Lilies of the Field (Movie Review by Bob Racine)

                          1 hr and 35 min, b&w, 1963

                                     

Sidney Poitier has become an iconic figure in films, not just among African Americans but among the general movie-going public.  He was “up there” in silver screen stature long before any of the other minority performers with whom we have  become acquainted and learned to enjoy, male or female.  He opened a door by taking careful steps, picture by picture, over many years and proving he had a very special charisma.  Even in his less desirable pictures he has exhibited nothing less than absolute professionalism.  He is blessed with a face that by itself seems to lay claim to every inch and foot between the viewer’s eyes and the space in which he performs – a world within a world – a wide smile, the kind that puts people at their ease, a steady focus that never depends upon histrionics to create either dramatic intensity or comic cool, a take-charge forcefulness that is never self-conscious or labored.  In a word, a winning and resourceful presence!

                                     

In “Lilies of the Field”, his most fondly remembered work to date that broke the color barrier for leading male award winners (the first Oscar ever presented to a black person for a leading role), he displays every facet of his appeal, both funny and dramatic.  And have I said anything about his great timing?  He could not be out of sync, even if he wanted to be.  He paved the way for a host of other black players, five of whom have since taken home the coveted statuette for leading roles.

                                     

For a while it looked as if “Lilies of the Field” had been dropped from circulation.  But suddenly this past year a distribution company of long standing, Kino International, grabbed it up and has placed it among its KL Studio Classics, newly released in Blue-Ray.  In Kino’s hands it is assured a permanent library for home viewing, which it richly deserves.  (Those of you who followed my list of one hundred movie favorites recently published on this blog may remember that it was included.)

                                     

The story it tells gets its moxie and strength from the encounter between people of vastly different backgrounds and world views.  Can you imagine a more unlikely pairing than that of an itinerant construction worker of grass roots American origin, footloose and unattached, wandering the countryside, and a band of East German nuns (the film made at the height of the Cold War when the Berlin Wall was still intact) who barely speak any English, holding down a rigorous existence in an American southwest desert community?  Homer Smith (Poitier), as his name happens to be, at the opening is on his way to who-knows-where when his automobile radiator runs dry on a back road and he pulls into their little makeshift convent to draw some water from their well. 

                                     

Little does he know what he is stepping into, when in reply to their appeal he offers to fix their roof before taking off, in anticipation of getting paid a little for the job, not knowing just how poor these women are.  The starchy Mother Superior (Lilia Skala) is sure his arrival is in answer to prayer.  “God has sent me big strong man!”  To this Homer replies, “He hasn’t said anything to me about that!”  It is more, however, than odd jobs she plans to extract from him.  She shows him an artist’s conception of a “shaapl” (my phonetic transcription), her broken English version of “chapel”.  Someone – we are never told who – has already started the project on their little property, and she thinks he is there to finish it.

                                     

The comedy in the picture, and there is quite a bit of it, derives more from things that incidentally happen than from lines spoken or sight gags.  The amusing details seem to emerge naturally and spontaneously from the predicament in which Homer finds himself.  Nothing slays my funny bone more than the reaction shot when he discovers that the entire evening meal to which he has been invited is nothing more than what looks to be bread and milk, the ritual of supper concluded just as he is getting started.  Breakfast the following morning is no better – a single boiled egg.  Nothing to drink, no coffee, nothing!  This big brawny man sitting like an unsuspecting beggar at the end of their table! 

                                     

The wiles with which the Mother Superior entices him into the project, a project that he almost swears at first he wants nothing to do with, are remarkable and fun to follow.  Before he knows it, he is chauffeuring the ladies around, still hoping to get paid, until he lands smack in the middle of their larger community.   And that is when the big fun really escalates. 

                                     

What finally changes Homer’s mind about granting the nuns’ wish?  That would be a good subject for a discussion of the film.  He is not emotionally blackmailed; he is not threatened with damnation; he is not entrapped by the force of circumstances; he is not even promised any remuneration for his hard work.  Something turns within him, some compartment of his self-interest and self-respect is awakened.  

                                     

The plot is not complicated; it is the endearing little things that happen as the walls go slowly and uncertainly up that give us a thorough entertainment.  But those of you who have not seen the film, do not get the wrong idea!  No one among this small bunch is afraid of, or in thrall to, anyone else.  Some bickering and contentious words are exchanged several times over the course of the movie; there are a few real blowups, in fact.  I am pleased to see that Homer is never cowed by the habits the ladies wear, nor does he demonstrate the slightest inclination to be converted to their practice or their belief in divine intervention.  Nor does the Mother Superior attempt to draw him away from his professed Baptist faith.  This is a case of opposites forming a passing alliance, each for different reasons, leading to moments of unspoken and uneasy truce making.  Piousness, I am thankful to report, plays no part at all.      

