; nor is it a rehash of the analysis of others. I simply want to give those who haven’t read Catch-22 an idea of what it’s about and to share a few of my favorite lines and passages. If even a few are thereby prompted to read it, I will be satisfied, and if one or two of those come to share my enthusiasm for it, I will be positively delighted.

Central to Catch-22 is the idea of contradiction, of paradox. Heller introduces this idea even before the story begins, in the novel’s epigraph: “There was only one catch… and that was Catch-22.” Such contradictions abound throughout the novel. Here are three more, all from just one page of Chapter 1, “The Texan”:

Across the aisle from Yossarian was Dunbar, and next to Dunbar was the artillery captain with whom Yossarian had stopped playing chess. The captain was a good chess player, and the games were always interesting. Yossarian had stopped playing chess with him because the games were so interesting they were foolish…

Dunbar was lying motionless on his back again with his eyes staring up at the ceiling like a doll’s. He was working hard at increasing his life span. He did it by cultivating boredom. Dunbar was working so hard at increasing his life span that Yossarian thought he was dead…

The Texan turned out to be good-natured, generous and likable. In three days no one could stand him…

And here is one more.

Major Major had been born too late and too mediocre. Some men are born mediocre, some men achieve mediocrity, and some men have mediocrity thrust upon them. With Major Major it had been all three. Even among men lacking all distinction he inevitably stood out as a man lacking more distinction than all the rest, and people who met him were always impressed by how unimpressive he was.

Heller first describes Catch-22 in the following passage from Chapter 5, “Chief White Halfoat”.

There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one’s own safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn’t, but if he was sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn’t have to; but if he didn’t want to he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.

“That’s some catch, that Catch-22,” he observed.

“It’s the best there is,” Doc Daneeka agreed.

Catch-22 is a veritable gold mine of quotable lines. Here are two of my favorites:

“Actually, there were many officers’ clubs that Yossarian had not helped build, but he was proudest of the one on Pianosa.”

“And if that wasn’t funny, there were lots of things that weren’t even funnier.”

And this is perhaps one of the most important lines in the book, an unambiguous expression of one of the novel’s central ideas, and a wonderful example of Heller’s wit.

“Clevinger was dead. That was the basic flaw in his philosophy.”

Along with its many memorable lines, there are innumerable noteworthy passages in Catch-22. I’ve chosen several to share here; the first is from Chapter 8, “Lieutenant Scheisskopf”.

Not even Clevinger understood how Milo could do that, and Clevinger knew everything. Clevinger knew everything about the war except why Yossarian had to die while Corporal Snark was allowed to live, or why Corporal Snark had to die while Yossarian was allowed to live. It was a vile and muddy war, and Yossarian could have lived without it – lived forever, perhaps. Only a fraction of his countrymen would give up their lives to win it, and it was not his ambition to be among them. To die or not to die, that was the question, and Clevinger grew limp trying to answer it. History did not demand Yossarian’s premature demise, justice could be satisfied without it, progress did not hinge upon it, victory did not depend upon it. That men would die was a matter of necessity; which men would die, though, was a matter of circumstance, and Yossarian was willing to be the victim of anything but circumstance. But that was war. Just about all he could find in its favor was that it paid well and liberated children from the pernicious influence of their parents.

In various places throughout the novel, Heller abandons his ironic tone, and the result is chilling. Take this passage, for example, also from Chapter 8.

Clevinger recoiled from their hatred as though from a blinding light. These three men who hated him spoke his language and wore his uniform, but he saw their loveless faces set immutably into cramped, mean lines of hostility and understood instantly that nowhere in the world, not in all the fascist tanks or planes or submarines, not in the bunkers behind the machine guns or mortars or behind the blowing flame throwers, not even among all the expert gunners of the crack Hermann Goering Antiaircraft Division or among the grisly connivers in all the beer halls in Munich and everywhere else, were there men who hated him more.

Here is an idea that recurs several times in the novel, from Chapter 9, “Major Major Major Major”.

“Would you like to see our country lose?” Major Major asked.

