As you may have noticed, I've been silent since the end of 2018. I know there's a post dated in March, but that was a re-post. Long story short, earlier this year Google went through some updating in response to new EU cookie rules, after which I saw that most of my past posts were rendered inaccessible, though still existing as drafts. I put that one back up as sort of a test. I really don't understand the technicalities of all this - I'm pretty tech not so savvy. Any way, I don't have the time or the patience to go back and check out each post (there's over 800 of them at this point), so what's there is there, and what's not - well you'll just have to take my word that they will stand with the missing reels of the Magnificent Ambersons and Aristotle's "Comedy" as among the greatest lost works in Western culture.
This technical difficulty beyond my control is not the reason I fell silent; it just served as one more excuse to stay off the grid. Most of my time between about November, 2018 and July 1st of this year was spent transitioning from being pastor of St. John Bosco Parish in Chicago and applying to Catholic University's Licentiate in Sacred Theology (STL) program. The last nine months have been a long, bittersweet farewell to pastoral ministry (at least for now) and getting ready for a trip back to school after all these years. There were also many things happening in the parish that kept me from focusing on writing. It was an eventful last six months in the parish, beyond the normal busy pace of life at Bosco. Now that I'm relocated here in the D.C. area I've been getting my schedule together and am making the blog once again a part of my routine.
In recognition of this change of life, I've changed the format, but the content will remain the same. I also hope to get back to doing some videos.
Going Back to School: What is a Licentiate, Anyway?
As for the studies, when I tell people I'm pursuing an STL I get quizzical looks. In the United States we are use to speaking of masters and doctoral degrees, but the licentiate is of European origin and so follows a different track we're not familiar with. In Europe the licentiate comes after the baccalaureate and before a doctorate. Many assume that masters degrees and licentiates are the same, but that's not the case. I don't know about Old World universities in general, but the baccalaureate in theology from Pontifical schools is equal to the Master of Divinity issued by U.S. seminaries. The licentiate, the "second cycle," involving a specialization comes next, after the "first cycle" of general theology study: I'll be concentrating in Sacraments and Liturgy. The STL is meant to lead to a doctorate, but doesn't have to - the degree stands on its own. The licentiate then exists in this ill-defined space (at least to the American mind) between the masters and doctoral degree.
On a practical level the STL is quite literally a license to teach theology at Catholic universities and seminaries anywhere in the world. That's why I'm pursuing it; so I can eventually join a Salesian formation staff, preparing young men for Salesian religious and priestly life. I'm concentrating on the STL right now, mainly because that's as far as my mandate goes. If my provincial decides its advantageous to go on after I finish the STL, so be it. For right now, I'm just taking it one day at a time.
Please pray for me as I begin this new leg of my journey.
A Fairy Tale Alternate History of Hollywood, 1969
SPOILERS*SPOILERS*SPOILERS*SPOILERS*SPOILERS
SPOILERS*SPOILERS*SPOILERS*SPOILERS*SPOILERS
I've always been ambivalent about Quentin Tarantino: I admire his writing (in spite of his excessive use of profanity), visual style and non linear story telling style. On the other hand I've always had an aversion to buckets of blood style violence, no matter who the director is. I've only seen a hand full of his films, and admire them, while acknowledging my reservations, for all the stylistic reasons mentioned. I'm not sure there's any deeper meaning to it all and, on further examination, maybe in this case the style is indeed the substance. In an age where art is judged by its social relevance more than by its craft or originality, it's refreshing to see someone so uninterested appeasing pressure groups and simply makes movies his way, ankle bitters be blessed.
His latest film, Once Upon a Time in...Hollywood, is more an actor's movie punctuated by violent outbursts, presented in Tarantino's signature style that induces the audience laugh at the most sadistic acts of cruelty in spite of themselves. Out side of these three bracketed scenes, what we see is Tarantino the pure film maker, who's skills in writing and directing could allow him to make movies in almost any genre he wanted. Not content with being consistent in tone, he usually incorporates several genres one film alone. As for language, this go around is actually mild compared to your average Martin Scorsese film, let's say, and whatever use of racial or ethnic slurs seem purposefully designed to cheese off the politically correct thought police.
