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Editorial Opinion

EDITORIAL

Even the most evasively inclined local public officials have now come to accept that new streams of revenue for government have to be found — and not at the further expense of local homeowners, who have had to hoist the property-tax burden to the exclusion of other remedies. It’s been a continuing scandal in local government. Forget John Ford’s publicly subsidized diaper bill, forget this or that City Council member’s cell-phone excesses, forget even the free run certain developers have historically enjoyed with local public bodies. The property tax is the big shakedown, the continuing shame.

All the more reason why the Shelby County Commission is to be commended for its unanimous action last month in passing on for the consideration of the General Assembly a proposal to assess a real estate transfer tax. Long feared and successfully resisted by the local real estate community, that proposal, initiated by Mayor A C Wharton, was one of several measures proposed by the mayor or by individual commissioners in an effort to break with the unproductive past. Others included an impact fee on developers and a payroll tax.

No one needs to be reminded that public sentiment against taxes is at an all-time high. One need only reflect on the hue and cry that rose up against the prospect of a state income tax during the second term of former Governor Don Sundquist or on the public outrage that has come about in the wake of Memphis mayor Willie Herenton’s recent public admissions of a revenue shortfall and his floating of a property-tax hike. Taken superficially, the current public mood would seem to be a revulsion against government itself. But, as we have often seen, once the scalpels are out and public services start to be trimmed, second thoughts quickly set in. Hence, the second opinion by the County Commission on a proposal to which it had first given mixed reviews.

Once they are sure that they are being treated fairly, that they are being governed efficiently, and that they are getting fair value for their dollar, voters do not mind being taxpayers. (They may even countenance the kind of revenue initiative — a cigarette-tax proposal made by state senator Steve Cohen — that could shore up currently threatened public institutions like TennCare.)

Besides the open-minded examination of revenue sources other than the property tax, we also want to encourage a concomitant form of relief for ordinary property holders. We regard favorably state senator Mark Norris’ proposed constitutional amendment to allow local governments to freeze property-tax levels for seniors once they reach retirement age. And we welcome also a proposal sponsored by several Shelby County legislators that would grant a property-tax freeze to Shelby County seniors who have been property owners for at least 20 years.

The latter proposal shortcuts the constitutional-amendment process, and, having already received a favorable vote from the Legislature, needs only to be approved by a two-thirds majority of the County Commission. In the same spirit in which the commission approved revenue alternatives last month, we urge them to act upon this proposal as well.

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Music Music Features

Wilco to Power

Wilco are perhaps the most mythologized band in America. In 2002, upon completing their critically lauded Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, Jeff Tweedy and his cohorts slew the major-label dragon by taking the album, which Warner-owned Reprise Records had rejected, and selling it to Warner-owned Nonesuch Records for a handsome profit. Essentially, Warner bought the album twice. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot debuted at number 11 on the Billboard album charts and was named album of the year by several publications.

Capturing all this hubbub was filmmaker Sam Jones, who released his fawning documentary, I Am Trying To Break Your Heart, just a few months after Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. The grainy, black-and-white feature chronicled the band’s ordeal recording and releasing the album, as well as the passive-aggressive infighting that led to the dismissal (and subsequent fan vilification) of longtime multi-instrumentalist Jay Bennett.

In 2004, following Tweedy’s much-publicized battle with painkillers, Wilco released a follow-up, the underwhelming and underperforming A Ghost Is Born. Several months later, two books appeared giving very different versions of the band’s history and creative method: Learning How To Die, by Chicago Tribune music critic Greg Kot, and The Wilco Book. The latter is perhaps the more interesting of the two.

As its title suggests, The Wilco Book is a form of mythologizing. Band members, engineers, and guitar techs explain their musical philosophies and unique approaches to whatever instrument they play, record, or tune. There are impressionistic passages from Tweedy about writing lyrics and constructing song cycles around vague concepts, alongside extremely technical descriptions and diagrams about stage set-ups and PA wiring. The book contains a section explaining not just how the band relates to its audience in a live setting but how its equipment is set up to complement that relationship.

The book works best when the text and images complement each other, as when the band members caption Michael Schmelling’s photographs of their instruments. Particularly enlightening are the photograph of Tweedy’s bass from his years in Uncle Tupelo and a box of multicolor guitar picks, which, Tweedy explains, are “the only way to keep track of the days of the week on the road.” But mostly, these images treat the equipment as icons, signifiers of a holy entity and therefore possessed of supernatural powers. But Wilco are not engaging in self-praise. It’s the music, not the musicians, that is elevated beyond the ordinary. The Wilco Book hints that the band members are merely conduits for a larger American pop tradition, conducting music the same way wires conduct electricity.

What will most interest hard-core Wilco fans about this book is the disk of 12 unreleased tracks, recorded during the sessions following Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and the sessions for A Ghost Is Born. On its own, this disk is an album of hidden tracks, any one of which would sound better and more excusable coming at the end of a proper album — after 12 or so minutes of silence. However, heard in conjunction with these images and passages of text, they likewise tell a story in a summary, disjointed fashion and reveal more about the band’s creative process than a straight narrative like Learning How To Die ever could.