“We won’t lose. We’ve got more men, more money and more material. There are ten million men in uniform who could replace me. Some people are getting killed and a lot more are making money and having fun. Let somebody else get killed.

“But suppose everybody on our side felt that way.”

“Then I’d certainly be a damned fool to feel any other way. Wouldn’t I?”

In Chapter 12, “Bologna”, we have a heated debate between Clevinger and Yossarian about an issue that lies at the very heart of Catch-22.

Clevinger agreed with ex-PFC Wintergreen that it was Yossarian’s job to get killed over Bologna and was livid with condemnation when Yossarian confessed that it was he who had moved the bomb line and caused the mission to be cancelled.

“Why the hell not?” Yossarian snarled, arguing all the more vehemently because he suspected he was wrong. “Am I supposed to get my ass shot off just because the colonel wants to be a general?”

“What about the men on the mainland?” Clevinger demanded with just as much emotion. “Are they supposed to get their asses shot off just because you don’t want to go? Those men are entitled to air support!”

“But not necessarily by me. Look, they don’t care who knocks out those ammunition dumps. The only reason we’re going is because that bastard Cathcart volunteered us.”

“Oh, I know that,” Clevinger assured him, his gaunt face pale and his agitated brown eyes swimming in sincerity. “But the fact remains that those ammunition dumps are still standing. You know very well that I don’t approve of Colonel Cathcart any more than you do.” Clevinger paused for emphasis, his mouth quivering, and then beat his fist down softly against his sleeping bag. “But it’s not for us to determine what targets must be destroyed or who’s going to destroy them or – ”

“Or who gets killed doing it? And why?”

“Yes, even that. We have no right to question – ”

“You’re insane!”

“ – no right to question – ”

“Do you really mean that it’s not my business how or why I get killed and that it is Colonel Cathcart’s? Do you really mean that?”

“Yes, I do,” Clevinger insisted, seeming unsure. “There are men entrusted with winning the war who are in a much better position than we are to decide what targets have to be bombed.”

“We are talking about two different things,” Yossarian answered with exaggerated weariness. “You are talking about the relationship of the Air Corps to the infantry, and I am talking about the relationship of me to Colonel Cathcart. You are talking about winning the war, and I am talking about winning the war and keeping alive.”

“Exactly,” Clevinger snapped smugly. “And which do you think is more important?”

“To whom?” Yossarian shot back. “Open your eyes, Clevinger. It doesn’t make a damned bit of difference who wins the war to someone who’s dead.”

Clevinger sat for a moment as though he’d been slapped. “Congratulations!” he exclaimed bitterly, the thinnest milk-white line enclosing his lips tightly in a bloodless, squeezing ring. “I can’t think of another attitude that could be depended upon to give greater comfort to the enemy.”

“The enemy,” retorted Yossarian with weighted precision, “is anybody who’s going to get you killed, no matter which side he’s on, and that includes Colonel Cathcart. And don’t you forget that, because the longer you remember it, the longer you might live.”

But Clevinger did forget it, and now he was dead…

It occurs to me that Clevinger would have felt right at home in the German Army.

In Chapter 18, “The Soldier Who Saw Everything Twice”, we have the following exchange, one which epitomizes Heller’s brilliant wit.

Thanksgiving Day came and went without any fuss while Yossarian was still in the hospital. The only bad thing about it was the turkey for dinner, and even that was pretty good. It was the most rational Thanksgiving he had ever spent, and he took a sacred oath to spend every future Thanksgiving Day in the cloistered shelter of a hospital. He broke his sacred oath the very next year, when he spent the holiday in a hotel room instead in intellectual conversation with Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife, who had Dori Duz’s dog tags on for the occasion and who henpecked Yossarian sententiously for being cynical and callous about Thanksgiving, even though she didn’t believe in God just as much as he didn’t.

“I’m probably just as good an atheist as you are,” she speculated boastfully. “But even I feel that we all have a great deal to be thankful for and that we shouldn’t be ashamed to show it.”

“Name one thing I’ve got to be thankful for,” Yossarian challenged her without interest.”

