The Revolution is Definitely Going to Be Televised: Netflix, the Local Cineplex, and the Movie Year that Was

These are interesting days to be a film buff.

We're fortunate, I think, to be in the middle of a revolution these days of film and film production. There's a fight going on (whether you care or are aware of it or not) for not only the kind of movies that are being made today but also the manner in which films are being made, marketed, and released today.

Modern streaming services like Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime, et al. have changed the game in determining what movies we want presented to us, how we want to select our movies, and how we want to watch our movies. It is to stay at home these days--in the comfort and ease of our overstuffed chairs and couches, and our overstuffed surroundings, and our overstuffed sweatpants and pajamas, and our overstuffed flat-screen TVs in the corner of the room.

It is comfortable and easy these days to stay home and download a movie, or stream it, or simply "pirate it" (let's be honest). Going to the old-school trouble of actually getting dressed to step outside, and face the elements, and confront the crowds, and do the unthinkable of entering the age-old traditional movie-theater cineplex for something as old-fashioned crazy as "going to the movies" takes some revolutionary courage, itself, today. The playing field has evolved, and it is perhaps not what we knew when we were growing up.

All in an attempt to rebuff this growing competition, a pleasant outgrowth of this battle is the fact that it's never been more comfortable to go to the movie-theaters and to watch a movie. In many places, ticket prices have lowered to somewhat reasonable levels.

[Aside: It would be nice, now, if the movie-theaters' concessions stands would follow suit. I'm sort of tired of being gobsmacked by laying down a crisp $20 bill on the counter for a small Coke and a small popcorn and not receiving any change back. But I digress....]

Nowadays, a moviegoer is expected (and almost required) to visit the theater's online site first, buy tickets there, and reserve seats. Which means, of course, no more unnecessary standing in unnecessary lines. No more worrying about getting a good seat. No more worrying period, for that matter. It's easy. It's simple. It's guaranteed, every time.

And speaking of seats: Movie-theaters have gone the extra mile in completely restructuring and redesigning the whole idea of movie-theater seating. Nowadays, most up-to-date cineplexes come complete with oversized, soft-leather reclining seats, warming coils, blankets, and swivel trays for food and drink. And young theater-staff serve as waiters and waitresses now, bringing your concessions orders directly from the lobby to you, as you sit comfortably in the dark in your seat.

[Aside: But unfortunately you're still not getting back any change for your snacks.]

It is, admittedly, an elegant improvement. And if it's keeping movie-theaters alive in 2019--getting people to leave the comfort of home and the convenience of their Netflix subscription to face the weather, and the traffic, and the crowds, and the reality of traditional movie-viewing at these new, modernized movie-houses--then so be it. There is still (even in this jaded, uber-downloadable age of the late 2010s) something to be said, after all, for going to the movie-theater to see a movie. The smell of the popcorn that hits you at the front door, making your mouth water. The richness and the fullness of the sound system. The clarity and the crispness of the digital projection. The vastness of the big screen.

Going to the movies is still an event, just as it's always been. But now--with so many other streaming challengers vying for our time and attention (and, let's face it, the simplicity of just staying at home in our sweatpants and our pajamas and "ordering up" a movie online is hard to compete against; there's no getting around it)--movie theaters have a monumental task ahead of them if they're going to stay relevant and alive. Movie theaters have a mountain to climb, now, if they're going to hold on to their place as a cathedral, of sorts--a holy place, the grail castle, holding in our hearts the nostalgic, traditional memory of the place where we go, with strangers in a darkened room, to experience the experience of the movies.

But along with all of this, then, is another interesting wrinkle to the story. Streaming services (like, particularly, Netflix, again) have proven--at a remarkably fast pace--to be a formidable competitor. Not only did Netflix learn to play the game early on with movie theaters, but in recent years the company has grown into a powerful movie studio system in its own right. As a result, Netflix has changed not only the rules of the game but also the very layout of the playing field.

Netflix is not a joke, in other words. It really is here to stay, it would seem. And while it's here, it is determined to earn its share (and more) of movie audiences. And it's doing this by quickly expanding into the movie-production business. Of course, for many years now it has created its own original series, and specials, and shows, available only by subscription. But in no time at all (and I mean in what seems like a mere blink of an eye), Netflix Studios has moved into the world of financing, producing, and marketing a growing roll call of impressive, award-worthy motion pictures. Netflix has entered the ring with the big boys--United Artists, Paramount, Universal, et al.--and has established itself, quickly, as a powerhouse to be reckoned with.

Just for example, let's take a look back at 2018, when suddenly little Netflix was appearing on the radar with a list of serious films by serious filmmakers--films that were being endorsed by critics, embraced by audiences, and encouraged by Academy votes as awards season drew near. Top-shelf filmmakers--like brothers, Joel and Ethan Coen--released their 2018 Netflix film, The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, both on the streaming service and (concurrently) in a limited number of theaters for a limited theatrical run. Alfonso Cuaron repeated this double-release formula with his heralded 2018 film, Roma, which aired on Netflix while also playing a limited release in theaters throughout the country. Roma was not only my pick for the best film of 2018, but it topped "Best Of" lists of many critics and filmgoers of last year.

[Aside: Of course, it was not meant to be. The Hollywood powers that be--older, established, and unwilling to see this new kid on the block, Netflix, as anything but an interloper in the world of the old Hollywood ways of doing business--decried the nominations of Cuaron's film (though it deserved all the praise it received, in my opinion) and, as we may all remember, bestowed its highest award of Best Picture of the Year to the safe, comfortable, PC film, Green Book, released by (...wait for it...) Universal Pictures. The fallout of it all, however is: Roma is a film that is a genuine work of art and will last (although snubbed by the establishment because of the name Netflix in its credits); Green Book, on the other hand is...well...does anyone even remember it, one year later? Hello? Is this thing on?...]

And by way of a third example of Netflix's presence in the film industry in 2018, one need look no further than Tamara Jenkins' beautiful, sad, funny, and achingly honest feature, Private Life. It was one of the best films of 2018, but as it turns out--for some inexplicable reason--it just sort of lingered in the shadows and stayed there. Though it would eventually receive the same double-release treatment as Roma and The Ballad of Buster Scruggs--its brother and sister on Netflix--the cineplex release didn't happen immediately. And so, unfortunately and unfairly, Private Life failed to gain much notice when it came time, later in the year, for the major awards season. For whatever reason, Private Life did not get the attention it should have gotten--from the critics, from filmgoers, and even from yours truly.

[Aside: More on this topic below, in my lists, actually.]

Which brings us (finally) to this year's "Best Of" list of films, 2019. And a cursory glance at the studios that I've included for my picks will tell you immediately the lay of the land for the playing field these days. For example, the little studio, A24 (which has, over the past several years, been home to a number of high-quality, smaller, independent-style films) claims four films to its credit on my various lists below. The streaming service, Hulu, claims one. And the giant, Netflix, has emerged from the footlights this year to stand fully in the spotlight, center stage, with five of my favorite films of this year to its credit.

And it's not just me. One or two of these Netflix films are being embraced and lauded--nearly universally--as one or two of the finest films of the year. And with another awards season quickly approaching, the interloping new kid on the block may finally elbow its way this year all the way to the big stage, to claim what it deserves.

The old ways of Hollywood may be teetering on its pedestals. "The center cannot hold," T.S. Eliot warned. Statues may fall this year. (Or in the year to follow. Or the next year....) Or be pulled down.

The revolution is at hand. And these are interesting times to love the movies.

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LIST #3

Movies From 2019 I Still Haven't Seen Yet (To Date) That I'm Guessing Probably Would Have Made It Somewhere On My "End-of-Year Best-Of" List

(Had I Seen Them In Time)

1.) The Farewell -- (Director: Lulu Wang, Studio: A24)

Obviously--as the title of this list more than clearly spells out--I have not seen this film yet, although I want to. But from everything I've read about it, and from just the trailer alone, I can tell this is a fantastic film. And the emerging star of Awkwafina may be deservedly on the rise. Nominations are in order for her, from what I understand. And I hope that happens.


2.) A Hidden Life -- (Director: Terrence Malick, Studio: Fox Searchlight Pictures)

Love him as a philosophical film-poet, or dismiss him as a pretentious, bloated hack (and I am decidedly in the former camp), director Terrence Malick has made a handful of some of the finest modern American films that we have in the canon: Badlands (1973); Days of Heaven (1978); The Thin Red Line (1998); Tree of Life (2011). To put it simply, I would go see any film made by Malick. He is a treasure.


3.) The Lighthouse -- (Director: Robert Eggers, Studio: A24)

I admittedly don't know much about this film, other than that it stars Willem Dafoe, Robert Pattinson, and a seagull. I also know that the black-and-white cinematography by Jarin Blaschke is being praised. Oh...and the name Robert Eggers gets my attention, as well, as he helmed 2015's unsettlingly pleasant surprise, The Witch. Weirdness reigns amid the rocks and the waves, by all accounts. I can't wait.