                                     

One factor that helps make needed peace is music.  Homer plays a rather swell guitar and acquaints the sisters with “down-home-go-to-meetin’ ” vocalizing.  The “Amen!” melody they croon together shows up in the musical score as well, written with a superb ear to match the simple spacious grass roots environment to which the subjects belong.  That score has a life all its own that would furnish light pleasant listening by itself.  It plays a mesmerizing and seductive and somewhat haunting role in the wonderful last scene – a real beauty!  And all is resolved without any treacle or stickiness or suds, and with many questions left beautifully unanswered regarding future dealings between the characters.

                                     

Every individual portrayed by the supporting cast is a delight, even the bossy Mother.  On a shoestring budget Producer/Director Ralph Nelson and Screenplay Writer James Poe, working from a story by William Edward Barrett, took great pains, navigating through the delicate material with confidence, respect for all the characters, and imagination.  I urge everyone to see it before you leave this good earth.  Thanks to Kino in association with Netflix, it will be around.

                                              

To read other entries in my blog, please consult its website:  enspiritus.blogspot.com. To learn about me consult on the website the blog entry for August 9, 2013.

  

Seymour: An Introduction (Documentary Film Review by Bob Racine)

                             1 hr & 21 min, color, 2014

Charisma!  A descriptive word that by itself, apart from its precise meaning, is almost enough to soothe the ear and soften the heart!  It is beautiful to pronounce, letting it slide across the tongue through the open mouth. 

Cha-r-r-r-is-s-s-s ma!  To say it quickly or abruptly seems sacrilegious, like taking a musical phrase faster than the composer intended.  It invites you to nestle in its embrace. 

We sometimes think of high-powered, dynamic orators as deserving of this label.  But let us consider what the dictionary has to say by way of definition: “Compelling attractiveness or charm that can inspire devotion in others!”  I would not be impulsive enough to assert that all thunderous speech is lacking in this charm and compulsion.  But I would like to introduce you to a soft spoken gentleman who in my judgment meets the criteria at every turn of phrase.   He is a musician, a master of the keyboard, who will tell you point blankly that he does not crave a huge audience, that creative solitude is the highest coin in his realm.  Yet words fall gently and crisply and tersely off his tongue like so many sparkling fireflies.  Little gems that light the way for our thinking pleasure! 

His name is Seymour Bernstein (no relation to Leonard), a man who could have earned the accolades of millions of listeners and patrons, as he was beginning to do, until at age 50 a few decades back he gave up his burgeoning career and settled into the vocation of dedicated piano instructor.  He became the private person he wished to be, but one who gives support and training to aspiring players and aspirants of all sorts.  As the title suggests, the film is an introduction to the man, whom I feel I now know intimately from having walked with him.  The camera likes him, and the sound system adores him, not simply for the beauty of his playing but for his gift of gentle, loving reflection.  I want to reach into the frame and hug him like a grandfather.

The director of this modest production is Ethan Hawke, better known to most of us as a movie actor, recently honored for his outstanding work in “Boyhood”.  Hawke, in cinema verite fashion, does not weight us down with narration.  In fact, none of the segments looks as if it has been set up, though the eye can be fooled quite easily.  He simply drops in on the man and lets him speak for himself about whatever is on his mind.  But the film is not talky.  Most of the footage blesses our ears with choice excerpts of classical music.  If there has ever been made a film that could turn non-fans of the classics into lovers or at least inquirers into their magic, it is this one.  The conversation is rich, but it never crowds out the music.   

One type of scene the film depicts is his teaching sessions.  Watching and hearing him guide his pupils through their learning is a very special thrill to me.  Though I am not a pianist, I savored all he had to say.  He gives us priceless tidbits about the variance of volume in the art of interpretation and the crucial factor of pace.  A new door in my mind opened when he tells one pupil that in performance a piano musician must “pull the energy out of the keyboard.”  How else, we might add, can the music pull the energy and heart out of the listener!   

He draws an analogy between humans and pianos.  All human beings are made of the same stuff, but no two come out exactly alike.  Likewise, no two pianos are the same, however similarly they are built, even by the same manufacturer.  He demonstrates by hitting one chord using two different keyboards, and the difference in sound is remarkable.  We are treated to a moment when he actually comes across a piano he falls instantly in love with, unlike any he has ever used, or so he claims.  A joyous moment of discovery for him, and we get to share in it! 