“Well…” Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife mused and paused a moment to ponder dubiously. “Me.”

“Oh, come on,” he scoffed.

She arched her eyebrows in surprise. “Aren’t you thankful for me?” she asked. She frowned peevishly, her pride wounded. “I don’t have to shack up with you, you know,” she told him with cold dignity. “My husband has a whole squadron full of aviation cadets who would be only too happy to shack up with their commanding officer’s wife just for the added fillip it would give them.”

Yossarian decided to change the subject. “Now you’re changing the subject,” he pointed out diplomatically. “I’ll bet I can name two things to be miserable about for every one you can name to be thankful for.”

“Be thankful you’ve got me,” she insisted.

“I am, honey. But I’m also goddam good and miserable that I can’t have Dori Duz again, too. Or the hundreds of other girls and women I’ll see and want in my short lifetime and won’t be able to go to bed with even once.”

“Be thankful you’re healthy.”

“Be bitter you’re not going to stay that way.”

“Be glad you’re even alive.”

“Be furious you’re going to die.”

“Things could be much worse,” she cried.

“They could be one hell of a lot better,” he answered heatedly.

“You’re naming only one thing,” she protested. “You said you could name two.”

“And don’t tell me God works in mysterious ways,” Yossarian continued, hurtling on over her objection. “There’s nothing so mysterious about it. He’s not working at all. He’s playing. Or else He’s forgotten all about us. That’s the kind of God you people talk about – a country bumpkin, a clumsy, bungling, brainless, conceited, uncouth hayseed. Good God, how much reverence can you have for a Supreme Being who finds it necessary to include such phenomena as phlegm and tooth decay in His divine system of creation? What in the world was running through that warped, evil, scatological mind of His when he robbed old people of the power to control their bowel movements? Why in the world did He ever create pain?”

“Pain?” Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife pounced upon the word victoriously. “Pain is a useful symptom. Pain is a warning to us of bodily dangers.”

“And who created the dangers?” Yossarian demanded. He laughed caustically. “Oh, He was really being charitable to us when He gave us pain! Why couldn’t He have used a doorbell instead to notify us, or one of his celestial choirs? Or a system of blue-and-red neon tubes right in the middle of each person’s forehead. Any jukebox manufacturer worth his salt could have done that. Why couldn’t He?

“People would certainly look silly walking around with red neon tubes in the middle of their foreheads.”

“They certainly look beautiful now writhing in agony or stupefied with morphine, don’t they? What a colossal, immortal blunderer! When you consider the opportunity and power He had to really do a job, and then look at the stupid, ugly little mess He made of it instead, His sheer incompetence is almost staggering. It’s obvious He never met a payroll. Why, no self-respecting businessman would hire a bungler like Him as even a shipping clerk!”

Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife had turned ashen in disbelief and was ogling him with alarm. “You’d better not talk that way about Him, honey,” she warned him reprovingly in a low and hostile voice. “He might punish you.”

“Isn’t He punishing me enough?” Yossarian snorted resentfully. “You know, we mustn’t let Him get away scot free for all the sorrow He’s caused us. Someday I’m going to make Him pay. I know when. On the Judgment Day. Yes, that’s the day I’ll be close enough to reach out and grab that little yokel by His neck and –”

“Stop it! Stop it!” Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife screamed suddenly, and began beating him ineffectually about the head with both fists. “Stop it!”

Yossarian ducked behind his arm for protection while she slammed away at him in feminine fury for a few seconds, and then he caught her determinedly by the wrists and forced her gently back down on the bed. “What the hell are you getting so upset about?” he asked her bewilderedly in a tone of contrite amusement. “I thought you didn’t believe in God.”

“I don’t,” she sobbed, bursting violently into tears. “But the God I don’t believe in is a good God, a just God, a merciful God. He’s not the mean and stupid God you make him out to be.”

Yossarian laughed and turned her arms loose. “Let’s have a little more religious freedom between us,” he proposed obligingly. “You don’t believe in the God you want to, and I won’t believe in the God I want to. Is that a deal?”

