Sherlock!

The exclamation point is my addition to the Great Detective's name, expressing my continued affection for the Arthur Conan Doyle character and his excellent reproduction in modern dress by the BBC, starring Benedict Cumberbatch (oh, what a name is that1) and Martin Freeman as Holmes and Watson.


For me, the last really good Sherlock was Jeremy Brett, and that was the 90s. The idea of updating him may not be particularly original--after all, even Basil Rathbone flashed forward from late18th Century Holmes to WWII Holmes in name of the war effort. And I did not think he lost anything in that translation. But bringing him into the 21st Century, hmmmm?  Well, for me it works, because they have kept all the basic premises of whom these men are--and personally I have liked the last few later versions concept of smarting up Watson--which really is more true to the written stories anyway.


So, about a year ago, I was flipping channels and ran into the end of the first episode (they do them more like movies than a TV show) of Season One--where Holmes and Watson meet. Holmes lives at 221B Baker Street, which is next door, in modern London to a little cafe called "Speedy's".  Watson is a doctor back from his war, Afghanistan where he was wounded, in the leg. Holmes is the violin playing, fast thinking, easily bored character, 7 percent solution using man we need him to be, in rooms that manage to be modern without sacrificing the feeling of well crafted clutter, and they give him a little bit of the air of a throwback to an earlier time, while incorporating all the interests of the old time Holmes (in the newest scientific methods) into the world where such interest is commonplace--but our new Holmes is more adapt than anyone could ever be at it. I love this relationship between the two men, the psychological closed offness (he's probably either a schizoid or Asperger type, our Mr. Holmes) of Holmes, the sexual ambiguity of his character that comes mostly from his focus on other things that interest him more, the next case, and the heterosexual insecurity of Watson at being considered too close to Holmes (in a more recent episode he asks "what are they saying when they say I'm a confirmed bachelor?"). What I see is a close relationship not based on attraction but on the essence of soul friendship.  And it's a relationship that requires work, for Watson, having to try to tame the narcissism of his all too smart friend and Holmes trying to learn an empathy that does not come natural to him, plus the idea of having any friends.


So, I had to rush out and see if there was a DVD, since likely it was that if I was seeing it for the first time on Public Television, it was a year or more old already, having been broadcast in the UK. And there it was. I refreshed myself on the first episode and then the remaining two, and then, not hearing about whether or not it had taken off there in the mother country, or here in the colonies, hoping that it had, cause I wanted more.


And then the other day, I ran across a part of Season Two on PBS, the second of the three episodes each of which uses the original stories, this one the Hound of the Baskervilles, wherein we find out that the Hound is a product of the chemically altered mind. And Holmes almost doesn't realize it and thinks he cannot trust his OWN eyes. And off I went to Barnes and Noble and found it, and watched it, meeting the 21st century Irene Adler, and oh, yes, being reintroduced to James Moriarity, more sociopathic than anything I've seen on TV, a bit more Heath Ledger Joker, but not so much that you despise him quite as readilly as, well, I did the Joker of the Batman movie.


Happy Camper am I, with Downton Abbey coming back soon, and knowing that Sherlock is a hit.

Forget the movies they are making right now--which are insulting to Conan Doyle's conception. This TV show is an homage.  As for me, I just got a Sherlock ringtone!

Exorcism Exercise at the Geffen

I have never read the book, "The Exorcist" nor seen the movie of the same name. Oh, of course, I saw clips of the movie. I mean it was the talk of the 1970s, and it still gets on lists of horror films to be seen. But I avoided it, even though part of the movie was filmed at the language lab of my college.
If the movie, and maybe the book, asks the question, "Do you believe in the devil", well, it really wasn't a question for me. I believe there was a beautiful angel, Lucifer, the bearer of light, who decided that he did not want to answer to his Creator.  He was cast out of heaven to begin his dominion in hell, cut off from the Divinity he so ruthlessly sought to wrest. And so began the work of the Tempter against God's other creatures of conscience, mankind. 


I had a couple of encounters with him, as far as I am concerned, or some part of his realm. When I was a kid, whenever I stayed at a certain friend's house, I always felt uncomfortable, like someone or something evil was watching me. I discounted it until I idly mentioned to my friend my creepy feeling. She said, matter of factly, as I recall, "Oh, we have a ghost".  When their schizophrenic next door neighbor broke into their house while we were lunching on day, carrying a knife, holy water, and candles, I came as close to the devil's business as I ever wanted to do. And I'd heard about some of the scenes in the movie, which I simply found distasteful--they seemed too blasphemous to me, with my Catholic background.


