On a Mission from God

'It's 106 miles to Chicago. We've got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses.' Dear Mr. Belushi may have left our company for the time being, but on Saturday night, the Grillmaster and his official New Orleanian roommate did our best to channel Brother Jake along with Brother Elwood. Cheap black sunglasses, cheaper black hats, and the damned cheapest cigarettes we could find [Basic's, for the curious] made us at least passable copies of that legendary rhythm and blues duo, the Blues Brothers. Three cheers to Kate for scoring us the invite. There's nothing quite like a dark party, sunglasses, and knowing absolutely no one to ensure that you stay in character and have one hell of a time in the process.

Speaking of missions from God, there has been rejoicing from the Christian Right today with the nomination of Scalia Jr. to the Supreme Court. It appears that after the debacle of Harriet Miers, the President has felt the whip of Robertson, Dobson, et al., and gotten back in line. The sacred mission of overturning Roe v. Wade may finally be nearing its completion...

Not so fast my friends! Or so says Pat Robertson. What! No, that's not a typo. It seems that Mr. Robertson does not know that Scalito would overturn Roe, but still extols the nominee's virtues. Memo to liberal friends: be afraid! This means that Robertson is SO convinced of Scalinni's conservatism that he is more worried about rejection from the mainstream than about doubts from his right wing disciples. Do you honestly think Robertson would be on the air supporting this guy if he thought the nominee would let Roe stand!? I think not.

An interesting, and as yet only mildly discussed feature of this nomination that makes him of particular interest to this Papist: that's right, it's another Catholic. Son of Italian immigrants from Jersey, he had about as much choice as the Grillmaster did (proud son of Boston Irish and Chicago Polish) in selecting his faith. And, for those keeping score, that's a Supreme Court grand total of:

5 Slaves of Rome
4 Other

Santa Maria de la Powdered Wigs, are you serious! It's interesting that Catholics have made such attractive nominees in recent years. Sure, we're smarter, better looking, and more graced by God than the rest of you heathens, but I doubt those are the only reasons. To the right, conservative Catholics are an attractive combination: disposed to restrained judicial power, but not as scary to mainstream Americans as some in the evangelical crowd. Accustomed to a country in which their spiritual compatriots faced (and face) truly ugly persecution and suspicion, these Catholic jurists learned long ago to take their faith seriously, but remain somewhat reticent about it in public. Americans like that in our judges, those great bastions of supposed neutrality who sit objectively over our nation. Interesting that the Kerry campaign may indicate that while we like such detachment from faith in judges, we mistrust it in elected politicians.

Wait a minute. We like men in black for our judges. Who are cold, calculating, and tireless in their work. And who are willing to stand up to Illinois Nazis, rednecks, and even oppressive law enforcement to complete their Divinely sanctioned mission. President Bush, I've got two sharp dressed guys from Chicago who are always looking for work. They sing one hell of a song too.

A Cheery Night at the Movies

'The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.' Too bad Tom Stall missed that little memo from Faulkner. As his perfect Rockwellian life (complete with hot wife in cheerleader outfit; Grillmistress take notes!) unfolds in the opening minutes of 'A History of Violence,' the Grillmaster and his viewing mates just knew that something was amiss. Amiss indeed! 90 minutes later, as the three of us stumbled across the Key Bridge attempting to make sense of this intensely powerful, violent presentation of the endurance of the past, we arrived only at the preliminary conclusion that filmmaker David Cronenberg had something important to say. We were too awash in blood and inexplicable William Hurt cameos to figure out quite what that might be.

In search of guidance, the Grillmaster foolishly turned to the pros: movie reviewers. Upon perusal, I can confidently report that 90% of critics in the country missed a HUGE part of this film. One gets the distinct impression that they too were overwhelmed by its power, but unfortunately had deadlines to meet and didn't have time to give this the reflection it deserved. They tended to get the most obvious point right: The movie is a challenging look at the viral nature of violence in families and communities, and our own complicity in that uniquely American epidemic. Tom's violence, even when wholely justified to kill some deliciously evil men, infects his wife, son, and daughter in ways he can't possibly anticipate.

And violent Tom is. As bad guys ask throughout the film, 'How come he's so good at killin' people?' What makes the violence of 'History' not only acceptable but PRODUCTIVE is that it makes the audience gasp, occassionally laugh, and squirm. As the camera lingers for uncomfortable seconds on the shattered human face of a dispatched serial killer, cheers of victory catch in your throat. Surely Tom was in the right? Of course. But the point Cronenberg makes brutally throughout the movie is that violence and killing aren't cheap, aren't clean, and should make us squirm. In an age in which directors seem to be in competition to make killing beautiful and more stylized, Cronenberg deserves credit for his brutal honesty.

So kudos to the critics for getting the obvious. Bravo. There's only one problem: the ending! 'History' isn't just a movie about violence; it's a movie about violence AND the one word that is totally absent from nearly every review I've read: redemption. The Village Voice didn't get it. Neither did the Washington Post. Nor Entertainment Weekly. The New York Times at least mentions the word, but only to pass judgment on the acts of violence, not the man carrying them out. The one mainstream guy I could find who did get it was none other than Roger 'My Thumb's Always Up' Ebert. Can you ever get beyond a history of violence? That's the really troubling part of the movie, brilliantly presented by Cronenberg and entirely unappreciated by most critics.

The movie's answers are worth considering. The obvious answer is that one can't simply run from the past. 'Tom' takes a mythical journey through the desert to construct his new life, does everything right once finding his Beatrice in Maria Bello's character Edie, and yet STILL has violence in his bones when the mob comes calling. It's straight out of Faulker among others, and a lesson that's worth remembering.

The movie's ending is more ambiguous and powerful. If it is futile to run from your past, might it be possible to confront the past and overcome it? Tom has certainly confronted his past by movie's end, violently defended himself and his family, and attempted to wash himself clean of his brother's blood in a powerful scene of renewed baptism. He comes home to a family forever changed. His history of violence has become their own. In Edie's tears and his children's silence there is anger, fear, but also apparently a determination to endure together. Like 'Crime and Punishment,' you have a feeling the story ends at the most important part. That is probably for the best. I'm not sure Cronenberg would do as well with that part of the story, and besides, 98 minutes gave more than enough material for the walk home.

It Feels Like The First Time

Hello? Is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone home?

Never one to miss out entirely on a trend, The Grillmaster has decided to take the great leap into the blogosphere. To ward off boredom, insanity, and a general dulling of the wits, you'll find me shouting into the empty abyss of cyberspace on a quasi-regular basis in this space. I can promise neither coherance nor relevance, but this I do vow: I'll keep gabbing away as if somebody's listening.

'But what's on the menu, oh Grillmaster?'. Well, any pit jockey will tell you that the beauty of fire is that it roasts indiscriminately. Steak or chicken, appetizers or dessert, Supreme Court Nominees or World Series Champions. Sometimes with a big ball of lighter fluid-fed flames, others with a slow sweet hickory smoke. Yes, that's an overly stylized, poorly metaphored excuse for writing whatever the hell I want. Only-children don't deal well with constraints.

C'est ca for now. I'll be checking in again from time to time as events of note come to my attention. Friends don't let friends grill with gas...

The Grillmaster contemplates the mysteries of life and the follies of cooking over gas.