That was the most illogical Thanksgiving he could ever remember spending, and his thoughts returned wishfully to his halcyon fourteen-day quarantine in the hospital the year before…

Finally, from Chapter 30, “Dunbar”, we have this remarkable excursion into the private thoughts of Nurse Duckett.

Her own body was such a familiar and unremarkable thing to her that she was puzzled by the convulsive ecstasy men could take from it, by the intense and amusing need they had merely to touch it, to reach out urgently and press it, squeeze it, pinch it, rub it. She did not understand Yossarian’s lust; but she was willing to take his word for it.

I’ve always been struck by that passage. How did Heller know these things? To the vast majority of men, women’s bodies are a source of endless fascination, even obsession. How did Heller know that to Nurse Duckett, “Her own body was such a familiar and unremarkable thing…”?

So, what is Catch-22 about? Simply stated, it’s about a U.S. Army Air Corps squadron based on an island in the Mediterranean in the closing months of World War II, and one man’s struggle for survival in the midst of a corrupt and self-serving bureaucracy. It is brilliantly written and laugh-out-loud funny, but the issues it confronts are serious and timely, and Heller’s treatment of them is – in a word – unforgettable.

Derrick Robinson

Movie Review: Vertigo

This year marks the 60^th anniver-sary of Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo, which was originally released in May 1958. For Hitchcock, the 50’s was an especially fruitful period, during which he turned out one masterpiece after another with almost monotonous regularity. In the space of ten years, he gave us such unforgettable films as Strangers on a Train, Dial M for Murder, Rear Window, The Man Who Knew Too Much, North by Northwest, and Psycho, among others. All of those films are now considered classics, but it could be argued that Vertigo is the greatest of them all. Noted author and film critic Robin Wood, in his excellent book Hitchcock’s Films (1968), calls Vertigo, “Hitchcock’s masterpiece to date and one of the four or five most profound and beautiful films the cinema has yet given us.” In the 2012 British Film Institute’s Sight & Sound poll, Vertigo even replaced Citizen Kane as the best film ever made.

It begins with a scene at night on the rooftops above San Francisco. We see a uniformed policeman and a plainclothes detective, John “Scottie” Ferguson (James Stewart), pursuing a sure-footed suspect from one rooftop to the next. Shots are fired, and the suspect leaps across… Well, see for yourself.

How’s that for an opening scene!

We next see Scottie in the apartment of Marjorie “Midge” Wood, (Barbara Bel Geddes). Scottie and Midge are old friends, in fact they were engaged briefly while they were in college. Scottie has recovered from injuries he sustained during the rooftop chase, but has been diagnosed with acrophobia – a fear of heights – and has retired from the police force. He informs Midge that he’s been contacted by an old college friend, Gavin Elster (Tom Helmore), who wants to meet with him in his office. Scottie agrees to the meeting, at which Elster tells him of his concern about his wife Madeline (Kim Novak), who he thinks has been possessed by the spirit of someone long since dead. Elster wants Scottie to follow Madeline, to find out where she goes during her recurring spells. Despite his reluctance to get involved, Scottie agrees…

Scottie becomes obsessed with Madeline. The more time he spends with her, the more determined he is to protect her, and to solve the mystery of her spells. Part of the reason for his obsession is his detective mentality. He’s the “hard-headed Scot” who must try to make sense of the mystery he finds himself in. What he doesn’t realize is that he is the target of an elaborate deception, one which succeeds because, as unlikely as its premise may be, it is still the most plausible explanation for all that Scottie has witnessed. What other possible explanation could there be?

Vertigo was based on the 1954 novel D’entre les morts (From Among the Dead) by Pierre Boileau and Thomas Narcejac. The screenplay is by Alec Coppel and Samuel Taylor, and the beautiful costumes are by Edith Head. Both James Stewart and Kim Novak give performances that easily stand the test of repeated viewings, and the supporting cast is first-rate. The magnificent score by Bernard Herrmann is a constant presence in the movie, but so well suited to the mood and the action on screen that you may scarcely be aware of it. It is one of the truly great film scores, which you can hear in its entirety here.