So, I don't know exactly what made me say "yes" to the invitation of Len Speaks to see the recently opened stage version at the Geffen Playhouse. Maybe it was that he told me it was less horror (and so I later read) than psychological drama. But having said, "yes" I can now say dear Len Speaks, I considered backing out. I won't go so far as feeling that by going I was maybe committing a sin, but it was pretty close to that feeling. 


I was relieved we were in the balcony. If there was something ugly I'd not get a clear view. And we were close to the exit, just in case I needed to go into a hallway to save my soul. I was a bit discomfited immediately by the single set, which stands for the home, and bedroom of the possessed girl, Regan, that looked exactly like the inside of a Church, a Catholic Church. On the altar like table, which doubled as Regan's bed (oh, yes, those creative theatre folk!) there was a set up for the Mass, a Chalice was covered by a veil, and the girl's bedsheet was also the altar covering. I couldn't miss the big cross hovering over the altar/bed, but I did initially miss the lamp that signifies the Presence of God in the tabernacle. When I saw it, I cringed a little.  The first thing the girl does (played happily by a child like adult), is take that chalice and the large unconsecrated host and breaks it up, like a priest, turning the chalice upside down and using the pieces in a Ouija board sort of "game" in which she is summoning the evil within her. It was not looking good, but Djinn what did you think you were going to "Carousel"?


You know the story, right? Mom, Chris, played to exquisite woodenness by Brooke Shields (who I think is a good actress, wrong role), is an atheist, whose beautiful daughter is acting really weird. She urinates in odd places, like on people's shoes. She speaks in languages she shouldn't know. She cusses a lot in them. She predicts the death of an"uncle" an actor who drinks too much and like one or more of the producers or writers of the play, is a smug "fallen away" Catholic. I say smug, not because of the fallen away part, but because they make it sound like only intelligent people "fall away." Oh, and Regan/Devil actually kills dear uncle, which is why Chris doesn't want any kind of social services, or other authorities involved. Doctors can't help or try to explain the child's behavior away by calling it plain old mental illness. So, she goes to a priest, Fr. Damien, who is busy doubting God, the devil, and Daniel Webster played to exquisite woodenness by an actor whose name I don't remember. (You'd think he was dealing with an errant fly the way he reads his lines). He is also feeling guilty about how he treated his mother in her last illness. Chris, the non-believer, has to exhort Damien, the kinda believer, to get an exorcist in there to deal with Regan. And the devil is looking forward to another fight with that particular exorcist, Fr. Merrin. (Richard Chamberlain who is back to using his English accent. Don't get me wrong, I have a copy of the Thorn Birds and I love Richard Chamberlain, but Fr. Merrin is really nothing more than a way to move the story along, whenever the dialogue is unable to do it). Fr. Merrin does a preliminary exorcism in which Regan levitates (thanks to Penn of Penn and Teller amid her other gyrations),  Fr. Merrin though has a weak heart from the last encounter. And he dies rather quietly (and very much like Father whats-his-name in The Thorn Birds) requiring Damien to get out of his civvies and into his cassock and sacrifice himself to banish the devil from the little girl in the exorcism majeur. Oh,the sacrifice is emphasized by a spray of blood from the hovering cross. In between there is banter about God, the nature of evil, doubt, belief, man's responsibility (maybe), free choice. For my part, and forgive the flippancy, Lord, God seems to be wisely absent from the proceedings nothwithstanding the light signfying Him..


The execution of this play, apparently going to Broadway (say it ain't so), was, amateurish for all the pablum in various high brow papers and on line sites about the streamlining of the book and avoiding the horror of the film. One of the reviewers said the dialogue was stilted. I think that was generous. With rare moments of coherence the script was abysmal. They were going for gravitas. I will stop short of saying they got "drivel", but that too is a close one. The voices, often saying the Hail Mary, were distracting and reminded me of an episode in Star Trek where Captain Kirk was caught in a world of too many people, but thought his ship was empty. Everybody drank out of chalices, like they just had them lying around the house. I'm guessing that this was considered a really stunning idea by the artistes. Heavy handed.


