Saturday, January 28, 2023

Gioia on the Morning

Ted Gioia
Ted Gioia (pronounced Joyah) is an interesting man. I first encountered him in a YouTube video talking about the grim future of music in the age of TikTok. He's a jazz musician and currently holds forth on a variety of subjects from his newsletter The Honest Broker on Substack. In one of his recent posts, he outlined what he called "My 8 Best Techniques for Evaluating Character." When I began to read the post, I only got as far as #1:

Over the years, I developed several techniques for assessing character—and a few of them I’d even describe them as secret skills, because such matters are rarely discussed and some of the best evaluation methods aren’t widely known .

The careful application of these techniques has saved me a lot of heartache and agita. My dealings with people tend to be positive nowadays, and mostly because I’ve put a lot of effort into ensuring that they are good, trustworthy people. This is valuable both on the upside and downside.


1. Forget what they say—instead look at who they marry.

This is a sure-fire technique, and it tells you important things about people you can’t learn any other way. A person’s choice of a spouse—or if they aren’t married, their closest lifelong partner—is much more revealing than anything they say or do in public.


This choice tells you about their own innermost longings, expectations, and needs. It tells you what they think of themselves, and what they think they deserve in life (or will settle for). It is, I believe, the clearest indicator of priorities and values you will ever find.


So the next time you’re introduced to strangers at the party, and they start talking business, spend at least a little time sizing up their partners. If you don’t pay attention to this, you will have lost an important source of insights, and may pay a high price as a result.


At this point in Gioia's post I stopped reading. Wow, his standards are a lot higher than mine. He sounds like he never made a mistake in love - assuming that his marital "choice" had anything to do with love.


And, right off the bat, perhaps I should simply cry "mea culpa," since, by Gioia's standards, my marital choices were revelatory of my flawed character. Gioia would probably not want me for a business partner or as a candidate for city mayor (since he clearly isn't providing his readers with criteria for choosing friends). 


But I think Ted Gioia is dead wrong about this - his #1 rule for judging a person's character should totally avoid their choice of spouse. I have good friends who made disastrous mistakes in marriage. I didn't hold it against them and it never made me question their character. My dear late sister married - and divorced - five times. What should I have done, disown my own sister because her choices told me that her character was deeply flawed?


And even if Gioia is only talking about a choice of business partners, why should his criteria be so different from those he uses in his choice of friends? 


I would argue that a spouse, assuming that one is marrying for love, is rarely a matter of choice. In defense of my argument, I recall a brief speech made by Raúl Julia in the movie Tequila Sunrise that has stuck with me almost thirty-five years since I first heard it: 


Friendship is the only choice in life you can make that's yours! You can't choose your family! Goddamn it, I've had to face that! No man should be judged for whatever direction his dick goes! That's like blaming a compass for pointing north, for Chrissake! Friendship is all we have.


The "choice" of a spouse - of a person one loves - is probably the only occasion in one’s life when making a mistake is permissible - and completely understandable. And no one should ever interfere or offer advice before, during or after. And saying "I told you so" will warrant a punch in the mouth.


But it goes much deeper than this, and it brings into my argument two of the greatest intellects of history: Leonardo da Vinci and Sigmund Freud. 


When I was in college I first encountered a quote by Leonardo that went something like this: "Nothing can be loved unless it is first known." At first, like everyone else, I saw the quote as pure sagacity, drawing a direct line between love and knowledge. But after doing a little more living, the quote started to worry me: I realized that it simply wasn't true. I speculated about the veracity behind the remark, arriving at my own conclusion: 


I used to think that Leonardo had somehow got it backwards, that nothing can be known unless it is loved. Now I know that there are few things more irreconcilable than love and knowledge. But it is a beautiful thought - and perhaps all the more beautiful for being so untrue.


Years later I discovered that Sigmund Freud, in his fascinating character study of Leonardo, commented on his strange quote and had come to the same conclusion that I had:


In an essay of the Conferenze Florentine the utterances of Leonardo are cited, which show his confession of faith and furnish the key to his character. "Nessuna cosa si può amare nè odiare, se prima no si ha cognition di quella." That is: One has no right to love or to hate anything if one has not acquired a thorough knowledge of its nature. And the same is repeated by Leonardo in a passage of the Treaties on the Art of Painting where he seems to defend himself against the accusation of irreligiousness:


"But such censurers might better remain silent. For that action is the manner of showing the workmaster so many wonderful things, and this is the way to love so great a discoverer. For, verily great love springs from great knowledge of the beloved object, and if you little know it you will be able to love it only little or not at all."