Tarantino performs a difficult task in Once Upon a Time, beyond his usual struggle to shock while keeping within the bounds of good taste. The movie acts as a tribute of sorts to the Hollywood of the 1960's, while at the same time cursing the forces that brought that era to an end. In doing so Tarantino appropriates the infamous Manson Family murders, changing history to create a modern fairytale cum vengeance fantasy (similar to what he did in Inglorious Basterds - which I didn't not see).
But the history he appropriates here, much like what he did in Basterds, happened within living memory. Films play with history and historical figures all the time. When the events or people involved being fictionalized are centuries old, the only ones to complain are usually historians and scholars. To the contemporary popular mind the passengers of the Titanic or soldiers fighting with William Wallace against Edward Longshanks are abstractions, as are the two historical figures themselves. When so much time has elapsed even historians can't always agree on what exactly happened and the nature of the personalities involved, and no one on this side of the veil can really know the truth for sure.
In the case of the Tate-LaBianca murders, many of the victims' family members, as well as most of the perpetrators, are still alive. Will the former be offended at how their brothers or sisters are being portrayed? While I really don't care about how the former Manson Family members feel, does their presentation here as pseudo-sinister buffoons trivialize the true evil of the actual historical events, and thus denigrate the memory of the victims? Does using these real life people as metaphors obscure the truth instead of deepening our understanding of it? I'm not going to proffer an answer right now. I know I wasn't "offended" (how I hate that word), but I did leave the theater feeling a bit uneasy. More on that later.
While Leonardo DiCaprio (as semi washed up western star Rick Dalton) is technically the leading man here, he really shares the spotlight with Brad Pitt, who plays DiCaprio's side kick. Both men's fates are intertwined, and in many ways it's Pitt's stunt double character Cliff Booth who pushes the plot (or what there is of one) forward. Both men are struggling for relevance in the New Hollywood emerging from the ruins of the old studio system. Rick is neurotic and edgy. Cliff, who has far less to lose, doesn't seem to be aware that there is a struggle going on at all.
Tarantino dosen't offer his audience much in terms of context, but by the late '60's westerns were waning in popularity, the studio system was collapsing - and by '69 was pretty much dead. New auteur directors, like Arthur Penn, Mike Nichols and Roman Polanski were breathing fresh life into cinema - making films that were personal statements as opposed to corporate products (the aforementioned Polanski (Rafał Zawierucha), along with his wife Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie) just so happen to move into the house next to Rick as our story unfolds). It's also the age of the antihero - where bank robbers were the good guys and the police who chase them were the villains.
In contrast, Rick and Cliff are as straight forward as their names; they understand white hats and black hats, and are baffled by ambiguity. In some ways they are men of the 1950's who were able to skate through most of the '60's performing their old tricks. They are caught off guard when the zeitgeist shifts suddenly on them. Again, it's DiCaprio's character who's flummoxed. Pitt's Cliff just keeps plugging away, unaffected because he never possessed celebrity status, and so he doesn't worry about losing what he never had.
When Rick goes to film a pilot episode for a new western, the director wants him to put on a shoulder length wig, a bushy mustache and a fringe lined suede jacket, similar to Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider. Dalton goes along with it, but is still indignant that he's being asked to look like a hippie. While waiting for his scene he strikes up a conversation with an eight year old girl who introduces herself as a method actor, not actress, stays in character at all times and is offended by pet names. She lectures Rick on the importance of being completely dedicated to his craft. Dalton, who is a star, not an actor, is in a new world, and this precocious little girl's sermon compounds his emotional disorientation. His insecurity only grows when he flubs lines repeatedly during his take. He redeems himself in the afternoon session, even receiving a heartfelt compliment from the eight year old. All the same, Dalton sees the writing on the wall and accepts an offer to go to Italy to make spaghetti westerns.
Meanwhile Cliff, driving around L.A. doing his boss' bidding in his boss' car, has a chance encounter with a young hippie (Margaret Qualley) who he's crossed paths with before. Unlike their previous encounters, Cliff lets the wayward teen in the car and brings her to her desired destination, Spahn Ranch. Cliff is not being polite, or lecherous. He worked at the Ranch years ago, when it was a movie set for westerns. He knows the owner, George Spahn and wants to make sure he's alright.