One of Hitchcock’s great achievements in Vertigo is the mood he creates and sustains throughout the entire movie, a tension that persists until the very last frames. Critical to that mood is Hitchcock’s faultless pacing, which is the antithesis of the breakneck pacing you find in so many movies today. There is nothing rushed in Vertigo, which unfolds in its own leisurely way. It was his pacing as much as his mastery of plot development that earned Hitchcock the title, “The Master of Suspense”, to which I would add, “in Perpetuity”.

Derrick Robinson

Charles Ives: Trio for Violin, Cello, & Piano The Van Baerle Trio

Charles Ives (1874 – 1954)

First, a little background. I was introduced to Ives’ Piano Trio two years ago, in May 2016, while I was working on my blog post about Mendelssohn’s Piano Trio No. 2. It’s part of the miracle of YouTube that, when you watch one video, links to other, related videos magically appear next to it. Both the Mendelssohn and Ives trios had been recorded by The Van Baerle Trio, and at some point, I clicked on the link to their performance of the Ives. Listening to the mournful opening duet between the cello and piano, I felt like I was listening to two unrelated pieces. The logic of the work eluded me, and one or two minutes into it, I decided that the Ives trio was not for me, and closed the video.

Isn’t that often the way with new music? We hear something new, and it doesn’t sound like anything we know and understand. In fact, it sounds very different. Our expectations are upset, and we may feel cheated, even angry. How much better – and wiser – would it be to acknowledge that the composer has understood something we do not, indeed, should not be expected to understand on first hearing.

What if we could learn to take a certain amount on faith – faith in the composer, in the performer, or in the music lover who introduced the piece to us. How much more music might wind up enriching our lives if we withheld judgment on it long enough to give it a second, or even a third hearing?

If, in short, we gave it a chance.

That is exactly how I came to love this trio. Such was my enthusiasm for The Van Baerle Trio (Hannes Minnaar – piano, Maria Milstein – violin, and Gideon den Herder – cello) and their performance of the Mendelssohn trio, that I recently decided to watch their video of the Ives trio again. I tried to listen with fresh ears, and to my delight, out of the apparent chaos of three seemingly unrelated voices there emerged the most glorious and uplifting music. I listened to it from beginning to end with tears streaming down my face, and realized at once that I had made a discovery of lasting importance.

It was a discovery I am eager to share with you, dear reader. I hope you too will give it a chance.

Our friends at Wikipedia have given us the following description of this remarkable work:

The Trio for Violin, Cello, and Piano is a work by the American composer Charles Ives. According to Charles Ives’ wife, the three movements of the piano trio are a reflection of Ives’ college days at Yale. He started writing the piece in 1904, 6 years after graduation, and completed it in 1911. It was written c. 1909–10 and significantly revised in 1914–15. The piano trio consists of three movements:

1. Moderato [0:00]
2. TSIAJ (“This scherzo is a joke”) Presto [4:50]
3. Moderato con moto [11:04]

The first movement is the same 27 measures repeated three times, though the violin is silent for the first, the cello for the second, and all three instruments join for the third. Though the separate duets seem full enough on their own, yet all together sound amazingly and uncharacteristically consonant.

The second movement, TSIAJ, employs polytonality, timbral contrast, and quotation for a downright humorous effect. Fragments of American folk songs are intertwined throughout the movement, although often grotesquely altered with respect to rhythm, pitch, and harmonic connotation. Folk songs appearing in the scherzo include “My Old Kentucky Home”, “Sailor’s Hornpipe”, “The Campbells Are Coming”, “Long, Long Ago”, “Hold the Fort”. and “There Is a Fountain Filled with Blood”, among many others… And although the composer himself acknowledged that the entire movement was a joke, it well characterizes the unique and novel musical world that only Ives had discovered.

The lyricism of the final movement of the piano trio contrasts strongly with the variegated montage of tunes in TSIAJ. Sweeping lyrical melodies alternate with lighter syncopated sections after the opening introduction and violin recitative. Nonetheless, Ives continues with his borrowing habits – quoting music that he had originally written for the Yale Glee Club (though it was rejected) in the lyrical violin-cello canon in bars 91–125. The coda quotes Thomas Hastings’ “Rock of Ages” in the cello, ending the movement with Ives’ characteristic rooting in American folk and popular music.