The value of these utterances of Leonardo cannot be found in that they impart to us an important psychological fact, for what they maintain is obviously false, and Leonardo must have known this as well as we do. It is not true that people refrain from loving or hating until they have studied and became familiar with the nature of the object to whom they wish to give these affects, on the contrary they love impulsively and are guided by emotional motives which have nothing to do with cognition and whose affects are weakened, if anything, by thought and reflection.


Leonardo only could have implied that the love practiced by people is not of the proper and unobjectionable kind, one should so love as to hold back the affect and to subject it to mental elaboration, and only after it has stood the test of the intellect should free play be given to it. And we thereby understand that he wishes to tell us that this was the case with himself and that it would be worth the effort of everybody else to treat love and hatred as he himself does.


Freud concludes that it was the exceptional nature of Leonardo, in which the emotional impulses of art were often interrupted by his analytical penchant, that prevented him from surrendering, like everyone else, to the compulsions of love. It also prevented him from completing more than the fewer than twenty extant art works that are attributed to him.



Saturday, January 21, 2023

Beat the Devil

The death of Gina Lollobrigida on Monday has spurred this old horse to finish my review of Beat the Devil, which was her first movie in English and easily her best. To John Huston, the film was an escapade, a "lark," as he later called it.

Because of his Leftist political activities, the Englishman Claud Cockburn, a cousin of Evelyn and Alec Waugh, chose to publish his first novel, a thriller called Beat the Devil, under the pseudonym James Helvick. The book is a more hardboiled look at Brits Abroad than Cyril Connolly's The Rock Pool, but it’s in the same rich vein. In 1953, John Huston had been living part-time in Ireland and was a friend of Cockburn’s. Seeing potential in the book as another star vehicle for Humphrey Bogart, with whom he had already made five films, Huston bought the rights to the novel for $3,000 and hired Cockburn to assist him in the writing of the screenplay. After initial drafts, Huston replaced Cockburn with Truman Capote as co-scenarist for reasons that aren't exactly clear, as I will explore later. 


The film drops us into the company of quasi-sinister grifters in Ravello, a town overlooking the Amalfi coast. Billy Dannreuther (Humphrey Bogart) is an American “down on his luck” who has fallen in with four equally dubious characters: Peterson (Robert Morley), Julius O’Hara (Peter Lorre), Ravello (Marco Tulli) and Major Jack Ross (Ivor Barnard). They are presently working on a scheme to cash in on uranium deposits recently discovered in British East Africa (Kenya). But we quickly discover that nothing is what it seems.


Into this nest of - albeit toothless - vipers come Harry and Gwendolyn Chelm (Edward Underdown and Jennifer Jones), a married British couple who appear to be tourists, but Gwendolyn assures anyone who cares to hear that her husband owns valuable property in - guess where - British East Africa. Billy and his wife Maria (Gina Lollabrigida) go to work on the Chelms, Billy on Gwendolyn and Maria on Harry, to find out if any of Gwnedolyn’s claims are for real. The plot thickens considerably until you realize that everything is a ruse to get you to sit still long enough (94 minutes in fact) to enjoy Huston’s send-up of his own The Maltese Falcon, released in 1940.


However Beat the Devil started out, Huston and Capote turned it into a spoof. According to one legend, the script was written piecemeal as the shooting proceeded. But this story is contradicted by Claud Cockburn’s son, Alexander, in the introduction to a new edition of the novel:


Though not an immediate success, the film of Beat the Devil has developed a cult following over the years, and in the US quite often bobs up on late night TV. One aspect of this cult caused some irritation to my father and indeed to the rest of the family. The film's credits announced the screenplay was by Truman Capote, from a novel by James Helvick. Admirers of the film professed to find evidence of Capote's mastery in every interstice of the dialogue and over the years Capote did nothing to dissuade them from this enthusiasm. But in fact his own contribution was limited to some concluding scenes, for it had chanced that during the final days of shooting in Italy the end had suddenly to be altered: as far as I can remember, the locale of the scenes had to be changed in a hurry. In the emergency, with my father back in Ireland, Capote, who happened to be visiting the set at the time, was drafted to do the necessary work and his name - more alluring than that of the unknown Helvick or the ex-Red Cockburn - scrambled into the credits. Although reissued as a paperback in 1971 Beat the Devil has been, till now, almost unobtainable and it's not the least of my pleasures that admirers of the film may now see that the inspiration for that dialogue came not from Capote but from my father.


My first impression on seeing the film was what a blast everyone involved in the making of it must've had for however many weeks in Ravello it took to complete. While Beat the Devil is effective as a spoof of the sort of film of which The Maltese Falcon is a perfect example, it actually pokes fun at itself as well. It makes one wonder what could’ve happened to Huston - and to Hollywood - in the thirteen years between. Certainly the war had something to do with his reluctance to commit to shooting exclusively in the studio, and it only proved the extent to which Huston had always been an outsider (and perhaps why, though it remains a mystery, Huston was never embraced by the auteurist gang).