4.) Little Women -- (Director: Greta Gerwig, Studio: Sony Pictures)

Former "mumblecore" leading lady and newly emerging director-par-excellence (her debut, 2017's Lady Bird, was the best movie of that year, in my opinion), Greta Gerwig is rising on the scene as a huge talent. Reuniting with her Lady Bird star, Saoirse Ronan, this new updating of Alcott's famous, beloved novel--in the hands of Gerwig--is getting some new life breathed into (c.a. the age of women's empowerment). It may be upsetting some devoted fans of the book, who view the written text as Gospel, clearly; but it seems the majority of audience members are pleased with this retelling. Two things are certain, regardless: Both Gerwig and Ronan have proven themselves great at their respective art. They work well together, too.


5.)  1917 -- (Director: Sam Mendes, Studio: Universal Pictures)

To date, this film hasn't even been released yet, but good Lord...the trailers. This thing looks good. This thing looks really good. And, supposedly, it has been filmed and cut to appear as if the entire film is all shot in one long take. Cinematic experimentalism on early-20th century battlefields, all in the capable hands of Sam Mendes. I look forward to seeing it.


6.) Uncut Gems -- (Directors: Josh Safdie and Bennie Safdie, Studio: A24)

I think I know even less about this film, really, than any of the others, except for the fact that it's getting some explosively good initial reviews--particularly Sandler's dramatic performance as a jeweler/gambler gone bad. Sandler has been on the skids, career-wise, for a while now. But I've always found him particularly interesting when he ventures into dramatic territory. His nervous, angsty, angry shtick works really well in the handful of dramas that he's been in. He's got the goods. I'd like to see this, if for no other reason than to watch Sandler's performance.

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LIST #2

2019 Honorable Mentions *

1.)  Catch-22 -- (Directors: George Clooney, Grant Heslov, and Ellen Kuras, Studio: Hulu)

So, my various lists here are going to start getting a little more interesting, with more of the entries reflecting some of the "revolutionary" aspects I alluded to above. And here is a perfect example to begin with: This year, the streaming service, Hulu, released a new 6-part adaptation of Joseph Heller's classic 1961 anti-war satire. Previously, the book had been interpreted for the big screen in 1970 by the young Broadway/Hollywood phenom-director, Mike Nichols, whose incredible one-two punch of 1966's classic film version of Edward Albee's, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, was followed one year later by the classic anthem of disaffected youth, The Graduate. Nichols' Catch-22 is a fine film...but it's not great. It's certainly not without its problems. And the largest problem with it is that the bulk of Heller's book is either rewritten, reshaped, truncated, or trimmed away entirely to fit Paramount's carefully budgeted 2-hour time frame. And the problem with that is you can't honestly (not to mention accurately) tell Heller's story in a 2-hour movie. So this is where the magic of streaming services like Hulu can pick up the slack and present a long-form serialized motion picture--like this one. Does this movie work? Yes...for the most part. It is not perfect. It has some problems still. But it is at least the closest thing to Heller's original, intended tone and vision that we've been allowed to see so far on the screen--large or small. Does a film like this (serialized, not released in the cineplexes but instead only streamed on a subscription service at home) belong in any discussion of "End-of-Year-Best-Of" lists. To quote Dylan, here: "The times, they are a'changin'." And I think in 2019 the answer to that question has to be, unequivocally, "Yes."


2.) Private Life -- (Director: Tamara Jenkins, Studio: Netflix, 2018) *

Okay... I know. I know. I realize I'm not far into all this official listing business, and I've already cheated. I've already had to insert an asterisk. (I've already fucked things up; let's say it like it is.) But still... I feel compelled to include this film on my list of favorite movies that I watched this year--or at least an Honorable Mention, for God's sake--because even though it was released last year (literally, January, 2018), I did not get around to discovering this gem until this year, basically a year after its release. Let me be very honest: This is a wonderful movie; and had I been aware of it last year (I take total blame for this, for whatever reason), I would have included it on my list of favorite movies of 2018--alongside Netflix's Roma and The Ballad of Buster Scruggs (interestingly enough). But I didn't see it last year; I only saw it later--this year. And so, technically, it's one of the best movies I saw this year, 2019, even though it was released last year, and this little movie deserves an Honorable Mention mention, if nothing else. (And if that rationale sounds irrational and like I'm trying too hard to include a movie on a list simply because I want to include it, even though it doesn't belong and invalidates the whole notion of list-making...well...then, touche', I guess. I don't care: It's my list; I can do whatever the hell I want.)


3.) Rocketman -- (Director: Dexter Fletcher, Studio: Paramount Pictures)

I heard the question asked: "Did we really need another biopic about a gay British rockstar, following last year's hugely popular biopic on Freddie Mercury, Bohemian Rhapsody?" Well, the answer this year was, "Sure. Why not?" Fletcher's take on the material, here, was interesting and came at me a little unexpected: I wasn't sure, at first, what everyone was doing during the opening musical numbers--singing and dancing, as if it were an old-fashioned movie musical. (Until the obvious occurred to me: That's exactly what was going on.) How clever to bring that approach to the life of Elton John and to the material of his songs. The movie worked.


4.) Tell Me Who I Am -- (Director: Ed Perkins, Studio: Netflix)

This movie took my breath away. I was not expecting this when I started it. I didn't cheat and go online beforehand to look up spoilers. I simply watched the trailer for this documentary film on Netflix, and I saw the critical praise the film had garnered, and I decided to hit PLAY. And I couldn't take my eyes off it. And afterwards, I had to watch it again. And then I couldn't stop thinking about it--the ethical dilemma and argument that resides at the core of this story. The real-life drama that unfolds as two twin brothers confront each other, across a table, after years of silence and separation, and get down to truths and revelations about their family... The greatest playwrights living would not be able to script a better work of fiction than this true story, told minimally and effectively. A very powerful nonfiction film from Netflix.


5.) Us -- (Director: Jordan Peele,  Studio: Universal Pictures)

While I thought that Jordan Peele's 2017 directorial debut, Get Out, was a good film--well made and entertaining--I honestly felt it was overrated, too. I didn't think it was a bad movie, but I didn't think it was as great as everyone else seemed to think it was. And so this year, when Peele's follow-up came out, Us, I figured it might be the same kind of thing: An entertaining and well-made film, but nothing great. But I was wrong. Us is a much better film than its predecessor, I feel. There is a lot going on here. And after seeing it at a local cineplex with my two older-teen daughters, the drive home that night after the show was given over to discussing, and dissecting, and debating what we had just seen. (Not a bad way to spend an evening with my daughters....)


6.) When They See Us -- (Director: Ava DuVernay, Studio: Netflix)

Another instance of a streaming service getting it right. When it comes to trying to tell an intricate story in a thorough, artistic, and emotionally satisfying way, this is how it's done. Like Hulu demonstrated earlier in the year with its long-form treatment of Catch-22, Netflix responded in kind with an amazingly powerful long-form telling of the infamous Central Park Five case of 1989. This movie hit audiences right in the gut, and it did not stop throughout the length of its four serialized chapters. It was a weakening experience watching this film. It  hurt, emotionally. It gripped you, and it didn't let go. When They See Us is a perfect argument, in fact, for why the revolution in the film industry is happening and should be happening. This is what streaming services can do better than the old-fashioned Hollywood/feature-film system. This is a beautiful movie that could not have been told any better any other way.

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LIST #1

My Top 10 Films of 2019 

10.) Booksmart -- (Director: Olivia Wilde, Studio: United Artists)



Like the second half of its title implies, the emphasis here is on "smart." The script of Booksmart is alive with intelligence and a caustic, raunchy, bold sense of humor. This is the kind of young-teen post-adolescence-on-the-cusp-of-adulthood sort of film that generally features young men in the leads. (American Graffiti. Diner. Superbad. I could go on...) In fact, it isn't too difficult to imagine a stereotypical film-pitch in some Hollywood producer's office, beginning, "Imagine Superbad. But with girls." And while that comparison is apt, and not really an insult, Booksmart is so much more than just "Superbad with girls." It is so much better than just that three-word encapsulation implies. At its heart, Beanie Feldstein and Kaitlyn Dever form an inseparable pair of irrepressibly lovable loners--two misfit young women, best friends since the playground, celebrating their last night together, and their first night ever of planned debauchery, before graduating from high school and going their separate ways. No, it's not a particularly original conceit, and it's not meant to be. That's part of the joy of it, actually. The familiar journey that the two girls go on over the course of one long night is a classic set-up that we've seen played out before...yes... But never quite like this. And it's a delightful breath of fresh air. It's a little bit trashy. It's a little bit raunchy. It's funny. It's silly. It's honest. It's moving. I really enjoyed it.