The Wilco Book explains how Wilco make their music, but it neglects to explain why Wilco make their music, what drives and inspires them. Adding more biographical information or third-person commentaries might have illuminated the band’s restless spirit. Only Rick Moody’s essay gives an outsider’s perspective or any background on the songs themselves. The Wilco Book implies a creative intimacy with Wilco, but by not delving into their creative urges, it fails to deliver on that promise.

Such motivations, however, are not easily summed up in images or text. Only the music itself can answer the question why. Perhaps when the band members take to the Orpheum, when all the people and instruments and equipment featured in The Wilco Book join together on stage, the why of Wilco will be self-evident. n

Categories
Film Features Film/TV

Going with the Flow

After garnering the biggest buy in festival history, Craig Brewer’s Hustle & Flow led all the stories coming out of Park City, Utah, for most of the Sundance Film Festival. But a funny thing happened on the way to Brewer’s film-fest coronation: Though Brewer’s crunked-out allegory took home the festival’s Audience Award for best feature, it was beaten out for the big prize, the grand jury selection for best feature, by the other Memphis movie at Sundance this year: Ira Sachs’ Forty Shades of Blue.

Speaking by phone from his office in Manhattan’s Little Italy as he worked on finalizing a distribution deal for his film and prepared for its European premiere this week at the Berlin Film Festival, the Memphis-bred, New York-based Sachs looked back at a whirlwind week.

“It was an amazing night,” Sachs says. “It was a film I’ve been working on for seven years, and to arrive at a moment at which it had this very strong and very passionate affirmation was truly sweet.”

Sachs, whose previous feature, the made-in-Memphis The Delta, screened in competition at Sundance in 1997, knew through anecdotal evidence that his film — a love triangle of sorts between a father, a son, and the father’s younger wife — was having an impact.

“I had been in Park City for eight or nine days and had had a number of people speak to me very personally about the film and the emotions it left them with,” Sachs says. “So I had a sense that the film was leaving a mark on part of the audience. But winning was another thing. I was just really glad the jury responded to what I was trying to do.”

The film, which stars Rip Torn as a celebrated music producer married to a young Russian woman (Dina Korzun), may not be typical for a festival that Sachs has said has gotten more chaotic and commerce-centered.

“It’s a quiet film for Sundance. It’s a film about the details of emotions and passion and love and disappointment, which are things that people don’t tend to go to the cinema for today,” says Sachs, who cites the European art cinema of directors such as Federico Fellini and Francois Truffaut and American indie pioneer John Cassavetes as prime influences.

As one of only 16 films to screen in competition at Sundance, Forty Shades of Blue was sure to garner some interest regardless of its reception. But by winning the big prize, Sachs could be looking at a much larger audience for his film.

Sachs describes current negotiations to distribute the film as “full-on” and expects that a deal could be finalized by the time this article is published. But Memphis audiences shouldn’t have to wait until Forty Shades of Blue‘s theatrical release to see the big winner made in their own backyard. Sachs and local producer Adam Hohenberg both suggest that a local premiere is in the works, though the date and venue are yet to be determined. Sachs says he hopes to have something set up by spring.

“So many people and so many organizations have been supportive of the film, so we’re trying to figure out the best way to launch the film in Memphis and to also have a screening where the people who were a part of the film can see it and enjoy it,” Sachs says. “But we definitely want to have a premiere in Memphis that highlights our relationship to the city.”

If Forty Shades of Blue doesn’t exactly seem to have the box-office potential of its local companion piece, Sachs still expects it will find its audience.

“I was trying to tell a very particular kind of story, and if you tell it well, people will be there to see it,” Sachs says. “The film is full of music and it’s full of life and it’s full of a certain kind of emotion that I think makes it accessible for an audience. My expectations are actually being realized. You make a film and you do the best you can and you hope everything else follows.” n

E-mail: herrington@memphisflyer.com

Categories
Opinion

Misery Loves Company

If Mayor Willie Herenton gets weary of being a target, he can read about federal investigations in at least three other cities that involve individuals and companies he knows.

In Philadelphia, an investigation of corrupt practices at city hall, including minority-participation deals, has been going on for more than two years. Last week, an investment banker was acquitted on charges stemming from a probe of bond deals involving firms including J.P. Morgan and Goldman Sachs, two Wall Street firms that helped underwrite the MLGW-TVA bond deal and FedExForum.

The FBI bugged the Philadelphia mayor’s office, but the bug was discovered. The investigation was further hampered when the mayor’s power-broker, who was a central figure in the allegations, died of cancer. The Philadelphia Inquirer wrote Sunday that “this probe still is giving people a detailed, distressing glimpse of a pay-to-play culture” and “federal prosecutors will forge ahead in courtrooms in 2005.”