He is a strong believer in the artist loving what s/he does.  He cites examples of performers who were neurotic or conflicted about what they were doing, not just among musicians but in any of the arts, lively or otherwise.  He implicitly takes issue with any who say that the quality of a creative person’s work is somehow enhanced by their unstable mental condition or their addictive habits or their self-destructive tendencies.  We have all heard these kinds of claims made.  While many accomplish great feats in spite of such inner personal turmoil they do not, according to him, owe their brilliance to that turmoil to any degree.  He cites Glenn Gould as a perfect example, “a neurotic mess”, a man who died unnecessarily at a very young age. 

The very fact that the film takes its titling from his first name only is a sign, I believe, that we are being invited to relate to him as a personal friend.  Seymour (yes, I will call him that) is lighthearted and humorous and a man of great insight.  “Music never changes; only people do.”  He tells delightfully interesting stories about himself, episodes that I doubt if I will ever forget.  He has chosen to live by himself in a small, modest apartment for many of his years instead of a sumptuous townhouse.  He lives a leisurely life and the film honors this preference by its own leisurely pace.    

But Seymour can be serious too.  He is a veteran of the Korean War, and he shares an amazing experience he had when he was allowed to play classical music for fighting men on the front lines.  It is incredibly moving and sad and for me at least unforgettable.   Telling it brings him to tears.

Another firm conviction of his has to do with the inseparability of artistry and craft.  One cannot thrive without the other.  Some of his friends we hear from voice a corresponding concern that too much stress is being placed today on talent, the excitement of discovered talent and the alleged failure of so many of the talented to develop craft, presumably making them fly-by- night performers, sudden sensations who never ripen to maturity.  I cannot argue one way or the other about that; I only know that Seymour has perfected his craft, however he compares with those who made a life’s work on the stage.

Undoubtedly all musicians and music lovers will be drawn to Seymour, but so should all who are seekers of truth and of life’s mysteries.  “You can establish such an accord between your musical self and your personal self that eventually music and life will interact in a never-ending cycle of fulfillment.”  Those words do not just apply to musicians but to all lovers of music.   He considers himself, as I consider myself, a spiritual person but not a religious one.  The life of the spirit is a resource that in his opinion few people tap into.  But “through music we become one with the stars”.  The film’s closing line is an even more beautiful evocation of this aphorism:  “I never dreamt that with my own two hands [on the keyboard] I could touch the sky.”

Give this charismatic man and his music a chance to come into your life.  Take the walk with him.  You can get him from Netflix.

To read other entries in my blog, please consult its website:  enspiritus.blogspot.com. To learn about me consult on the website the blog entry for August 9, 2013.

Legend of the Wise (Poetry by Bob Racine)

Wise men, reputed to be kings, what made you wise? 

Were you astute in the ways of the world?  Hardly! 

If so, you would have seen beneath Herod’s

artifice and disguise.

Soon enough you met him, ate flattery from his plate,

kissed his ring, watched him flash his puffy eyes

at mysteries beyond his ken, you all the while 

beguiled by his offer of safe passage.

Would a tyrant accord the office of a king to

a child not of his seed?  Such “wisdom” does not

become your legend.

Scholars perhaps,

nestled all snug in your parchment scrolls!

The scholar indeed!  He luxuriates in dust and ashes,

nature’s matted artifacts, ancient foils for the sun.

But why would scholars abandon their clusters of dust

for the glossy stars?  Wise and foolish alike

marvel at the stately array of those heavens.

Better we deem you wise in matters of the spirit and soul,

devout in your posturings before symbol and rite,

craven in your quest of the sacred truth embedded

in holy writ.  And yet, if the soul be your domain,

why your costly gifts – gold, frankinsense and myrrh –

to honor this babe?  Do you think this carpenter’s son

cares for such things?  Was it not he who was destined

to offend the lusts and greed of the lofty.  Such glitter

for him would be but a vain pretense, your wealth

perhaps nothing more than a cracked lantern lost in the

nimbus of its own smoke.   Or did you cast these

your pearls before him to denounce their alleged worth,

as if to disavow the spoils of an old and

moldering estate?

In time the belly of Herod would retch,

choking on the blood of infants.

And you left your wealth to the fate of

hovels to make your way back to

parchments and scrolls and omens and rites.

Time did not entreat you to witness the

onslaught of this child upon the rearguard of

sage and princely men. 

You would not live to see the love of sacred truth

come of age by way of him. 

You would sleep in the anonymous silence of

antiquity, vassals of the spirit to this one

whose infancy your curious presence once

enflamed.

Alas, old ancient wayfarers, it befits us

to place you among such wise as know the

insufficiency of your own minds before a glory

not of your making and the warm incubus of new life –

out of your hollow and void hounded,

in your eloquent but small knowing. . .                   

confounded.

To read other entries in my blog, please consult its website:  enspiritus.blogspot.com. To learn about me consult on the website the blog entry for August 9, 2013.