 9.) Joker -- (Director: Todd Phillips, Studio: Warner Bros. Pictures)

This movie impressed me. Despite the fallout from negative criticism and controversies surrounding the movie's release (its purported careless disregard for on-screen violence; its supposed misrepresentation of mental illness; its accused pandering to cliches' and tropes from a handful of Martin Scorcese's early existential masterpieces), Phillips' film knocked my legs out from under me. It's a serious film that takes its subject matter, its genre, and its iconic anti-hero protagonist seriously. And Joaquin Phoenix's performance?... Well, this will be considered sacrilege by many avid contemporary filmgoers and film buffs, but for years now--since Christopher Nolan's 2008, The Dark Knight--Heath Ledger's mesmerizing performance of The Joker (his last role, as it turned out) has been considered the career-defining performance, the golden ring, the standard-bearer. In my opinion, though, Phoenix overshadows Ledger's performance. He outdoes him. This is jawdropping method-acting going on in this movie. Joaquin Phoenix deserves recognition for what he's done here.

 8.) A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood -- (Director: Marielle Heller, Studio: Sony Pictures)



In the spirit of full disclosure: I was actually a little reluctant to go see this movie, at first. I was a big fan of Morgan Neville's 2018 documentary film, Won't You Be My Neighbor? In fact, that film appeared on my "Best Of" list last year. Similarly, Gavin Edwards' 2019 book, Kindness and Wonder: Why Mr. Rogers Matters Now More Than Ever, appeared on a recent list of mine, as I tallied some of my favorite reads of the past year. Let's face it: In an irony that even he could not have foreseen, it is "hip" these days to jump on the Mr. Rogers fan-bus. And I'm actually all-in on that. I get it. When I was sitting in the theater last year, watching Neville's documentary, I am not too proud to admit that, sitting there in the dark with a room full of strangers (as is the custom when venturing forth to watch a movie the old-fashioned way), I found myself crying more than once. A knot in the back of the throat. A tightening of air passages. Eyes filling with tears. And crying. More than once. And I wondered about that: Why? What about this man, Fred Rogers, has the power today to elicit--from a grown man, like myself--such emotions coming out of nowhere? Am I depressed? Am I sad? Is it the times that we live in--so disruptive, so divided, so acidic, so knee-jerk volatile, and so angry? Everything about this gentle, kind man represents the exact opposite of all of that, and I think Neville's 2018 documentary film--as does Heller's 2019 feature film, here-- captures the spirit and the soul of Fred Rogers so perfectly. He is an antidote for our times. He, and everything that he was and that he still represents, is what we are missing today, and maybe what we need. And, so, yes, I did go see Heller's movie (as I knew I would all along). And, yes, Tom Hanks is his usual brilliant self. But so much more than that, even, it's the film's script, and the rest of the cast, and the direction, and the art design, and the spirit of Fred Rogers running through every frame of the movie. It's all rather lovely and...well...beautiful.

 7.) Jojo Rabbit -- (Director: Taika Waititi, Studio: Fox Searchlight Pictures)

I guess in a roundabout way you could say this movie is the best thing to come out of Disney's subsidiary, Marvel Studios, in all of 2019. [Aside: I'm not kidding.] For what do you do after making a truckload of money, directing 2017's Thor: Ragnarok? Well, for starters--if you're Taika Waititi--you take the helm of a little dream-project inspired by Christine Leunen's international bestselling novel, Caging Skies, which tells the story of a young boy, Johannes Betzler, a member of the Hitler Youth, growing up in Nazi-controlled Vienna during W.W.II as a lonely, sensitive, imaginative, and compassionate little boy who has, as his imaginary friend, none other than Adolf Hitler. [Aside: And it's right about here where I usually lose people when trying to explain the premise of this film.] How, you might ask, does Waititi take this outrageous (and possibly even offensive) concept and turn it into one of the brightest, funniest, deepest, saddest, liveliest, most run-out-of-the-theater-afterwards-and-tell-all-your-friends-to-go-see-it movies of the year? Well...he does it. Channeling the likes of auteur filmmaker, Wes Anderson, Waititi brings just the right touch to his material, letting this gentle little fable unfold to share its message of love and understanding and acceptance. And by the time we, along with little Jojo, discover the tough and tender Jewish girl that his mother is hiding in their house, there is no turning away from this film. It's extraordinary. Jojo Rabbit is one of the great surprises for me this year. A great little film.

 6.) Midsommar -- (Director: Ari Aster, Studio: A24)

More than any movie on my list (for whatever this may or may not say about me), Aster's movie lingered in the back of my mind long after I finished watching it--replaying scenes, images, and ideas over, and over, and over. This movie haunted me, disturbed me, intrigued me, fascinated me, and finally convinced me that it is, in fact, a great movie. Of course, as soon as a filmmaker/artist comes along and tries to do something startling and fresh, the negative appraisals and accusations are quick to surface, claiming that actually Midsommar was just a crude and easily apparent "lifting" of Robin Hardy's creepy 1973 cult-classic, Wicker Man. But that's not true. And it's selling both movies too short, I think. Yes, are there some motifs and tones and themes from Hardy's film that reappear in Aster's story? Of course. Such criticisms mean nothing to me, though, since they seem to act as if art (any art) exists in a vacuum somehow, oblivious to the inspirations and the influences of all the art that has come before. That's the way it has always worked--whether you want to call it inspiration or homage or "lifting. [Aside: Go back and read Professor Harold Bloom's seminal 1973 critical work, The Anxiety of Influence, if you want to understand how this works in literature, storytelling, etc. It's hardly anything new. In the meantime, give Aster his due: He is the real deal. He knows what he's doing, and what he's doing is something very interesting and exciting.] While 2018's Hereditary got attention and praise, my initial viewing told me that it was somehow overrated. After watching this year's Midsommar, however, I see that he's building on something. There are echoes within his work. He's really trying to do something as an artist; I look forward to seeing where he goes next. (I may have to turn my head on occasion, not wanting to see what he's showing me. But that's okay. I'll go along with him where he leads. I trust him.... I think.)

5.) Knives Out -- (Director: Rian Johnson, Studio: Lionsgate)

Wunderkind writer/director, Rian Johnson, had a rough 2017. After weathering the storm of online critical backlash from some overly zealous and unimaginative cult-like Star Wars "fans," Johnson--whose eighth chapter in that saga, the much unfairly maligned, The Last Jedi--decided to quickly regroup, circle the wagons, and raise a filmic middle-finger to all of his unappreciative naysayers. [Aside: For the record--and this is coming from an admitted lifelong Star Wars fan--I loved his contribution to the Star Wars canon. Johnson's 2017, The Last Jedi, is fresh, and daring, and fun. I think it's a very good movie, and I actually feel kind of bad for him, having to put up with so much whining and crying from supposed "fans" who supposedly didn't get what they supposedly wanted. But I digress....] His latest film, Knives Out--fresh on the heels of all the heaped abuse--is about as much fun as anything you were likely to see at the movies this past year. As he is seemingly wont to do, Johnson turns his attention to yet another genre and does his usual tinkering and deconstructing-reconstructing. And what you have, then, is a modernized Agatha Christie-style murder-mystery, the likes of which you've never quite seen. There is just enough post-modern edginess to keep the whole thing kind of hipsterish and cool, but it's mainly a blast from the past (not to mention a blast at his childish critics who don't seem to "get" him). Johnson is the real deal, though. This movie put a smile on my face for its whole running time. 

 4.) Once Upon a Time in ... Hollywood -- (Director: Quentin Tarantino, Studio: Sony Pictures)

Like an old, champion prizefighter, Quentin Tarantino (with his ninth feature film credited to his resume',) still has the moves. And when he wants to, he can still come into the ring (and his "ring," here, is not so much a genre as it is a film-storytelling style that he very nearly created single-handedly back in the early-1990s), maybe a little older, maybe not quite as in-shape as he used to be, maybe a little slower, maybe a little more methodical in his game-plan. But when he decides to put it all together and to get into his new-found rhythm, like that metaphorical old boxer, Tarantino can still swing with the best of them and can still prove that he's the undisputed champ. Simply put: Nobody does what Quentin Tarantino does better than Quentin Tarantino. And he does it all again flawlessly, here. He has maybe faltered a time or two in his career. (His previous directorial outing, for example, 2015's The Hateful Eight, had all the usual pieces in place--it looked and sounded and felt like a Tarantino film--but, God help me, the movie felt like a mess and a bit of a slog to sit through.) With this outing, though, Tarantino again finds his stride. And as he does so often and so well, he is begging, borrowing, and stealing from every one of his cherished memories as a lifelong lover of the movies. His title, here--borrowed from Italian director, Sergio Leone, who enjoyed reusing the phrase for his own movies (Once Upon a Time in the West, and Once Upon a Time in America, et al.)--is a definitive nod to film geeks everywhere. But Tarantino's title serves another purpose, too. He's reminding us that he, just as he's always been, is in the business and the art of telling stories. And his story this time is about those who are also, like him, in the business and the art of telling stories. And like all the old, traditional stories that begin with the phrase, "Once upon a time..." and end with the closing coda, "...and they all lived happily ever after," Tarantino is going to deconstruct this narrative pattern in his usual premeditated, post-modern way. For in this film, as the title tells us, Tarantino sets the scene in Hollywood, a veritable land of make-believe, where anything can happen, and usually does. And in this particular story--as in all the great stories of old--truth is malleable. It can be reshaped and reformed to fit whatever fictional reality the storyteller wants. And we've seen him do this before, as a filmmaker. (I'm thinking particularly of 2009's great, Inglorious Basterds, where Tarantino had Adolf Hitler and the Nazis get their fitting comeuppance in a fiery blaze of ingloriousness.) Because in this world of make-believe, after all, anything can happen. Facts can be altered. History can be rewritten. Good people don't have to die senselessly and brutally at the hands of crazed, drugged-out followers of Charles Manson. The good guys can win, after all. And the dead don't have to die. They can be brought back to life. And they can, as the saying goes, all live happily ever after....