In Atlanta, former Mayor Bill Campbell is under indictment on racketeering and bribery charges. Campbell, who was mayor from 1994 to 2002, is accused of trading city contracts for illegal campaign contributions, free travel, and cash to support his gambling trips to Tunica and other locations.

The middleman in one of the deals was Reginald French, a former aide to Herenton who runs a political consulting firm and is head of the Memphis Alcohol Commission. French, who was not charged in the case, testified during a trial last year that he passed $10,000 from an Atlanta contractor to Atlanta city officials. Prosecutors said the two officials also came to Memphis to urge Herenton to hire the contractor, but Herenton turned them down. Both officials were convicted last August.

In Baltimore, a money manager named Nathan A. Chapman Jr. was convicted last year on federal charges of defrauding Maryland’s retirement system and looting his own firm. Last month, he was sentenced to seven and a half years in prison and ordered to pay $5 million in restitution. Chapman was one of the managers of the city of Memphis pension fund from 1996 to 2002, according to city finance director Charles Williamson. He was terminated when his $74 million portfolio failed to match the performance of its peer group.

“We did not lose any money,” said Williamson.

One of the witnesses against Chap-man was his former employee, Tracey Rancifer Henderson. Testifying under a grant of immunity, she said she had a sexual relationship with Chapman and received “bonus” payments from a business development account but lied about it to a federal grand jury in 2002.

Henderson is a graduate of Rhodes College who briefly served on Herenton’s staff in the mid-1990s. The Flyer has filed an open-records request with the city to get her exact dates of employment, age, title, and salary, but it had not been answered at press time. She joined Chapman’s company in 1998 to handle Tennessee government investment accounts.

Herenton says reporters are encroaching on his personal space. Since 1982, I have covered three city mayors — Wyeth Chandler, Dick Hackett, and Herenton — and three county mayors — Bill Morris, Jim Rout, and A C Wharton. At one time or another, reporters either delicately handled or backed off “personal” stories about all six mayors or their families. Herenton has pushed the envelope. Three examples:

Herenton’s frequent female companion for 15 years has been Joyce Kelly. For at least 10 years, Kelly was referred to in news stories as the mayor’s “fiancée.” Herenton is single and can see anyone he wants, but 10 years is one long engagement.

Herenton is co-developer of Baneker Estates, the upscale South Memphis subdivision where he lives. As far as is publicly known, his role is passive. But subdivisions need city permits and inspections and services. Some might say a mayor who is also a developer has an inherent conflict of interest.

Herenton’s son, Rodney, has worked in public finance for Morgan Keegan and First Tennessee (now First Horizon), both of which do business with the city of Memphis. That potential conflict of interest would not be tolerated by many corporations and could be eliminated if Rodney Herenton worked in another line of work or in another city.

Categories
Food & Wine Food & Drink

Valentine Wine

Sexy, sultry, sensuous, luscious body: Ever wonder why these words are used to describe wine? Could it be that wine leads us down the road to romance? To desire?

Wine certainly goes with Valentine’s Day. But does romance have to rule the day on Valentine’s? What if Valentine’s Day conjures up bitterness and resentment rather than romance? For the singles out there, this Hallmark holiday might be black and depressing. So I started wondering about how February 14th has become inextricably linked with romance.

Like so many other holidays, the true origin of why we celebrate Saint Valentine’s Day is filled with historical conjecture. One legend says third century Roman Emperor Claudius II declared that his soldiers must remain unmarried, since bachelors made more loyal warriors, according to the History Channel Web site. A priest under his rule, Valentine, finding this decree unromantic and unjust, defied Claudius and performed marriages anyway. Once Claudius found out, he sentenced Valentine to death, thus martyring the romantic priest for all eternity. The same legend says that Valentine fell in love with his jailor’s daughter and wrote love letters to her, which he signed “From Your Valentine.”

As for the timing of Valentine’s Day, some speculate the church established the date to “Christianize” the celebrations of the Roman fertility festival, Lupercalia, occurring each year at the ides of February on the 15th. It all became official when Pope Gelacius declared February 14th St. Valentine’s Day around 498 A.D.

By the 18th century, February 14th emerged as the day friends and lovers exchanged tokens of affection, especially notes. Today, one billion valentines are bought each year, approximately 85 percent by women, according to the Greeting Card Association. Guess now we know who is keeping the romance torch alive.

These days, Valentine wines let you stoke the fires of passion, drown out loneliness, toast to what is possible, or just get drunk with friends. Ports are a special favorite of mine on cold, winter nights to liven up spirits among friends; sweeter sparkling wines almost always please the ladies; and big red wines get you there quicker when a speedy buzz is on the agenda. Whether to lubricate or drown emotions on this Valentine’s Day, wine’s the ticket.

Recommended Wines

Carmen 2001 Nativa Cabernet Sauvignon Maipo Valley — On the nose, eucalyptus and chocolate float up, with mint, more chocolate and dark cherries following on the tongue. Soft, elegant tannins don’t offend. $15.