Since the book was written by a Catholic, and I've never read the book, I cannot say whether the massive misunderstanding and mockery of the Catholic faith is Blatty's or the adaptation. There was also confusion on the part of the play writers about whether it is the Devil or man who causes things like Rwanda. It ain't the devil folks, although I'm sure he's delighted. 


Frankly, to be fair, I'm not sure this is a story that can be done on stage. Maybe if you insist, one does  it a la "My Conversation with Andre" where an atheist, an agnostic and a priest sit and talk about these weighty subjects. Or maybe it's just better to leave it all alone and let philosophers and theologians have at it, which by the way, they have for thousands of years.


And if you insist on going to Broadway, well, it really needs work.  

July to July

During this last life changing year, I had the chance to read a book the name of which has been escaping me. It was written by a woman who used to work for Martha Stewart Enterprises in a high powered, money making position..At the height of her success, she walked away to live in her ramshackle home in some rural community,writing and gardening and discovering herself. Throughout the book she repeated the question "Who am I if I'm not XXXXXX. @MarthaStewart.com?" 


I resonated with her story, although in my case, I did not walk away from my career, as those of you who read this blog know. I might have, even likely, decided to leave in a few months or a year, or two, but I didn't. Having invested 25 years of time, sweat, passion, doubt, mission, doing my truly niche job, at which, if I do finally say so myself I was quite skilled, I was, literally in the space of five minutes, no longer Djinn, Assistant Chief Trial Counsel.. For the speed in which I and several of my colleagues were told our long services were no longer needed, it almost seemed that I had never been there at all. I knew I was not indispensable, as I have no doubt written here before, but to find out how utterly dispensable I was, wreaked havoc on my not inconsiderable ego. Everything, from getting good grades at the Mount back in the Bronx, to graduating magna cum laude at Fordham, to tolerating law school, which I thought a useless preparation for the real world, to working for the Corporation Counsel as an intern during law school (the summer of Three Mile Island), to the nuttiness of the Law Offices of a Madison Avenue lawyer, passing the Bar in California, the nuttiness of another Law Office on Wilshire Boulevard had led to that quarter of a century as an ethics lawyer and prosecutor. And then it was gone. I was one big step behind the author who made the knowing and intentional decision to leave her career. I needed to absorb the trauma of forced separation before I could do anything else. I credit myself (oh, yes, yet again!) with having done better at that and more quickly than I would have supposed given my personality. And for the last year, I have been trying to see who I am if I'm not, Djinn, Assistant Chief Trial Counsel.


Well, first I began writing more in this blog. I thoroughly enjoy it. A few good friends and some lovely strangers in places like China and Russia apparently have been among my audience. For a few months, I wrote in a religious blog, describing the spiritual dimensions of becoming unemployed, including charity, and forgiveness and recognition of Providence even in the most unpleasant of life's events. I almost took a part time legal job at the behest of a good friend and old colleague, getting into the ground floor of a special administrative court for the Transit Authority. But I decided that it was the "wrong" road for me just then. I have remained an active lawyer, at least for 2012. No matter how much you discourage it, people insist on asking legal questions. I have referred more people to the Legal Referral Service of the Bar than almost I did when I worked there. Lightening would have to strike twice for me to find the kind of career that fit my psychological being so well. I am not holding my breath.


I have done a fair amount of reading. I painted a couple of canvases. I began a renovation of a condo I now own since Dad died. It has been a long slow haul and remains unfinished. I took three voice over classes and remain on line occasionally sending an audition. Because it costs money to do a demo tape and for now my cash flow is flowing into the direction of the renovation, I have put that on a temporary hold. I read for Learning Ally.  I help in a couple of charities, one very dear to my heart, also written about in these pages, The Sisters Servants of Mary, Ministers to the Sick. I have begun to pray more, though distraction remains a challenge. I go more often to Daily Mass, serve there, and bring communion to one or two sick. I decided to stop the ministry at the hospital--it just wasn't a good fit. As you also may know I finished the first draft of a memoir I may never publish, and am now 100 pages into a revision. It was way too long at 417 pages. It is at present 371, with much much more to cut.  I have found that I don't write at any set time. The mood strikes. I can sit for an hour or several hours, or minutes. I just let it happen.