 3.) Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker -- (Director: J.J. Abrams, Studio: Disney)

What is there left to say about Star Wars? For the past 42 years, I have followed along with these characters and this storyline (as admittedly clunky and convoluted as it has gotten at times) with the same devotion of that wide-eyed 10 year-old boy who first sat in his seat in a darkened movie-theater way back in May of 1977 and fell in love with George Lucas' imagined universe. Whether they are good movies or bad movies, whether they make sense or they don't make sense, whether they are deemed to be too slavishly devoted to the tried-and-true formula that has worked before or are deemed to be too daring, and different, and disrespectful of the audience's wants and needs, none of that talk matters to me. My rational mind as one who obviously likes to study film, analyze film, and "talk film" admittedly gets put on the shelf when it comes to something like Star Wars. I love it. And I always have. I don't care about all the incessant online chatter and banter. There's no end to it. There's no outcome that could make everyone happy. There is no way that Abrams' film could possibly be all things to all people. The film-saga's worldwide legion of fans is made up of many particular mindsets, and there is no way that this, the supposed final chapter in the Skywalker saga, was going to wrap everything up nice and neat for everyone, answering all questions, and resolving everything in a way that would satisfy all fans everywhere. That was an impossibility. But, all that being said, I think Abrams has done a rather remarkable and admirable job. I don't care about all the naysayers. I don't care about all the negative hype, all the cool, uber-ironic, hipsterish hate being dished out on something as "old" and "outdated" and "so totes '70s" as Star Wars. [Aside: "Okay boomer." Really? Give me a fucking break. And while you're at it, learn how to actually have a logical discussion and discourse. And take your airpods out of your ears, and get your phone out of your hands, and look me in the eyes, and speak intelligibly, and pull up your goddamned pants. THEN we can talk about your thoughts and opinions. Maybe.] Is this a perfect film? No. Does it have its share of flaws? Yes. Is it silly, and goofy, and irrational? Yes. (And in so saying, I have just neatly summarized every Star Wars film ever made.) But did I have a good time watching it? Yes. Did it thrill me, make me laugh, move me, and recapture for me that elusive sense of childlike wonder and fun that I first felt when I was that 10 year-old boy? Absolutely yes...to all of it. I got the lumps in the back of the throat. The tears stinging the eyes, on several occasions throughout. I had "all the feels" while watching The Rise of Skywalker, to be sure. Totes. The movie played me, just as surely as John Williams' familiar opening crash of chords played, once again, over the loud Surround Sound speakers in the cineplex. And I loved it. Abrams' film is a great ending to it all, I think. So there.

 2.) The Irishman -- (Director: Martin Scorcese, Studio: Netflix)

Recently, I revisited the Art Institute of Chicago, strolling through its familiar marbled halls. My favorite area of the museum would have to be its Impressionism wing. And some of the artists I am always most drawn to are deservedly famous names of 19th century (usually French or Dutch) Impressionism--artists such as Gustave Caillebotte, Edgar Degas, Vincent Van Gogh, and Claude Monet. Particularly with the museum's rather comprehensive collection of Monet's paintings--his various series of the Houses of Parliament, shimmering in a gauzy haze across the Thames; his ponds; his lily-pads; his gardens; his haystacks--it is surprisingly thrilling to slowly walk along, looking at each of his canvases, so many times the same subject, the same view, a similar composition, a similar take on what (at just a casual, passing glance) appears to be the same painting painted over and over and over. But of course to a careful eye you see what Monet was really trying to do with his repetition, with his repainted scenes of haystacks--some of them in the bright sunlight and blue sky, some of them at dusk with a pink and violet tinge, some of them capped with snow, some of them bare in the broiling summer sun. Monet was not out of ideas; he was simply exploring the theme of the passage of time on his chosen set of beloved subjects. He observed the changing seasons. He observed how the seconds, minutes, and hours moved. The way the light changes. The way shadows appear and stretch themselves across the ground. The same subject--looked at from different angles, at different times, and in different ways--could appear as a different subject every time.This is what the great artists do. And this is what Martin Scorcese has done--one more time--with his latest film, The Irishman, the "inspired-by-true-events" life story of a life in the mob; told as only he can tell it; told as he has told it many times before...but different. Studying the light. Studying the change of seasons. Studying the passage of time. It almost seems beside the point to say that the cast for this thing is impeccable. Once again, he is joined by his two favorite muses, the actors Robert De Niro and Joe Pesci. Between just Scorcese and De Niro, alone, the two of them have created some of the greatest film-art of our time: Mean Streets; Taxi Driver; Raging Bull; Goodfellas.... Do I need to go on? When Pesci joined them in 1980 for Raging Bull, what Scorcese managed to tap into--an improvisational feel of the on-screen relationship between his two actors--is the kind of gold that you can really only be lucky at striking once. But then the three of them struck it again together in 1990's Goodfellas. And then again, five years later, in Casino. And now, fast-forward 24 years, to 2019's The Irishman. [Aside: And to think that I haven't even mentioned Al Pacino's name yet, playing (to the hilt) Teamsters leader, Jimmy Hoffa. This should tell you what kind of movie this is when I "bury the lead" like that, finally getting around to mentioning an actor of Pacino's caliber with just a few sentences left of my review. This thing is a work of art, after all.] The feeling I had while watching this late-career masterpiece from Scorcese (another Netflix production, by the way), was that I was watching a genuine artist at work--a group of them, actually, comfortable with one another, familiar with one another, familiar with this story, and these characters, and this subject. But it's not, finally, about the repetition of the subject. It's about the changing of the seasons. And the passage of time. And the way the light moves.

 1.) Marriage Story -- (Director: Noah Baumbach, Studio: Netflix)

Which brings me, at long last, to my pick for what I think, finally, is the best movie of 2019. Yet another Netflix production from this past year, this movie is undeniably incredible. It left me speechless when I watched it. And I don't even really want to talk about it here, strangely enough (particularly after I have devoted so much time and space to doing nothing but talking about film, ad nauseum, perhaps). I simply want people to watch this movie. Whatever way you can--whether that is through streaming, on Netflix, in the comfort of your home, or in the movie-theater, at your local cineplex, Whatever. Just find it, and watch it. And maybe you're single. And maybe you're dating or in a relationship with a significant other. And maybe you're married--maybe only just recently married or maybe getting ready to celebrate 30+ years together. And maybe you're divorced. I don't know. I don't want to say that someone who isn't married couldn't understand, or appreciate, or like this film; just as I don't want to say that someone who has never gone through the agonies of divorce couldn't understand, or appreciate, or like this film. But...if you are married, you will certainly "get" this movie in particular ways, as opposed to someone watching it who has never been married. Similarly, if you are divorced, you will most definitely experience the depths of this film in a way that a viewer who is not divorced will not be able to fully understand. That's just the way it is. As someone who has experienced both marriage and divorce, I can say only this: In all my years of watching film and of loving movies, I cannot recall a more devastatingly honest depiction of it all. What Baumbach has accomplished here, with the acting chops of his two leads, Scarlett Johansson and Adam Driver (both of whom have never been better on film and who both, deservedly, are being talked about for awards this year), is nothing short of amazing. It's so good, and so powerful, and so affecting, and funny, and sad, and moving, and ultimately hopeful (I think), that all I want to do is encourage you to watch it. During these revolutionary times of ours, do it now. On Netflix. Or in the cineplex. Take your pick.

Mirrors and Windows: Notes from a Reader at the Close of a Decade

"HAMLET: Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature: for any thing so o'erdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold as 'twere the mirror up to nature: to show virtue her feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure."

       -- William Shakespeare, Hamlet: Act III, scene 2, 17-24

"Shakespeare said that art is a mirror held up to nature. And that's what it is. The nature is your nature, and all of these wonderful poetic images [of literature] are referring to something in you. When your mind is trapped by the image out there so that you never make the reference to yourself, you have misread the image."

       -- Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth

"Books exist for their readers as mirrors and windows.... [Readers] need to see themselves reflected [in the books they read]. But books can also be windows. And so you can look through and see other worlds and see how they match up or don't match up to your own."