Cockburn 20 Year Tawny Port — Apart from the laughable spelling of this port, it’s all serious juice, full-bodied and dripping with sweet butterscotch and honey flavors. Truly delicious stuff and worth every penny. Keep in mind that port keeps pretty fresh for up to year after being opened, so it also can be an investment in future evenings. $53.

Graham 10 Year Tawny Port — One of my favorite tawny ports. Rich with intense caramel and brilliant toffee flavors. The aftertaste keeps going and going and going. This amazing port warms you from the inside and whisks away cares. Really. $30.

Banfi 2002 Rosa Regale — The most romantic of wines, a sweet, rich dessert sparkler from Italy. Bonus: It comes in a really cool bottle. Fragrant with ripe strawberries and with a sexy finish that lasts seemingly forever. $18.

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Book Features Books

The Awkward Age

Alternative Atlanta

By Marshall Boswell

Delacorte Press, 324 pp., $22

The first we see of Gerald Brinkman, age 30, he’s standing outside a church in Atlanta, he’s pulling out a cigarette, and he’s searching a clear-blue sky. Inside the church, his grad school sweetheart is about to marry a computer whiz, somewhere up above a plane is about to touch down carrying Gerald’s father, and on busy Peachtree “chaos is the rule.” This is, after all, July 1996, and the Olympic Games start in less than a week. What won’t start, however, is Gerald’s lighter, and just when he finally gets it going, he hears that the wedding is about to begin. Time, then, for Gerald to toss that unlit cigarette, and, over the course of the next two weeks in Marshall Boswell’s entertaining debut novel, Alternative Atlanta, time for Gerald to get things right and toss what he keeps getting all wrong.

Gerald’s grad school sweetheart, for example: Gerald does or doesn’t love Nora, and Nora does or doesn’t love him. Which is it? Neither knows. For another thing, Gerald’s “antiself” and “dialectical partner in confusion”: his dad in Memphis. Is this dear-old oddball set or not set to die of kidney disease and is Gerald willing or unwilling to do without a kidney? Time (two weeks, to be exact) will tell.

Beyond question, however, is man-on-the-brink Gerald Brinkman, “officially all alone in the Singlehood, a sloppy rent-cheap section of life littered with unused condoms and empty fast-food cartons and haunted everywhere by the hollow promise of pure possibility.” The possibility of what? Freedom from workaday drudgery and, on the off-chance, a smidgen of happiness? Escape from family responsibilities and untidy love interests? Or is the greater possibility that Gerald’s never graduated into adulthood at all? Even he’s not so sure, because he’s either too stoned to think about it or too hungover to care.

It’s a rotten life, he’ll grant you that, what with lighters that don’t light and a messy backyard apartment in Atlanta’s otherwise upscale, happening neighborhood, Virginia Highlands. It’s a halfway-decent rock critic’s life, though, working for Alternative Atlanta, the city’s free newsweekly. You know the type: a weekly that runs “Tom Tomorrow cartoons, ‘News of the Weird,’ exhaustive nightclub listings, and men-seeking-men personal ads.” But it beats the life of a graduate student in English literature inside a department that’s high on theory (and a lot like Emory), a life that Gerald barely tolerated for exactly one year. And it sure beats selling ads after grad school for Alternative Atlanta, a real job, for once, making real money, a job Gerald hated big-time and quit in no time.

Music, in the words of Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy: It’s been Gerald’s “savior”? Or was he “maimed by rock-and-roll”? He can recall, after five years of high school and college French that c’est la vie forms the title of a song by Emerson Lake and Palmer, but that’s about all he knows of the language. He can recall as a teenager being dragged to his father’s alma mater, Harvard, for a look-see, but what Gerald remembers is buying New Order’s Power Corruption and Lies in a Harvard Square record shop (and opting instead to attend Rhodes). But chiefly he recalls what rock’s taught him: “Don’t sell out, don’t overstay your welcome, don’t grow up.” Plus this: “[T]urn it up and keep it short.”

What rock won’t, because it can’t, teach is what to do with a dying dad who may or may not have killed Gerald’s mother in a car accident. What to do with a family friend who may or may not be Gerald’s biological father. What to do with Gerald’s feelings for Nora, who may or not may be pregnant by her new husband, Brent. Or Gerald’s feelings for Sasha, whose husband, Aaron, did know what to do with his feelings for Nora.

On the joys of coupledom and fatherhood a year after a bombing rocks the Olympics and Gerald’s world: That’s for Gerald to finally find out and for Marshall Boswell, native Memphian and English professor at Rhodes College, in Alternative Atlanta to touchingly describe — a sound ending to a solid novel that strikes all the right sad to comic chords.

Marshall Boswell reads from and signs copies of Alternative Atlanta at Burke’s Book Store on Thursday, February 10th, from 5 to 7 p.m.