Cliff make a good first impression on the group of hippie squatters he encounters at the Ranch, which dissolves quickly once the headstrong stuntman demands to see George. He makes his way, in the face of determined, if nonviolent, opposition to see his old acquaintance. After one of the most tense sequences I've seen in a movie in quite some time, he finds the 80 year old, blind, George (Bruce Dern) safe and sound, napping just as he was told he was. His instincts are nonetheless correct: George is indeed being taken advantage of, but doesn't seem to mind so much.
Angry at being defied, the hippies drive Cliff off the ranch. Before he can actually do that - drive away that is - one of the ranch hands slashes the front tire of Rick Dalton's Cadillac. Cliff is not phased. He pulls out the spare, demands that the man who did it change the tire, and when the culprit refuses, Cliff inflicts a brutal if controlled beating on him.
Unlike Rick, Cliff has no self doubt. He doesn't understand or like hippies, or what they represent any more than his friend does, but rather than be paralyzed with introspection, he cool and calmly knocks them on their keisters. That's his approach to life in general. He lives in a beat up camper behind a drive in movie theater - another motion picture institution on the way out by '69 - with his beloved pit bull. He knows that his options are limited because he's suspected of having killed his wife - an awkward detail that's kind of presented, dwelt upon briefly, and never mentioned again the rest of the movie. Life is simple and good, even if it isn't exactly what he would want it to be. He knows a phony when he sees one, giving very limited quarter. He has no image to protect, or career to worry about. He's not itching for a fight, but he's not going to shy away from one, especially with pretentious windbags.
The third act of the movie finds our heroes returned from Europe after six months of filming several low budget westerns and knock off James Bond movies. It's the night of the actual Tate murders, and it also happens to be the last night Rick and Cliff will be a team. Rick, having picked up an Italian wife (Lorenza Izzo), and with uncertain prospects now that he's back in the States, can't afford Cliff's services. So they go out for one last drunk, their night on the town paralleled with the real life last evening of Sharon Tate and her house guests.
They return to Rick's house, when Cliff decides to smoke an LSD laced cigarette he'd been saving for a special occasion and walk his dog. Rick stays back to make more margaritas when the post midnight peace is broken by an idling car's broken muffler. It's the members of the Manson Family - the same hippies Cliff encountered at the Ranch, about go up the long driveway to where Sharon Tate and her friends unknowingly await their fate. Rick confronts them, margarita filled blender waiving in the air. He curses them, threatens them, telling "Dennis Hopper" to get his car out of there.
Once away, the driver, Tex Watson (Austin Butler), realizes that the belligerent drunk they encountered was his childhood hero Rick Dalton. Susan "Sadie" Atkins (Mikey Madison), in what for me was the most chilling dialogue in the movie, talks about how it's Dalton's TV shows that taught violence to their generation, and now they need to bring that violence back to the homes of those who broadcasted it into theirs. Chilling, because our fictionalized "Sadie" Atkins sounds more like a contemporary "woke" social justice warrior than like a hippie.
They change plans. Instead of hitting the house at the top of the hill, as Charlie had ordered them, they decide to hit Dalton's home instead. Even beyond questions of historical accuracy, things don't go as expected. Tarantino had set things up in such a way that the Manson gang should have known who they were running into. But because of a twist of intoxicated fate (the telltale Caddie was left at the restaurant), it is the perpetrators who are entering into a trap. They find Cliff in the kitchen in the midst of his ritualized feeding of the dog, not the drunken Rick. Recognizing them, he mocks the would-be killers with cool condescension before opening up his patented can of Zen infused whoop-butt. Even his pit bull gets in the act. By the time it's over the members of the Manson Family are beaten, bitten, stabbed and burnt beyond recognition.
Obviously, this is not what really happened just after midnight on the real August 9, 1969. There was no Rick or Cliff who distracted the killers from their satanic mission. Their exploits didn't lead to a much hoped for encounter with Sharon Tate; a meeting that very well could signal a new beginning for Rick's career. The reality is that six people lost their lives, and later that evening two more were slaughtered. There was no happy ending.