       --Rudine Sims Bishop

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There is admittedly a lot of weight and ceremony in the sentiments expressed above regarding something as seemingly simple as the act of reading. And yet, as anyone who loves books and who loves to read could tell you, there is nothing "simple" about reading at all.

Below, then, is a list of some of what I spent my time reading this past calendar year. Some of these are old (one in particular is very old--so old, scholars aren't even particularly sure when it was "published"), while some are very new. Some are works of fiction, and some are works of nonfiction. And there is even some poetry thrown in for good measure. Regardless, in my opinion, these are the best pages I turned in 2019.

[Aside: And just to be clear, when I say "pages," I still mean that term in a literal sense. "Pages" in the physical, tangible meaning of the word--hands around binding, fingers touching paper. That sort of thing. God help me, I still can't fully get with the times, it seems, and relearn to "read" in the technologically new way. And I'm okay with that.]

I have obviously adopted the time-worn structure of a "year-end list" sort of thing, but it will also quickly be obvious that I couldn't and didn't want to limit my list to an equally time-worn and totally arbitrary structure of 10 items. Consider the following a bakers-dozen sort of approach, I guess (or something like that). Also, it should be mentioned, that in some instances the books may appear in a preferential order, and in some instances they may not. I find that kind of thing completely arbitrary, as well (maybe even more so than the insistent pressure to limit my choices to the blessed number of 10, again). At times, such a best-of list can be limiting and just more than a little "apples-and-orangey."

[Aside: I mean, after all, how am I supposed to say which I enjoyed more between Marcus Aurelius' ancient template of the philosophical/self-help genre, Meditations, and Chuck Wendig's uber-21st century take on the work of early-Stephen King/The Walking Dead/end-of-the-world sort of stuff, with his novel, Wanderers? Seriously? Is one "better" than the other? Is one "more important" than the other? Was my time more worthily spent turning the pages of one, as opposed to the other? I don't know. Nor do I really care. All I really know is that--as an example, anyway--these two completely disparate books kept my attention this past year...even long after I turned their last pages. I thought about the books. I deliberated over them. I wrestled with them. I remembered them. I saw them as both the proverbial mirrors and windows that all great writing is and has always been, ever since the art of writing was first created. And the same can be said (each with their own rationale and reasons) for all of the books below.]

If they are, indeed, windows, then what do the following books (new and old) look out upon, with this world of ours existing beyond their pages? What kind of world have we created for ourselves at the close of this second millennial decade? And what can we see of that world when we turn these pages?

And if, in fact, books are also mirrors, then what do my favored choices of reading material this past year say about me? When I hold these books up, I look at them, to be sure. And into them. But all the while I allow them to also look back at me and into me. What is it these books see? If they could talk to me (and make no mistake: books can talk, as anyone who's conversed with one can tell you...don't kid yourself), what is it that these books would say about me?

____________________

14.) Paul Simon: The Life -- by Robert Hilburn (2018)

Paul Simon is (inarguably, in my opinion) one of the handful of great American songwriters/singers/poets of the 20th century. And the fact that he allowed Robert Hilburn supposed unprecedented access to his notoriously secretive and carefully formulated life could be a sign that Simon is in that late phase of his life, as a creative genius, when he is willing to take a "big-picture" sort of look back at his life--warts and all. A couple of takeaways from this book, though: 1.) Though I admire both Paul Simon and Bob Dylan (two artists whose careers seem, for very good reasons, to be intertwined, in some ways), Simon has always been relegated to exist in Dylan's shadow, as it were, viewed as the lesser, more pop-oriented, artist of the two. Maybe that label is warranted, and maybe it's not. But one thing that comes through very clearly to me in Hilburn's book is that while both artists (Simon and Dylan, respectively) both enjoyed extraordinary early years--producing one classic song/poem after the next--followed by similarly uneven and somewhat unbalanced middle years, at times, and then late-career stages involving "classic" albums from both of them in their own right (Dylan with his 1997 release, Time Out of Mind, and Simon with his undisputed masterpiece, Graceland, in 1986), in my opinion--and in the picture that Hilburn paints of his subject's creative output from Graceland on--it is Simon who has produced seminal works of continued and progressive creativity and originality in the late-stage of his career, while Dylan (again, solely my opinion) has not produced anything since his late masterpiece in 1997 that could be seen to hold a candle to Simon's late output. And 2.) While, yes, this is Simon's take on his life, as filtered through Hilburn--and while, as always, this means that said things must be taken with the proverbial grain of salt--the picture one gets of Art Garfunkel (from Simon's admittedly biased viewpoint over the years) is one of bemused tolerance--the same way one might feel toward a beloved brother that simply grows weirder, and more distant, and more intolerable as the years go on. Garfunkel, though undeniably blessed with one of the greatest male voices in pop music history, comes across in this biography (fairly or unfairly) as a small-minded, childish, petty asshole. All told, the truth of the two's fractious relationship is probably somewhere in between.


13.) Becoming Dr. Seuss: Theodor Geisel and the Making of an American Imagination -- by Brian Jay Jones (2019)

Over the past decade, or thereabouts, biographer, Brian Jay Jones, has quietly fashioned for himself a little niche in which he has chosen to explore the lives of American artists who exist in the public's collective consciousness as iconic outliers, almost--revolutionary geniuses in their own right who (each for their own reasons and creative impulses) found themselves on the fringes of American creative society, while all the while rewriting, remaking, reordering, and restructuring the prescribed model and mold of what could, possibly, be considered "great" popular art. His list of previous biographies include such titles as: Washington Irving: An American Original (2008); Jim Henson: The Biography (2013); and George Lucas: A Life (2016). Do you see a pattern here, or is it just me? And now, with this year's release of his biography on the inimitable Theodor Geisel (a.k.a. "Dr. Seuss"), Jones continues in the specific genre that he currently excels at. This is an interesting look at a writer we think we all know, simply because we grew up with him (and his characters, and his verses). But, as it turns out (of course), there is much more to the story than what we think we know...as is almost always the case. It's a fascinating book. (And, as someone who likes to write, himself, I am continually amazed at how Jones makes all of this biographical work appear so easy--the research, the interviews, the digging through old photos, and letters, and manuscripts, and memories, all to be followed, finally, with the outlining of the material, and the act of--at long last--writing it all down in some sensible form. It's not easy. And he's a modern master at it.)


12.)  White -- by Bret Easton Ellis (2019)

Anyone who came of age in the 1980s (as I did) and who was an early bibliophile--bothering to pay attention to such things as books and writers and such (as I did)--certainly knew of Bret Easton Ellis, whether or not you had actually read any of his work. Ellis, the young American writer-phenom, exploded on the literary scene in 1985--at only 21 years old--with his legendary debut novel, Less Than Zero. He followed this with his sophomore effort two years later, The Rules of Attraction, and then followed that, in turn, with his third and most infamous novel--1991's grossly misread and misunderstood, American Psycho. (And about that third novel, let me briefly say only this: If it is possible to forget the movie adaptation and--yes, I'm not kidding--the stage-musical adaptation of Ellis' darkly hilarious and densely disturbing satire of New York City, and Wall Street, and Reagan-era America, and the empty, soulless, narcissistic, sociopathic state of the then-fashionable yuppie movement among the stereotypical "young American" scene, then what you have in this third novel from an undeniably huge talent is, in my opinion, one of the greatest sustained social satires--with its voice, its tone, its subject matter, its style--of late-20th century American literature. I'm serious; I think it's a brilliant novel. But anyway...) Be that as it may, though--in a water-under-the-bridge sort of way--that is all in the somewhat foggy past now, as if Ellis' meteoric appearance in the literary sky maybe never happened. Rather unsurprisingly, I guess, it would be his third novel which would unceremoniously bury him as a young writer-on-the-rise. And though Ellis has continued to write and to publish--fiction, nonfiction--while also these days hosting his own podcast, he has settled for a long time into his middle-age writerdom as a writer without a bestselling novel to his name. With this, then, his latest book--a collection of nonfiction pieces (part autobiography, part social-political commentary)--Ellis resurfaces as a writer and thinker who has lost none of his original fire and urge to--quite blatantly--piss people off. Though he is polarizing (and almost blissfully so) in his opinions and thoughts here, he is also--dare I say it--often right on the mark (maybe even more than my liberal-minded leanings would care to admit). This book will make you laugh. It will make you angry. It will make you roll your eyes, and sigh, and want to hurl the book across the room at times. It will make you nod your head, "yes," and/or shake your head, "no." And it will make you want to call up a friend or family  member--regardless of political leanings--and read whole passages/pages aloud. It is a book that will make you think, in other words. And there's never been anything wrong with that. (And maybe today, particularly, more than ever.)