Categories
Music Music Features

local beat

Judging the preliminary rounds at the Blues Foundation’s International Blues Challenge last week, I began to wonder just what the blues was all about. When I want to hear the blues, I head to Wild Bill’s citified juke joint on Vollintine or drive over to the Blue Worm on Airways. If I’ve got the time, I cruise down to Clarksdale, Mississippi, for a dose of the blues at Red’s Lounge, Sarah’s Kitchen, or any of the tiny storefront clubs that dot that city’s New World District.

But on Beale Street this past weekend, the scene was considerably more trendy: Musicians, representing dozens of blues societies from the continental U.S. to the Republic of Georgia to Australia, crowded the entertainment district for their chance at fame. A lot of these self-described “bluesmen” were clad in cowboy hats, leather pants, and motorcycle boots. Others wore dapper vests, berets, and shiny Stacey Adams shoes. All were competing in the genre’s biggest amateur competition, a kind of American Idol for the blues.

During my six-hour stint at the shoebox-sized Shake Shack, I listened to eight contestants in the solo/duo competition. These entrants came from as far away as New York state and as close as rural Pleasant View, Tennessee. Their music was likewise disparate, ranging from Stevie Ray Vaughan licks to Eric Clapton-esque ballads, soulful laments, harmonica rants, and everything in between.

One contender blew into his harp beatbox-style, while another player plucked perfect Delta chords on his beautiful resonator guitar. It was all the blues, but some acts sounded better than others. Ultimately, The Smoke Daddys — an unlikely Long Island duo featuring a Billy Joel look-alike on guitar and a long-haired rocker on a flame-painted stand-up bass — were catapulted to the finals.

At the Center for Southern Folklore Saturday afternoon, the Smoke Daddys competed against four more acts in the solo/duo category. Ultimately, Australian Jimi Hocking took the prize, which included $1,000 cash, an acoustic guitar donated by Strings & Things, and a package including free Web-site design, consulting, a handful of festival bookings, and more. At the New Daisy Theatre later that night, South Florida bluesman Joey Gilmore — representing the Blues Society of Taiwan — swept the band competition, beating out nine other acts for $1,500 cash, $4,000 in musical equipment (again, courtesy of Strings & Things), and a slot at a dozen blues festivals and events, including the 2006 Legendary Rhythm and Blues Cruise.

“The 2005 International Blues Challenge broke all records,” says Blues Foundation vice president Betsie Brown. “We had 126 acts. Add in the band members and supporters, and you’ve got several thousand people coming to Memphis for the competition.”

I caught up with one such traveler, bluesman Dov Hammer, who came from Tel Aviv, for the event. “Where we come from, nobody knows the blues, but they connect to it immediately,” says Hammer. His group, CG & the Hammer, represented Blues for Peace, an Israeli blues society.

“The blues talks about everyday life — troubles anyone anywhere on the globe might have,” Hammer explains.

Judy Peiser, the executive director of the Center for Southern Folklore, which hosted several IBC events, agrees. “This festival does a lot to provide a platform for people around the world,” she says. “There’s definitely an appreciation for it on a worldwide scale. It really allows people to plug their own feelings into the vernacular.”

“As a genre, the blues is open to interpretation, and we all have our own definitions of what it means,” says Brown. “On the scorecards, we have a section that says ‘blues content.’ It’s one of the categories that the musicians are judged on, which was interesting this year because we had an Irish group, The Brian Meakin Band, which played outstanding blues-rock standards. They wrote all their own arrangements, and they rocked the house at B.B. King’s, but they didn’t progress because they lacked strong blues content. I suspect that as we expand, we’re going to have to look at that and figure out how to make the challenge work on another level. Of course, we want to find musicians who are bluesmen in the truest sense of the word, but we’d also like to work in bands that don’t quite fit that format,” Brown explains.

“It’s like comparing apples to oranges,” says Yellow Dog Records owner Mike Powers, who served as a judge. “Even within the solo/duo and band categories, there’s such a range of sub-genres. One idea is to split up the challenge into several categories, then award the best act in each category and a ‘Best of Show.’

“Five finalists weren’t enough for the solo/duo category; there were some very deserving musicians who didn’t make the cut,” Powers notes. “But all in all, it’s a fantastic event. The bands get more professional every year. Whether they won or not, a number of them are going to have touring and recording contracts come out of this.”

E-mail: localbeat@memphisflyer.com

Categories
Film Features Film/TV

Crimes of Passion

As I try to describe Bad Education, the latest import from Spanish writer/director Pedro Almodóvar, the only other film I can think of that approximates its twists and turns is the 2001 version of Ocean’s Eleven — a film no canny reviewer would cite as comparison. And yet the masterful Ocean’s Eleven tells a very compelling and tantalizing story before turning sharply on itself, taking the viewer along at every step. It fools the viewer (as well as some of its own characters) by not being quite what it seems, and yet it somehow makes viewers feel smart and cool by including them in the spoils of self-congratulation when the key scheme goes well for the heisters.