But I can’t help thinking that making a self-mocking spoof of a classic film demonstrated, on Huston’s part anyway, a loss of nerve. No longer content to make films that stay within the confines of a genre, he chose instead to explode it - for laughs. It reminded me of François Truffaut when, in 1973, he turned away from making films like Two English Girls and The Wild Child and made La Nuit Americain, aka Day for Night - a film about Francois Truffaut, starring Truffaut, making a film called Je Vous Présente Paméla (Meet Pamela). 


Day for Night was commercially successful, but Truffaut’s friends saw it as a sign of creative bankruptcy. It was a film about the making of a film, completely lacking in postmodern irony. Ostensibly Truffaut was exploring the joys and frustrations (otherwise known as the joys) of filmmaking, and he intended the film to be seen as a love letter to the medium. But what his contemporaries saw him doing was a once leading light of the French New Wave chasing his own tail.


Beat the Devil was a commercial flop. Humphrey Bogart disliked it, probably because he put up his own money to help get it made. It was trimmed on its release by four or five minutes and a clumsy narration spoken by Bogart was added (the last minute changes alluded to by Alexander Cockburn). Its copyright eventually lapsed and it entered the public domain. Through circuitous means, a restoration copyrighted by Sony was released in 2016 to renewed interest in the film. Roger Ebert added it to his list of Great Movies. It isn't a great film, but it's fun. As a successful parody it's one of those films that leaves you with a gratifying sense of having beaten the odds. 

Saturday, January 7, 2023

Yet More Reading




Following the habit I adopted at the start of the pandemic in March 2020, I've continued my chain-reading habit every day ever since, and this past year I managed to read thirty-six novels and a short story. Here they are in the order in which I read them.



Brooklyn by Colm Tóibín

Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

Howards End by E. M. Forster

The Blackwater Lightship by Colm Tóibín

The Ballad of the Sad Café by Carson McCullers

Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis

The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler

Falconer by John Cheever

The Folding Star by Alan Hollinghurst

Something New (1915) by P. G. Wodehouse

The Woman Who Walked Into Doors by Roddy Doyle

Party Going by Henry Green

Keep the Aspidistra Flying by George Orwell

The Book of Evidence by John Banville

The Natural by Bernard Malamud

Rabbit, Run by John Updike

Pictures from an Institution by Randall Jarrell

A Girl in Winter by Philip Larkin                               

The Fortnight in September by R. C. Sherriff

Last Orders by Graham Swift                                                 

The Ghost Writer by Philip Roth                                             

Three Bedrooms in Manhattan by Georges Simenon            

The Beach by Cesare Pavese                                        

Over the Frontier by Stevie Smith

Cutter and Bone by Newton Thornburg

Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner

A Year in the Death of Ricardo Reis by José Saramago

Voices in the Evening by Natalia Ginzburg

Angels on Toast by Dawn Powell

The Actual by Saul Bellow

Foster by Claire Keegan

The Violent Bear It Away by Flannery O’Connor

A Sport and a Pastime by James Salter

Cold Spring Harbor by Richard Yates

Despair by Vladimir Nabokov

“Then We Were Three” by Irwin Shaw

The Dean’s December by Saul Bellow


As always, I followed no itinerary in my choices - I went, as the saying goes, wherever the spirit moved me. The novels that had the greatest effect on me were never either the best or most famous. I thought Howards End, for example, was a muddled book, but just the sort of muddle Forster meant it to be. Wuthering Heights, the most famous on the list, was something of a slog. Evidently Emily Brontë wanted to include the whole of her odd world in it, and it is cumulatively evocative of it.


Only one of them was really disappointing - Cutter and Bone, which wasn't nearly as good as the film. Of all the books, the ones I liked and enjoyed reading most were: The Long Goodbye, with its beautiful evocation of mid-century Los Angeles; Something New, with its exquisite ending; Pictures from an Institution, very funny and very moving; The Fortnight in September, a real find and a loving portrait of middle class English life; The Ghost Writer, a strangely imaginative glimpse by an extremely precocious fledgling writer inside the lives of three people he encounters in a wintry retreat; Three Bedrooms in Manhattan, one of Simenon's "hard" novels that shows us a familiar locale and a fully grown-up love from the inside; Foster, a very gentle tale of a little girl's discovery of the true meaning of family love; and A Sport and a Pastime, that catches moods and (sometimes erotic) moments in time that are unforgettable. 


The novels that I look forward to reading again some day on a desert island are Updike's Rabbit, Run, which I misjudged on a first reading, Pictures from an Institution, replete with intelligence, wit, and love, and A Sport and a Pastime. Yet, as Frost wrote, knowing how way leads on to way, I doubt if I should ever go back.