11.) The Closing of the American Mind -- by Allan Bloom (1987)

Almost a perfect companion-piece in many ways to Bret Easton Ellis' 2019 book, White (see above), Professor Allan Bloom's 1987 social-political treatise burst on the book world as a publishing anomaly. Here, after all, was an academic book, written by an aging academic (then a highly respected political-science professor at University of Chicago), about an academic topic--what was, at that time, seen as an encroaching "danger" of America's losing its footing in the world. The crisis at hand, according to Bloom in 1987, was not only an encroaching crisis of America's losing its place as a world leader in the realms of economics, and military might, and moral and ethical certitude (gravitational centers that have always held the United States together and kept it...well...united). What Bloom more importantly saw on the horizon back in '87 was a danger even more concerning: an intellectual crisis, the likes of which our society had never seen. The old ways were being called into question, with the advent of a social climate of a (then) new "political correctness"--all in thought, word, and deed. And while many of the changing social norms were timely and welcome, many of the old American standards--including standards of academic excellence--were already beginning to show signs of slipping and eroding. Bloom saw it then, and he called out the questions: What happens, after all, to a culture that loses its core values in the areas of intellectual curiosity, its desire for excellence, and its standards of achievement? What happens to a culture that becomes acclimated and comfortable with mediocrity? And the answers to his questions are...well, like it or not, they are commonplace these days. We're seeing his theories manifested today. To his credit, he recognized the signs back in 1987, and we're realizing the results played out in American society, 2019.

[Aside: A bit of transparency regarding this book: I was in college when it was first published. I was doing my undergraduate work at the time, studying English Education at my alma mater, Fort Hays State University, in Hays, Kansas. I fashioned myself a young academic, to be sure; I considered myself fairly well-read, fairly insightful, and fairly intelligent. I remember reading about Bloom's book and hearing about its (then) controversial ideas. And I bought the book, way back when, putting it on my undergraduate-student bookshelf, and telling myself I would get around to reading it soon. I did try picking the book up, as I recall, and thumbing through it, diving into it headfirst...only to make it through its first 40 pages, or so (what amounted to the book's Introduction, in other words), before admitting dumbfounded defeat and setting the book aside. And there it sat for 32 years, until this past summer, 2019. I'm 52 years old now; I was a young man, then, when the book first came out and when I first tried to scale its heights. I was ripe with dreams of being an English teacher someday, the likes of Mr. Keating at Helton Academy, setting the world (or my future classroom, at least) on fire with the passion of great literature and great writing and great learning. I was an illusioned, inexperienced young kid when I first picked up Professor Bloom's book. There was no way I could fully grasp the depth of his references and insights. I wasn't that well read, after all. And more importantly, I hadn't lived an adult life yet. I hadn't lived a life as an educator--more to the point--toiling in the world of education. And I hadn't yet experienced all the latent joys and frustrations that such a life entails. There was no way I could completely comprehend and connect with the book as a young man. But fast-forward 32 years into the present moment, when I've lived an adult life--as a divorced husband, and as a father, and as a teacher--and I've seen firsthand what Bloom was talking about, way back then. I see, now, what he was getting at. And I see that in many alarming and prophetic ways he was right. But because he wrote his book when American society--world society--was just on the cusp of a transcendent technological explosion (it's almost hard today to remember such a time before personal computers and before smartphones, but that world did, in fact, exist), Bloom's book can admittedly come across as somewhat quaintly dated, in a way. For example, while he personally saw distraction in the current popular media of the day--the ever-present television, movies, popular music, etc.--it's interesting to wonder what he would make of today's computerized world, and of the level of addictive distraction that comes from everyone carrying with them, 24/7, a pocket-sized computer. Though he doesn't address these sort of specifics (since they didn't exist yet, even then, in 1987), it isn't hard to tell what Professor Bloom would have said about it all, not to mention its deleterious effects on such things as education, personal drive and ambition, intellectualism, and the like. Even though he didn't have all the terminology at his disposal and he didn't know all the words for today's distracted computerized culture, Bloom saw its shadow looming, and he warned us of the storm-front fast approaching. All told, this is still a seminal and important book. And I'm glad I finally got around to reading it...32 years later.]


10.) Anything You Can Imagine: Peter Jackson and the Making of Middle Earth -- by Ian Nathan (2018)

This is just a very entertaining and enlightening look at not only Professor J.R.R. Tolkien's timelessly inventive and dense world of Middle-Earth (as he originally created it on the page in the early 20th century) but also at the breathlessly thrilling and "envelope-pushing" cinematic world of Middle-Earth (as recreated in the early part of our 21st century) by New Zealand filmmaker, Peter Jackson, and his re-telling of Tolkien's classic myths, The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit. I am an unapologetic fan of Tolkien's original books; I have been a fan ever since I first ventured into their pages way back in the day, as a young teenager. I am also an unapologetic fan of Jackson's film adaptations--because of and despite their (at times) slavish devotion to the Professor's original text and also, ironically, because of and despite their (at times) hit-and-miss efforts at rewriting, restructuring, and retelling the Professor's original text. Nathan's book entertainingly explores all of this. Its pages flew by.


 9.) Talking to Strangers: What We Should Know About the People We Don't Know -- by Malcolm Gladwell (2019)

What to say about writer/thinker/cultural observer/sociologist/master connector-of-dots, Malcolm Gladwell? This is his sixth book, following on the heels of the bestselling predecessors, The Tipping Point, Blink, Outliers, What the Dog Saw, and David and Goliath. Along with those accomplishments, Gladwell is also the creator and host of the podcast, Revisionist History. To try to pinpoint exactly what it is that Gladwell does that makes him unique as a writer is hard to say, in a way. He is part psychologist, part historian, part detective, part code-breaker, part puzzle-maker, part noticer of cultural patterns. He structures his books in the same way, pretty much every time, beginning with a specific anecdote, or story, or illustration, and then moving outward (and inward) from that opening to look at other anecdotes, stories, and illustrations, all the while picking apart at threads that lead from one revealed point to the next, connecting dots, forming an outline of a picture in the reader's mind, a noticeable pattern, an idea, an hypothesis, a theory, a thesis... In this way, Gladwell makes use of one of the oldest structures of classical argument: inductive reasoning. And he generally does it very well. Above all, he has the skills of a natural, masterful storyteller. He knows where he wants you to go, and if you are willing (as a reader) to sit back and trust him as your guide, the journey is always worth the time.


 8.) Wanderers: A Novel -- by Chuck Wendig

How does a young writer go about respectfully paying homage to an older, established, famous author that he grew up with, and read voraciously all throughout youth and early-adulthood, and cherished, and admired, and loved? In the case of Chuck Wendig, he grows up to become an established, well-respected author himself, and he sets about the business of creating a long door-stop of a novel (800 pgs.), styled after Stephen King's early-career post-apocalyptic masterpiece, The Stand.

[Aside: The original 1978 version of The Stand is what I'm referring to in this review, not the unedited, uncontrolled, unfettered mess of King's 1990 "director's-cut" version of his classic novel. I don't have time or space here to go into all that I think is wrong with King's bloated revisioning of his famous early novel (it was only his fourth book, back in 1978, following an amazing run that any popular 20th century author would be proud of: Carrie, Salem's Lot, and The Shining), but let me just say that in the case of his 1,000+ pg. exercise in ego-vomit, this is an excellent example of the old "less-is-more" adage (if, in fact, an original version of the novel, weighing in at 850 pgs., itself, can be said to be "less"). In this case, however, it can.]

Wanderers is just an awful lot of fun. While it is consciously a send-up to the kind of story that King used to do so well as a young writer--a burgeoning artist on fire with creativity, and imagination, and professional drive--Wendig is respectful enough to tip his hat in the direction of the famed author who inspired his story. But make no mistake: This book is entirely its own thing, with a big cast of characters, a sprawling story set across a ruined American landscape, a handful of plucky survivors, heroes that you love, villains that you hate, and a churning energy constantly pushing and pulling you through its 800 pages of narrative drive. Simply put: Wanderers is a novel that finds a way to "out-Stephen King" even Stephen King, today.