Bad Education takes twists and turns too, fools itself and the audience, and while the proceedings are satisfying indeed, viewers are left with a dark, icky feeling that is the opposite of what Danny Ocean’s gang elicits. Both films present an enigma, wrapped in a mystery, baked in a puzzle, and sprinkled with sex. Steven Soderbergh’s Ocean is light and tangy, while Almodóvar’s Education is rich and sinful. Comparisons between the two vastly unrelated movies end there, except that both are hot and sexy in their own right.

Enrique (Fele Martinez) is, like Almodóvar, a successful directorial auteur. Lately, after a string of hits, he has “auteur’s block” (my expression, not his) and sits in his office cutting out extraordinary tabloid stories in the hopes that a good story will leap out at him. One does but it’s not from a tabloid. It is Ignacio (played by newly minted international heartthrob Gael Garcia Bernal).

Enrique and Ignacio were childhood friends and were, in fact, as in love with each other as two young boys can be before puberty sets in. Long ago, Ignacio sacrificed his virtue to a lusty priest when the two boys were caught in a compromising position in exchange for Enrique not being punished. The crafty priest molested Ignacio and expelled Enrique anyway. Sixteen years later, when Ignacio walks through Enrique’s office door, a flood of old feelings and images and thoughts rushes back. There is a short story that Ignacio has written about the two that Ignacio thinks should be a film — with him in the lead as the vengeful transvestite Zahara. To Enrique’s surprise, he is as entranced by Ignacio now as he was as a youth, and he wants very much to make this movie and get to know his old love again. But there’s something not quite right about Ignacio. Why does he want to play Zahara so badly? Who is Zahara anyway? What is he hiding? And to what length will he go to play her? I will answer only this last question: a lot.

The remainder of the plot is the unraveling of the film’s ingredients and the reappearance of its unseen players. We see the short story, titled “The Visit,” as acted out by Ignacio and then as a film by Enrique’s team of professional actors. Further still, the events are unfolded by their real-life participants. As Enrique is drawn further in by Ignacio — artistically and sexually — he is more and more disturbed by what has become of his old friend. The revelation of a mysterious younger brother complicates matters, as does the appearance of a character from “The Visit. Is it the abusive priest? Zahara? Or is it Ignacio himself?

Pedro Almodóvar is the artiste who brought us Antonio Banderas in a number of sexually charged melodramas beginning with 1982’s Labyrinth of Passion. This new film, one of Almodóvar’s most mischievous, is itself a labyrinth of passion. There is one way in and one way out, but the pleasures and treacheries in between are multitudinous and intertwined. The sex is hot but so infused with guilt and suspicion that it cannot be wholeheartedly enjoyed. There is revenge, but its targets are so pitiable that it too is difficult to relish. The story ends, but for the viewer there is no closure. Sex = pleasure = guilt = deceit = guilt = pleasure. Very Catholic, and yet, very satisfying. Almodóvar’s juggling of these elements is masterful.

Bernal, already a rising star with Amores Perros and Y Tu Mamá También, certainly delivers the goods in a manner that will solidify his position as one of the most exciting actors of his generation. The range of his portrayal as Ignacio (and, at times, Zahara) is what will make the film world — always hot in the pursuit of the next Marlon Brando or James Dean — take notice. — Bo List

Set amid the working-class neighborhoods of dreary post-WWII London, Mike Leigh’s Vera Drake, about a domestic worker who moonlights as an abortionist and is arrested and tried for her alleged crimes, is ostensibly one big downer of a movie. And yet both my wife and I walked away from it in a giddy mood, energized by the stew of images and ideas we’d just witnessed.

Vera Drake is a film of extreme virtuosity, yet it’s a virtuosity that never once calls undue attention to itself. Its effects and flourishes are subtle and inseparable from the story Leigh and his company of actors and technicians are telling. Vera Drake is so subtle and so modest in its brilliance, in fact, that it’s the rare great film that I recommend with some hesitation, because I can easily imagine reasonable, intelligent people seeing it and returning my ardor with a shrug.

This sense is most apparent in an opening stretch some viewers might rightly consider dull. In his measured, almost mundane depiction of the daily rhythms of Drake’s life, Leigh is asking for a good deal of patience — and attention — from his audience. Those well-versed in Leigh’s other films — Topsy-Turvy, Secrets & Lies, and Naked, most notably –will know that they’re in the sure hands of a meticulous craftsman and are likely to follow Leigh through to a payoff that rewards their dedication 10 times over. But those unfamiliar with Leigh’s work might start to get a little antsy as they watch Drake (Imelda Staunton), a proud little lady in shabby sensible shoes and a drab olive coat, go through her day-to-day rituals: polishing the furniture at the extravagant homes she works in, tending to her bedridden mother, helping out neighbors, and taking care of her family, a mechanic husband, tailor son, and sheepish factory-worker daughter.

Drake tackles these mundane tasks with a cheerful diligence that can only be described as pluck, and it’s ingenious how Leigh casually slips yet another activity — secretly helping women get rid of their pregnancies — into this depiction of daily ritual.

