Warm as the Spring, gentle and sweet, true as The Alamo . . .
Warm as the Spring, gentle and sweet, true as The Alamo . . .
. . . by Trev Gibb — demo version recorded in his bathroom.
Epic, majestic, magisterial — it’s hard to find words equal to Robert Caro’s multi-volume biography of Lyndon Johnson, now just one volume away from completion.
Five massive volumes on any historical figure might seem like overkill, but not in this case, because Caro is just as interested in the social and political context of Johnson’s life as he is in biographical details.
As a congressman in the 1930s, Johnson was instrumental in bringing electricity to his district, the hard-luck Hill Country of Texas, where Johnson was born. Caro details the dazzlingly complex political maneuvers Johnson employed to do this, but he also wants you to know what the accomplishment meant — so he devotes a long chapter to describing the day-to-day life of Hill Country ranchers and farmers, and particularly Hill Country ranchers’ and farmers’ wives, in the days before electrification. The result is the best, most powerful and most harrowing evocation of daily frontier life and labor ever written.
And this is just one example of Caro’s ability to illuminate the world Johnson moved in, the world that made him and the world he changed, for better and for worse.
Johnson was a fabulous, mythic creature, not least because he understood the way American political life was changing in the 20th Century — understood how a ruthless and tireless man could ride those changes to a position of unprecedented power.
The story of Johnson’s life is wildly entertaining, wildly inspiring, wildly depressing — because it exposes the deep corruption of the American political process along with its unaccountable ability to accomplish great things.
You simply can’t understand America in our own time without understanding the dark genius and eccentric idealism of Lyndon Johnson. He was a man who, like America itself, can never be explained or fully known — a man at the very heart of the paradox that is America.
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Jacques Demy’s films are odd combinations of whimsey, melancholia, fantasy, grace and bittersweet transcendence. They are always sincerely humane but sometimes, for me, a bit thin, a bit precious.
Lola, his first feature film, from 1961, has its moments of genuine magic, and one wrenching dramatic confrontation, but it has an anodyne quality overall. Demy loves to set up situations that threaten disaster but end up o. k., or even magically well. This can start to seem a little too pat and cute at times.
Of course, at other times Demy deals with genuine emotional disasters that are only redeemed by resignation, acceptance and charity, and his films can be deeply moving when he ventures into that sort of psychic territory. Essentially, Demy’s work is melodrama, inflected in quirky ways — sometimes a bit too fecklessly, sometimes in ways that are surprising and amusing, sometimes in ways that touch the heart memorably.
There’s never been another film artist quite like him. At his best he’s eccentrically brilliant, and even when he’s not at his best he reveals a spirit that’s sweetly endearing. Lola is not, to my mind, Demy at his best, but it’s entertaining and charming enough in its own modest terms. Raoul Coutard’s wonderful black-and-white cinematography, all done on location in Nantes, is alone worth the price of admission.
How’s a rose supposed to bloom?
Lang Clay sends this cover of a very curious comic book from the early 1950s. Hadacol was a once-popular patent medicine that originated in the 1940s. It contained various vitamins and even more alcohol. It was said to promote health when taken four times a day, one tablespoon diluted in water after each meal and before bed, though there were pharmacies in dry counties that sold it by the shot, for the alcohol kick.
The inventor of Hadacol, Dudley J. LeBlanc, a Louisiana state senator, published a comic book for kids that promoted the wondrous elixir. It starred a mild-mannered man who gained extraordinary powers when he took a slug of the stuff. Sales of Hadacol were enormous but it turned out that LeBlanc spent more on promotion than he took in in sales, and his enterprise collapsed. Wisely, LeBlanc had sold the company just before that happened.
For more on the medicine, and the comic, go here.
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