Prokofiev: Piano Sonata No. 7, Op. 83 Pianist – Glenn Gould

Sergei Prokofiev

In 1939, Prokofiev began work on his 6^th, 7^th, and 8^th piano sonatas, which would come to be known as his “War Sonatas” and which would turn out to be three of his best known and most important works for solo piano. He worked on them simultane­ously, setting one aside when inspiration flagged and turning to one of the others. The Sixth was completed in 1940 and the Seventh in ’42, and both were given their premiere by Sviatoslav Richter. The Eighth was finished in 1944, and was premiered by Emil Gilels.

The following description of the Seventh was written by Robert Cummings for allmusic.com.

This is the middle panel in Prokofiev’s grand trilogy of works called War Sonatas. It is the most popular of the three and, at about 16 or 17 minutes, the shortest as well. The first movement, marked Allegro inquieto, opens with a dark, menacing theme whose militaristic vehemence seizes the expressive reins at times with insistent bass chords that hammer out a crushing rhythm. The listener immediately senses a connection to war and struggle in this lively but conflicted opening. A lyrical second theme introduces gentler music, but does not break the dark mood. In the development section, a tense buildup constructed mainly on the first theme leads to a powerful climax, after which the music gradually becomes more tranquil, the second theme being reprised in a gloomy ethereality. A brief, rhythmic coda follows, its lively springiness seeming to sputter and stagger as it reaches the finish line.

The second movement is marked Andante caloroso and features a consoling main theme whose gently rocking lilt and overripe textures convey an almost decadent sense, as if its beauty is beginning to decay. Some listeners hear it as a kind of dark salon-like creation in its perfume-drenched melancholy and quasi-pop catchiness. The middle section turns intense and climaxes in a tolling-bell passage that eventually gives way to a reprise of the main theme.

The Precipitato finale is the most famous and dramatic movement of the three. Cast in an ABCBA structure, it opens with a driving main theme whose rhythmic jazzy elements convey a frenetic, fight-for-dear-life sense. The second theme maintains the perpetual-motion drive, but now the feeling of desperation takes on an insistent, if less harried manner, before yielding to the ensuing idea, which rises from the bass regions to turn almost subdued in the upper ranges. After the second theme reappears the main theme returns for a crashing, dissonant but ultimately triumphant conclusion in a blaze of dazzling virtuosic writing.

Glenn Gould (1932-1982) occupies a unique place in the annals of 20^th century pianism. His recorded legacy is enormous, and includes almost all of Bach’s solo keyboard works. His role in bringing them into the concert mainstream cannot be overstated.  His stage presence and mannerisms were off-putting, however, and his interpretations consistently outraged many listeners. Today, thirty-five years after his death, his name continues to spawn controversy. For many, Gould could do no wrong, while others – equally vocal – regularly castigate him for what they see as the unpardonable liberties he took with the printed score.

Gould himself articulated the philosophy behind his controversial interpretations as follows:

If there’s any excuse at all for making a record, it’s to do it differently, to approach the work from a totally re-creative point of view … to perform this particular work as it has never been heard before. And if one can’t do that, I would say, abandon it, forget about it, move on to something else.

It was not a philosophy that would endear him to everyone, but I think Gould makes a valid point. Why would you record Beethoven’s “Moonlight” sonata, for example, which has been recorded more often, perhaps, than any other sonata in the piano literature, if you have nothing new to say in it?

The Seventh was the first of Prokofiev’s sonatas that I came to know, thanks to a recording by Vladimir Horowitz that was one of my first records. Perhaps because I had heard it so often and knew it so well, my passion for it cooled over the years. When I inaugu­rated this blog, it was the Sixth and Eighth sonatas that I was eager to share, not the Seventh. It wasn’t until I discovered Gould’s performance, which was like none I had ever heard before, that my enthusiasm for this sonata was rekindled.

I think Gould would be gratified.