Leigh is equally casual about the potentially volatile content of Drake’s services (for which she asks no payment), the way the array of women Drake serves present a panorama of the kind of women — i.e., every woman — who might need her services and the range of emotions (anxiety, desperation, nonchalance, regret) they might have about their decisions.

Like so many of Leigh’s films, which tend to be solid, actorly, and traditional, Vera Drake has the depth and straightforward storytelling principles of a thick 19th-century novel, yet this scope is conveyed with flawless cinematic pacing. Patient scenes of lingering mid-range shots and painstakingly gradual zooms alternate with quick static shots framed like an old master; the film’s final shot is silent, lasts only a couple of second, and says volumes about the familial pain that Drake’s predicament causes.

But just because Leigh seems to be an old-fashioned storyteller, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t vary from conventional narratives in rewarding ways. Structural play in commercial movies, whether twisted chronologies or twist endings, have become so common as to be gimmicky. When Leigh varies from straight-line plotting, he has a reason and rarely calls attention to his strategies.

For instance, Vera Drake at first seems to contain two separate but equal plot lines set on a collision course, only to have them end up being parallel and for the second strand to disappear halfway through the film. But Leigh isn’t losing track of a plot strand here. The seemingly aborted story line informs everything else that happens in the film and pops back up in a devastatingly understated way near the end of the film.

Leigh earns the best director Oscar he was nominated for and won’t get, just as Staunton earns the best actress nod she has an actual shot at: An endless, silent close-up when the police show up at Drake’s door, interrupting a family celebration, is perhaps the finest movie acting to be seen over the past year.

But Staunton is far from alone here. Leigh’s trademark production method, in which characters are developed and a script is written through months-long workshops with his actors, typically results in a richness among supporting players (and supporting performances) unrivaled in contemporary cinema.

Leigh made this element of his films explicit with his brave ending for the Gilbert and Sullivan biopic Topsy-Turvy, where he turned the film over to seemingly minor supporting players for a trio of graceful concluding scenes. But Vera Drake is similarly a film where one senses that any supporting character (and the actor who plays him or her) could step up to carry a movie of his or her own.

Leigh can be prickly, as Career Girls and, especially, Naked attest. But here these supporting parts tend to bring a generosity to the film that balances out the darkness of its central story. Not every character takes the high road, but many do, under trying circumstances and in situations where the viewer truly feels that things can go any which way. This results in some unforgettable moments: The first hesitant then radiant smile of daughter Ethel (Alex Kelly) as she and suitor Reg (Eddie Marsan) announce their engagement is a small moment that can crack your heart wide open. Similar are a couple of matter-of-fact moments from Reg, the first a simple little speech about his own mother’s difficulty raising six children, the other a modest Christmas toast under the toughest of circumstances.

There may not be another working filmmaker who makes such ostensibly conventional films of such consistent quality as Leigh, and Vera Drake may well be his finest film. This outwardly bleak drama probably doesn’t fit the typical filmgoer’s notion of entertaining, but there are more elevated “e” words it inspires: engrossing, edifying, enthralling. n –C

Categories
Letters To The Editor Opinion

postscript

Medical Pot

To the Editor:

I have fibromyalgia and osteoarthritis. I also suffer from severe, recurring depression as well as high-level anxiety. I have painful muscle spasms that last for days. I’m currently taking oramorph (morphine) and valium as needed to help get to sleep.

I used marijuana recreationally and then medically (“High Time?” January 27th issue) after I was diagnosed with fibro in 1992. I grew my own supply until the penalties became too stringent. I am a 48-year-old male and at one time served as a state commissioner of Indian Affairs.

Marijuana is the only medication that has relieved my pain to any extent. With only a few hits of smoked marijuana, my spasms stopped and I realized that I had been in constant pain. I was also able to sleep like I hadn’t in many years. To me, the health benefits of marijuana far outweigh the health risks, even compared to my current prescribed medications.

Because of the severe criminal penalties, I have not used marijuana in many years and have to take VA-prescribed addictive opiates to find little relief. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help with passage of the medical marijuana bill.

John Hedgecoth

Crossville, Tennessee

Easy’s Over

To the Editor:

Mike Ginsburg, general manager of radio station WTTQ, says his station received hate mail due to the liberal tone of the station’s new programming (“The Fly-by,” February 3rd issue). I don’t hate the station, but I do hate that a beautiful easy-listening station, WJCE, had to be closed down to make way for WTTQ. No longer can Memphians hear Ol’ Blue Eyes, Ray Charles, Tony Bennett, Johnny Mathis, etc. No longer can we get a CNN news update every 30 minutes. Turning to WJCE in the morning made my day.

R.I.P. WJCE!