 7.) Kindness and Wonder: Why Mr. Rogers Matters Now More Than Ever -- by Gavin Edwards (2019)

To anyone who pays attention to the current situation(s) in our country--not to mention our world--it would seem easy, certainly, to slip into a paralysis of sadness, hopelessness, and despair. But to do that would then miss the point--the larger point of our life on this earth, perhaps--that while there will always be moments and people that push us to the edge of our deepest fear and anxiety, there are also particular moments and people that come along exactly at the right time and place for our lives. And they are a light in the darkness. They make us feel good. They remind us that there is, in fact, such a thing as goodness in the world. They give us encouragement to be brave, to be true to ourselves, to like ourselves, and to keep going. It seems like a banal, cliche' platitude,  maybe, to say something so oft-repeated and so obvious, but Fred Rogers was a miracle of a human being. What you saw was exactly what you got. There was no act, no air of falseness, no pretending about him--other than his beloved "Land of Make-Believe" that he popularized on his long-running children's show on PBS, Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. Currently, there seems to be a renewed interest in the man, who left us in 2004 after a bout with cancer. It is not too hard to understand why we're experiencing this reawakening and reappraisal of this gentle, kind man in the colorful zip-up cardigans and the sneakers that he slipped into so casually at the beginning of every single show. If we took his goodness for granted while he was alive (in fact, using him as the butt of so many unnecessary jokes), then we certainly miss him now, it would seem. I think we realize we could all use a bit of Fred Rogers these days, and Gavin Edwards' book plays upon that realization. It is a short, quick read (at just a mere 250 pgs.), but that seems in keeping with Rogers' style, itself. Within its short structure, the book is divided into two fairly equal parts: the first half of the book is a quick biography of Fred Rogers--the man, the husband, the father, the friend, the TV personality; the second half of the book is given over to Edwards' summation of Rogers' teachings--a 10-point takeaway, if you will, divided by chapters with headings such as:

      1.) Be Deep and Simple
      2.) Be Kind to Strangers
      3.) Make a Joyful Noise
      4.) Tell the Truth
      5.) Connect With Other People Every Way You Can
      6.) Love Your Neighbors
      7.) Find the Light in the Darkness
      8.) Always See the Very Best in Other People
      9.) Accept the Changing Seasons
    10.) Share What You've Learned (All Your Life)

If you're the kind of person who can read this book and not feel a lump forming in the back of your throat from time to time, then obviously this book isn't for you. But for me--and for the rest of us, maybe--that lump in the back of the throat, the tears that collect in the corners of the eyes while reading the book, speak to a feeling of regret and sadness, certainly, that Fred Rogers is no longer with us. But more than that, I think, the emotion that we feel speaks to the miracle that there ever was such a person as Fred Rogers in our midst. And the wonder at what it is we ever did to deserve him.


 6.) American Pastoral -- by Philip Roth (1997)

Philip Roth was a master of late-20th century/early-21st century American literature. I had never read this book before, until going through my personal collection and picking it up this past year. There are a handful of American writers who could be said to reside at the proverbial "top of the mountain" of contemporary American fiction. Of course everyone's list would be different, but among the names in that rarefied air would have to be included (in my opinion) the writer, Philip Roth. What he accomplished during his career--including, of course, his early explosive talent but also, almost more impressively, his late-career run of unprecedented masterpieces (within which American Pastoral would neatly fit)--was almost indisputably masterful, as he set about chronicling the 20th century Jewish-American experience, novel after novel after novel... In this, his 1997 Pulitzer Prize-winning book, Roth depicts a disrupted American family, and a disjointed sense of the American Dream, and a disturbing view of cultural-political terrorism (four years before the tragic events of  9/11 would lay low any sense of American propriety, and American security, and...well, American "pastoral"...) This is a remarkable novel.


 5.) Barefoot in Babylon: The Creation of the Woodstock Music Festival, 1969 -- by Bob Spitz (1979)

Simply put, this was the most fun and most "un-put-downable" book I read this year. It was in keeping with an interesting cultural (or counter-cultural?) trend of 2019, which recognized the 50th-anniversary celebration of events that happened during the "flower power" Summer of Love, c.a. 1969. (For it seems the Boomer generation--growing up and coming of age in the late-1960s--had more than its share of legitimately momentous occasions upon which to draw memories...or at least the occasional acid-flashback--the nightmares of Vietnam and the anti-war movement, notwithstanding). Whatever the case, Spitz--who also authored the wonderful 2005, The Beatles: The Biography (still, probably, the best book I've read on the band, to date)--is a nonfiction writer who understands how to slowly, carefully assemble all the puzzle pieces of his subject spread out on the table before him. He methodically lays out all the details of the story he's trying to tell--no matter how small or mundane the puzzle piece--until each element of the story locks into place, one by one, and you begin to see the finished whole. Basically...let's be honest...the 1969 Woodstock Music Festival was a disastrous mess, from start to finish. But it was also an amazing cultural triumph--against all practical and logical odds. And if that statement doesn't make sense--and it admittedly does not--then Bob Spitz's history of this important musical and sociological event is for you, because he explains it, in the smallest of details, and he makes you care, and he makes you cringe, and he makes you cry at a lost idealism that we'll never see again in our jaded, uber-materialistic, uber-ironic, uber-cool capitalistic world (all of which, ironically, such an event as the original Woodstock helped to unintentionally usher in. "And so it goes," to quote the late, great Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.)

 4.) Dad's Maybe Book -- by Tim O'Brien (2019)

There's no point in me talking around the issue, here: Tim O'Brien is one of my favorite writers. Hands down. He will be remembered forever for some of the greatest novels written by an American author at the close of the 20th century. Going through the list of some of his titles is like a roll call of great contemporary American literature. From his auspicious early days, winning the National Book Award for his novel, Going After Cacciato (1978) to his universally praised masterpiece, The Things They Carried (1990), to later novels, such as, In the Lake of the Woods (1994), and July, July (2002), no American fiction writer has done more to so honestly and beautifully chronicle the angst, the pain, the fear, and the weight carried by soldiers both in wartime and in times of peace, back at home (in his case, the American war in Vietnam). He is, in my opinion, the best at covering this subject. He's done it, and he's done it masterfully. There will be (and already are) young writers coming along the literary scene, writing about contemporary soldiers at war who fittingly fall into a comparison with O'Brien, and who critics are quick to say write "like Tim O'Brien." But there will never be another Tim O'Brien. And he wouldn't have to write another word, as far as I'm concerned; his reputation is cemented in the canon of great writing. It seemed, too, as if he, himself, agreed with this assessment, since for the past 17 years (since the 2002 release of July, July, in fact), there has not been a new book with his name on it. The word was out that he had unofficially "retired" from writing. And the more that time moved along, with no new books being produced from his desk, it appeared that he was, actually, done with it all...until this year, 2019, and his surprise latest release, Dad's Maybe Book. By some estimations, the book may be considered a bit of a mess, to be honest. But if so, it is a beautiful and brilliant mess. O'Brien is kind of all over the place in this work of nonfiction--his first book-form autobiographical style of writing since his 1973 debut, the memoir, If I Die in a Combat Zone. That first book of nonfiction was written by a 27 year-old young man who had served a tour of duty in Vietnam and then, while pursuing studies at Harvard, decided to give everything up and dedicate his full attention to writing. Which he did, but at the expense of everything else, sadly. And what that meant for O'Brien, anyway, was a notable and prize-winning career as a great American author, but it also meant a failed marriage and childlessness. Until, that is, a second marriage came along late in his life, and with it a chance, at long last, to be a dad--something that had always eluded him. With the birth of his sons, O'Brien made the decision to walk away from what he saw as the selfish lifestyle of a professional writer and to, instead, be present in the lives of his children. Which he did, and which explains the 17 years of silence from him in the publishing world. And yet...he didn't entirely stop writing. And this book is the proof. While his boys were growing up, O'Brien would make the time to jot down ideas, thoughts, memories, and observations. These jottings, as it turns out, were about life in general; and his life, specifically; and about his time in Vietnam; and about his thoughts on the current state of the world and of America; and about his strained and painful relationship with his own father, who was distant and alcoholic and abusive. O'Brien never wanted to be that kind of father. He did not want his sons to grow up feeling for their dad the same confused spectrum of emotions that he grew up feeling for his own dad. And so he wrote this "maybe" book ("maybe it's a book, and maybe it isn't," he would tell his sons when they would invariably ask him what he was writing). The conceit of his new book is simple, and it's messy, and it's profound: He is a 73 year-old father of two young sons, and he doesn't have to be told the preposterousness of that scenario. He realizes, sadly, that he will not be around to share in his sons' lives as they grow into young men, and husbands, and fathers. He realizes that his time with them is limited. It is not anyone's fault (and yet you can't help but sense, throughout, O'Brien's unrelenting guilt at the decisions he made as a young, hungry writer, desperate to make a name for himself, at the expense of all else). Still, he has the time with them now, and so he has used it well. And this book is his opportunity to impart whatever he can in the way of fatherly insight and advice and wisdom. It's a profoundly moving book. And, as such, I realize it may be O'Brien's last published words. I cherish it all the more for that.

3.) Meditations -- by Marcus Aurelius (written 170-180 C.E.)