I left the theater uneasy because Tarantino pushes all the right buttons here. He's mastered the art of R-rated Three Stooges violence; its extreme and graphic - though that criticism is sometimes exaggerated. He often makes the viewer think he's seeing more than he actually is by suggesting what's happening out of frame. It's violence that's so cartoonishly extreme that it provokes laughter as you cover your eyes. Often the targets of this mayhem are "getting what they deserve." Even though in the context of the movie the hapless hippies haven't actually harmed anyone yet, we know that in real life members of the Family were already responsible for previous killings, not to mention the murders that they're known for. We live vicariously through our heroes who, unknowingly, are saving the lives of the intended victims. We get to feel a certain sentimental pinch as we see Rick, Sharon and the others, blissfully ignorant of the fate they avoided, retire into the house on Cielo Drive for a drink.
But underneath the sentimentality is an undercurrent of mild nausea: not because of the use of dogs and flamethrowers as lethal weapons, but because it's all a lie. And not in the normal way that in fiction tales are spun to reveal a deeper truth. There is no deeper truth revealed by manipulating history in this way here. The film does makes clever observations about the nature of the movie business and the disorientation caused by changing epochs. In the end, what was a stylish, well crafted and acted production is reduced to vengeance porn. But who is the recipient of the director's comeuppance?
I'd be surprised if Tarantino has any beef with hippies, and he can't have one with the New Hollywood movement. His career wouldn't have been possible with out it. It's that he's found himself caught in a time of change, and he knows it. The popular culture since the '60's used to celebrate the maverick who challenged rules and broke boundaries. The New Hollywood types railed against censorship and risked it all to realize a unique artistic vision. Now Hollywood has come full circle; more of a corporate town than it ever was during the Golden Age. It's getting harder and harder to get anything other than superhero movies or franchise sequels made. As the budgets get bigger, the box office receipts need to counted in the hundreds of millions, if not billions, to be sufficiently profitable for the beancounters. Rather than taking risks the studios, money people, writers, directors and actors are to one degree or another afraid of offending either the Chinese (since that's emerged as such a lucrative market) or running afoul of the PC-SJW crowd and the oversized influence they have via social media.
In a particular way the hippies of Once Upon a Time represent these PC forces. Tarantino is exacting his cinematic revenge on all those contemporary puritans who criticize his use of violence and racial slurs. He's cursing those who would want him to bow to the latest group think, those who see art as propaganda for their cause. There's no doubt that he sees himself as a man of the left, but that means something different now than when he first burst on the scene in the '90's. The business and culture of Hollywood has changed, and the boy wonder is now the established star feeling the rug being pulled out from under him.
Rick calls the driver of the Manson car Dennis Hopper, a reference to the '50's contract player who not only made the transition, but was a catalyst for it with with his independent hippie road movie Easy Rider, which took the movie industry by storm in, you guessed it, 1969. Hopper represents all that Rick despises and resents, especially that he was forced adopt his look to keep a part. Even though Tarantino has the stature to still do what he wants, he like the fictional Rick Dalton sees the handwriting on the wall. He's said that he only plans to make ten movies before retiring. This is number 9, and I wonder if it's not at once a love letter, as its being promoted, and a kiss off to the business he sees as, if not passing him by, at least moving in the wrong direction.
This leaves me just as ambivalent about Quentin Tarantino as when I began. I still admire his unique style. I don't think his work is completely devoid of substance. But his flights of self indulgence obscure the deeper truth he could be mining in his work. I don't think appropriating the Sharon Tate story in this way was appropriate. He presents the late actress in the best possible light, and Margot Robbie brings joy and a sort of hip innocence to the portrayal, so it's not a case of disrespect that makes me uneasy. It's that I felt manipulated for no good reason. Of course films try to play the audience, and make us feel things when we should know better. That's why we go to the theater. In this case I know too much to be swept away by this cruel fantasy. I wanted to bask in the good feeling, and dream dreams, as the best of movies can lead us to do. I couldn't because it felt dishonest. The Manson Family wasn't the gang who couldn't shoot straight. Evil wasn't overcome that night, and everyone didn't live happily ever after. It's that these memories were used, at least in part, to satisfy some personal need of the film maker instead of shining light on the truth that leaves feeling queasy.
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