Barbara Z. Blair

Memphis

A Funeral “Home”

To the Editor:

You have to give state senator John Ford a lot of credit. He has to be the busiest and hardest-working man in Memphis (“The Fly-by,” February 3rd issue). Just think how much time he must spend earning $357,000 from consulting. He would have to be working 12-hour days to justify being paid that kind of money. Where can he possibly find the time to be a state senator, manage two expensive homes, father (at least) six children, run a funeral home, and be such a shining example to the youth of Memphis?

Obviously, Ford took the funeral “home” literally, since it’s the only thing he actually owns in his district.

Bruce Carlock

Nashville

A Finger in the Dike?

To the Editor:

You people need to chain Tim Sampson to his computer and feed him only if he produces a weekly column (“We Recommend,” January 27th issue). Our civilization is crumbling after decades of neglecting education, health care, and the infrastructure. The flag-waving, massive budget deficits, and vulgar materialism behind all of Bush’s policies to make the rich richer only hasten our decline.

Maybe our country can’t be saved, but whatever happens, villains need to be recognized for what they are. Sampson does that delightfully well. What if the little Dutch boy had kept his finger in the dike only every other week?

Greg Williams

Memphis

Editor’s note: Tim says he can only write every other issue, and we believe him. We have no idea (nor do we want to know) where Tim keeps his finger on off-weeks.

HIDDEN TREASURE

To the Editor:

Last week a dead body was discovered in Overton Park. A few days later, a policeman was shot while trying to arrest someone there. If the city would clean out the brush and make the park more open, it would be more attractive for joggers, bicyclists, and walkers. Police on bikes or horses could patrol the area, as they do in Central Park in New York. We have a beautiful park in the middle of the city that’s being underutilized. If we don’t do something with this treasure, the problems will only get worse.

John Gary

Memphis

Categories
Sports Sports Feature

Supporting Cast

When I suggested a couple of weeks ago that the Grizzlies’ string of injuries might have actually helped the team, this wasn’t quite what I had in mind — not losing your best player and sole irreplaceable part for two weeks and counting, and being without three other key members of the rotation.

But with Pau Gasol, James Posey, Earl Watson, and Bonzi Wells all in street clothes, the shake-up of the team’s regular rotation has provided a chance to get a look at supporting players. And Grizzlies fans have to feel good about what they’ve seen from the young backcourt tandem of Antonio Burks and Dahntay Jones, who both posted career highs in the Grizzlies’ unlikely win over the Phoenix Suns last week.

Entering the season, there seemed to be two impediments to Jones becoming a legitimate NBA player: his ability to defend without fouling and to hit outside shots. He’s shown a substantial improvement in both areas. As a rookie, Jones committed a foul every six minutes. In his recent stretch of starts, he’s dialed it down to a foul every 10 minutes, which is enough to keep him on the court. As a shooter, his abysmal 28 and 25 percent numbers from the field and the three-point line as a rookie have shot up to 43 and 37 percent, respectively.

Jones still isn’t a terribly skilled offensive player. Like Stromile Swift, he has trouble finishing plays in the paint that he can’t dunk, but he’s become quite adept at hitting the three-point shot from the corner, which gives the second-year player an offensive skill to hang his hat on.

Jones’ development pales next to the unexpectedly fine play of second-round pick and hometown hero Burks. The point guard still makes his share of rookie mistakes: Against Phoenix, he drove the lane and drew a whistle, only to pass the ball to a teammate instead of flinging it at the basket. It cost the team free throws and drew a stare of disbelief from Coach Mike Fratello. Against the Clippers, Burks lost track of his defensive assignment — point guard Rick Brunson — after making a free throw and gave up an open three-pointer at the other end. And Burks still labors to get the team into its halfcourt offense. His passes seem a few inches off, which, with the speed of the pro game, can be the difference between an open shot and no shot. But Burks has still been better than anyone could have reasonably expected.

The form on Burks’ outside shot isn’t pretty, but it keeps going in. Against Phoenix and the Clippers, Burks shot six of 13 in 26 minutes, including three of five from three-point range and five of six free throws. Burks’ physical tools are impressive. Everyone knows that Burks is lightning-fast with the ball, even by pro standards, but his strength has also been a plus. Last week, the Clippers tried to post him up with guard Marko Jaric, who is seven inches taller. But Burks used his strength to front Jaric so well that the Clippers soon abandoned the ostensible mismatch.

What’s been perhaps most impressive is Burks’ ability to break his defender down at the end of the shot clock to get good shots for himself or teammates, something he did repeatedly against the Suns and the Clippers last week. This is an extremely important skill for an NBA point guard, and with just a few games under his belt, Burks already looks more adept at it than three-year vet Earl Watson.

With the true backup backcourt — Watson and Wells — set to return to the lineup, Jones and Burks will likely take a backseat again. But they’ve shown enough to suggest that they could be ready for a regular rotation spot next season. With Watson a free agent and with the team holding an option on Wells, changes are likely, either next off-season or perhaps even before the trade deadline at the end of this month. One thing’s certain: The play of Jones and Burks has given the Grizzlies more options to work with.