If you're anything like me, you've probably heard the name, Marcus Aurelius, somewhere before. Perhaps it was in high school, with some overzealous senior-year English teacher. Or maybe it was in college, sitting through some General Ed. Intro. to Logic class. Or it could be that the only thing you really know of the name, Marcus Aurelius, is from Richard Harris' abbreviated performance of the man in Ridley Scott's 2000 sandals-and-swords epic, Gladiator. Be that as it may, I wasn't fully prepared for the man--and the mind--that I met while first coming into contact this year with his famous book, Meditations. As Rome's Emperor for roughly 20 years, serving between the years 161-180, he was the last ruler of Rome to fulfill what the Greek philosopher, Plato, envisioned as his perfect ideal of a leader--the famed "Philosopher King." During Marcus Aurelius' rule, the Roman Empire would enjoy its last years of prosperity and peace, during the famous phase known as the Pax Romana (or "Roman Peace"). Marcus Aurelius was level-headed. And insightful. And foresightful. And just. And mighty. And intelligent. And while he sat at the head of Rome, he was also a voracious student of history, and of orators, and thinkers, and logicians. Names like Epictetus, Seneca, et al., were common as his counsel, and as such Marcus Aurelius was a devout student--and eventual practitioner and writer--of the philosophy of Stoicism. He never intended to write a book, certainly. He simply saw merit in recording (if for no other reader than himself) a journal of the wanderings of his mind--his thoughts, his insights into the qualities that make a good leader, that make a good citizen, that make a good person, leading (hopefully) to a meaningful, practical, well-balanced, and good life. Meditations is one of the first (and best) books of its kind--although, again, its author accordingly never intended to actually write a "book." He was just thinking to himself on paper in the evenings--scratching by candlelight--after a tiring day of leading the greatest empire the world had ever seen. As such, though, his Meditations is part memoir, part philosophical treatise, part self-help guide. And all in all, it's a one-of a-kind reading experience--a good tonic for the tumultuous times we live in, to be sure...albeit thousands of years after the time when the book was originally written.


 2.) All of Us: The Collected Poems -- by Raymond Carver (2000)

I feel a little disclaimer is in order for this book, as well, seeing as how--technically--I had, at one time or another, read most of the poems in this collection. Most...but not all. In his relatively short life (he died at age 50 from lung cancer, after a lifetime of battling alcohol abuse), Raymond Carver etched a permanent place in America's post-modern literary canon with his extraordinary output of minimalist short stories. He was a master. I first became familiar with Carver's short fiction while in college, but it was at this time, also, while nosing around in a used bookstore, that I stumbled upon his first published book of poems, 1984's Where Water Comes Together With Other Water. I was nonplussed: I didn't even know Carver wrote poetry, and I was a great admirer of his short stories, so I plunked down the meager change for the book, and I read it in one night. I couldn't believe how great his poems were: short, succinct, zen-like, stripped to the bone, emotion laid absolutely bare, like his famous stories, but even more minimalist (if that could be believed). Here was modern writing at its barest essence. And it was stunningly, achingly beautiful. And sad. And funny. But sad... Then, two years later, in 1986, I picked up his second published collection of poems, Ultramarine, followed by his third, A New Path to the Waterfall, which appeared posthumously, a year after his death, in 1989. The wonderful symmetry to all of this--after being a fan of Carver's poetry for decades--is that I stumbled upon this book, All of Us: The Collected Poems, in a local Half-Price Books one afternoon. Of course, I had to have it. Included in this collection is an earlier, lesser-known collection of poems, as well as some unpublished work released after his death, along with the three collections that I already possessed and had fallen in love with years ago. As a short story writer and as a poet, there is no one quite like Raymond Carver:

                    LATE FRAGMENT

                    And did you get what

                    you wanted from this life, even so?

                    I did.

                    And what did you want?

                    To call myself beloved, to feel myself

                    beloved on the earth.

 1.) The Overstory: A Novel -- by Richard Powers

How to best explain this book? I'm not sure... I could say, to begin with, that Richard Powers has been called "the most intelligent American novelist at work today," and that might begin to scratch the surface a bit of what you have here. I could also say that the novel is constructed like a patchwork-quilt, in a way, made up of various chapters (which, seen independently, could also be viewed as separate, stand-alone short stories), all of which begin to reverberate and echo within one another as characters and events slowly begin to cross and intercut with one another, and an overarching plot begins to emerge. I could also say that it is an ecological "warning cry," if you will, a Transcendentalist plea on behalf of the trees. The Overstory is a celebration of life, and of nature, and of our world, and of the notion of time, and of endurance, and of love. I could say that there are passages and sentences and entire sections of this book that deserve to be read slowly, savored, and re-read, and read out loud, hearing the music of Richard Powers' talent as a wordsmith. It is a beautiful book. A prose poem, in places. A celebration of nature and of human nature. It's a book that lingers long in the mind well after you finish the last sentence and close its cover. It's a moving novel. It's beautiful. It's powerful. It's a book that gives me hope--as a reader--in the future of great writing. (Great writing is still with us, as it turns out; it's not going anywhere.) I could say all of these things, regarding Powers' Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, and I would be right. Or I could simply say this: The Overstory is the best book I read over these past 12 months.

Dog Years

1

I don't know if there is such a place as a heaven for dogs,

although the world's beliefs would have you believe

it comes down to a clinical discourse on faith and theology

and the definitions of such words as "afterlife," "salvation," and "soul,"

and a particular animated film from the 1980s definitively argued

for the affirmative.

Still....

All I know is that I had him for the past 10 years of my life,

which would have been 70 years for him.

(All things being equal, too, I don't think I could have 

put up with me for those 70 long years.)

And so for that--if for no other reason--

he earned his eternal reward in dog heaven, I think,

if there is such a place.

2

On matters of faith, it is never simple math.

Take the Judeo-Christian Bible, for instance,

if one chooses to believe the stories.

I am aware of the importance of symbols, though,

and that throughout the book's long text, if looking for it,

you will find over 700 references to the number 7.

In terms of that book's circular and circuitous mythology,

that number would appear to be of some importance, then.

"Divine," perhaps.

"God-made," to some.

"Perfect," in a way.

"Complete," in manners no other number can seem to mean,

no matter the faith

or the math.

3

He liked to have his ears scratched.

He would lean into it, he loved it so.

He lost himself, bending into the pressure and the weight of it.

He would moan and then look up at me when I removed my hand,

his brown, soft eyes that burrowed and said,

"What?... That's it?"

He liked to lay in the patches of sunlight

as the day would move across the sky.

He would move along with it, when he could,

and when it appeared in elongated geometric designs

spilled across the carpet.

He sought out warm light,

with the wisdom of The Beatles,

following the sun.

4

He loved to go for walks, although he was terrible at it.

I used to see other dog-owners with their charges

at the end of leashes

complacently at peace, strolling along sidewalks,

dog-calm, cool, collected.

And I wondered how they did it.

For he could never manage that.

Our leash was always taut as a plumb-line

or a rich fishing line, him out front, pulling me forward,

nose alert to everything, not enough time in the day to take it all in,

eyes backward at slowpoke me, struggling to keep pace,

with a mixed gaze of frustration and concern my way,

as if to say,

"Are you all right? Come on.... Catch up."

5

On our last walk together

I didn't need the leash, but I attached it to his collar on ceremony.

It would occur the day before I helped him to his sleep,

and I had no idea, then, of such words as

"ruptured spleen" or "critical anemia."

I just knew there was something wrong.

With a slackened line, it was an unusually slow walk for us.

Haggard. Determined. It was work for him to take a step.

We didn't go far--to the end of the sidewalk and back.

I carried him the last of the way, in through the door,

and lay him down on his bed,

which he also loved beyond compare

and from which he would never stand again

on his own will.

6

Dogs seem to know things we don't.

As much as we love them,

I believe they love us more.

Seven times more, by my rough accounting.

And they forgive us seven-times-seventy times,

more than we can humanly comprehend.

They sense things seven times stronger.

They feel things seven times greater.

They are, after all, seven years ahead of us

in what it means to be

Divine,

God-made,

Perfect,

Complete.

7

You know it's going to hurt, this inevitability of love--

so irrational and unconditional and true,

the very meaning of the words, in fact--

but what you can't possibly know is how much.

I have already been asked several times

if I'm going to get another dog.

And my immediate response is, "No."

But in my heart, maybe, "Yes."

In time.

Maybe in seven years, I wonder.

Maybe then I will know what he already knew.

Maybe then, like some indelible image from Whitman,

I will find him ahead of me, as always, patiently looking back,

and I will finally be able to catch up to him.

Power

Last night was a winter storm,
the kind with weighted ice-snow and winds
from the north--
the kind of winter storm leaving frozen shells
around power lines and tree limbs.
Not a good pairing, the two,
when loaded branches crack and tumble
in a glacial cascade of ice and sparks atop
electric lines, so power full.

That was the kind of storm we had last night.
The kind of winter storm that one falls asleep to,
its oddly lulling whistle of wind
seeping through window seams--
the sound of nature in extremis--
and waking in the morning to a breathless house,
and frozen vistas outside the windows,
and vacant, blank LED lights on clocks throughout,
no red and green and blue deathstare of time, now powerless.

It is only me this morning, and the dog, in the quiet
where normally there is muted buzz of electric surge,
and vented hiss of heated air, and gentle flow of time.
But now the house rests empty of energy.
Now time has stopped
in this house which I quickly scour for blankets,
knitted warmth, quilted fabric of memory and hours.
This house where--once life has been restored--
empowered, I will decide to leave the clocks alone.