The days unfold. As one of the colleagues who left the Bar on the same day I did has noted for herself, I have learned not to be self-punitive because every day does not have the same structure. There has been the odd crisis here and there, but I find myself happier overall than ever I was in many a year. I've renewed my passport in case I get over that renewed fear of flying and I actually do take a trip somewhere, like Ireland or England or both. Now that there are no cats (although a new cat in the neighborhood has been visiting more than I'd like) in the backyard I started to feed the birds and it is a peaceful marvel to watch them dive into the little container to get their fills.

I used to think about "fame and fortune", moving "up" in the world. I moved up, in a limited way, and then it was gone. That was a lesson in humility. I have come to believe that humility is the key to happiness. I'm not very good at it, the idea of "fame and fortune" still intrudes, but I get to practice every day. If you're laughing, really I am trying!  I realize that people will perceive me in a largely different way than I perceive myself. I can't say which of us is right. I used to struggle with that, a lot. I needed to believe that my perceptions were reasonable. I am doing my best, that's all I can say.

My mother died when she was 48. My dad when he was 90 I don't know where the ball in the roulette wheel will fall for me. But what I've come to, with occasional lapses of old neuroses, is that every day is a world unto itself to be embraced and savored.  I'm going outside now with a glass of wine to say Evening Prayer. That may not be how the monks are doing it, but there you are, one Djinn's approach.


Let me leave you with a small piece of a prayer by a very famous lawyer who saw his fame and his life taken from him for what he perceived a greater Good.  I used to have it hanging on my lamp in my office.

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I am surely no longer Djinn, Assistant Chief Trial Counsel.. Maybe I never really was. Who I am remains to be seen, in God's good time. But overall I think it's been a good year.   

Manilow (Still Has Some) Magic

Life is really one big circle. In 1977, I was working for a New York radio station, courtesy of a kind friend, Joe Persek, WXLO, 99X. I had put off law school for six months thinking that I might try my hand at radio broadcasting, the college version of which I had done already for five years.  The main job I had was related to the weekly top ten. One afternoon, in between management sweeps of staff, I was passing by Jay Thomas' studio and there was a freshly famous (by a few years) Barry Manilow. And fresh faced, with the shaggy hair of the period, casual jeans dress, and, of course, the renowned nose that somehow did not prevent him from being kind of attractive. It was definitely the oozing charm. I didn't speak to him, of course, respecting the boundaries of famous/not famous and employee/stay out of the way rules.

Last night, 35 years later, he brought his now retro showman self (he made a joke about how he was the "Justin Bieber" of his day, apt, but a little sad for those of us of a certain age), to the Hollywood Bowl. As he said, he's been a lot of places in between. So have I, though perhaps not so glamorous. And so too the mostly senior-ish crowd who sang every every song that Manilow wrote (yep, including "I Write the Songs") when all of us were fresh-faced and on our way to who knew where.  I was tempted to ask "Who ARE all these old people?" until I realized that someone was probably saying that about me!

But I didn't feel old when I walked in there, and I surely did not while I marvelled at Barry's style and grace, even when in lower registers he seemed to struggle with his voice. Then he'd pull out the Manilow I remembered. I felt like I needed to run home and stuff my I-pod with songs I had actually forgotten about, "Even Now" among them.  How did I forget to put Manilow on there?  Sacrilegious almost!

I remember pushing the door open of WFUV's engineering room as "Mandy" played time and time again, when, was it 1975?  I watched the crowd last night waving their red glow sticks and I could touch the nostalgia, the sense of delight at a summer time machine evening, each of us conjuring memories of where we were when we heard each song.. And yet, there was a connection to 2012, as some of the crowd clearly had not been there back in the "day". The kids next to me couldn't have been more than 20 something. And as some of the more romantic tunes were crooned, the young man with the Corona put his arm around the young girl with the tasteful glass of white, and they smiled at one another. 

I see why the old talk about the past so much- people and things which used to be right there, part of a taken for granted existence--it's something to hold onto as life whisks by. When a Manilow appears on stage, we can say, "Oh, things are safe, things are like we remember." And then we lose someone like Andy Griffith, and we have to recognize that things just aren't the same, and neither are any of us.

But for an hour and a half last night, we had the magic of old. And Manilow was still around to give it to us.

Even now.