This year’s visual celebration of sound offers rare chances to see documentaries on geniuses like Jeff Buckley, Arvo Pärt, Townes Van Zandt, Leadbelly, and Charles Mingus. Or you might wish to relive the rowdy past in Scene Minneapolis 1977-1986, which chronicles the heyday of the local punk scene and includes recently unearthed footage of Soul Asylum (they didn’t start out, you know, famous). Among the more than forty films about musicians, inspired by music, or including music in a unique way are a couple retro offerings for kids: The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T, a fantasia about piano lessons gone terribly wrong, and The Point, a cartoon with an ear-worn soundtrack about a kid with a round head trying to get by in a pointy-headed world. www.soundunseen.com
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From V-Mail to E-Mail
Corporal Anthony Schramm, like most of our brave soldiers on active duty, had Internet access while his National Guard unit was deployed in Iraq. A good thing, too—Iraq was just as dangerous and hot as everyone says, and entertainment was scarce during his eighteen-month tour. Receiving up to twenty emails a day was a great comfort, and surfing the web was a fine distraction, unprecedented in military history. Still, a soldier misses the creature comforts. For fun, Corporal Schramm started looking at personal ads on various dating web sites. One evening, when things were relatively quiet, he read an ad posted by a pretty girl who happened to be from his neck of the woods back in Minnesota. Having geography in common, but knowing he’d most likely never meet her face to face, he decided to write.
The young woman soon wrote back and readily took on the role of pen pal. Pictures were exchanged along with cordial pleasantries. An electronic discussion ensued over the next week, and Schramm was soon up to date on the weather, news, and other details from back home. Then, a few emails later, his new friend decided to take the pen-pal relationship to another level. She boldly sent Schramm a less-than-kosher video clip of herself “dancing” in her bedroom. Schramm was uncomfortable when he first saw the clip. He didn’t expect her to get quite that personal. But then, he was serving his country. Maybe she felt like it was her patriotic duty to give her correspondent a little motivation to get back home in one piece. Maybe she was crazy. It really didn’t matter to Schramm, though, because he most likely would never meet her face to face.
After viewing the performance a few more times, Schramm saw the humor in the situation. He popped a few bags of popcorn from his latest care package—his mother was good about regularly sending care packages—and invited the rest of his tent buddies to watch the clip. The guys all had a good laugh, a welcome break from the stresses of the war front. Schramm’s friend had successfully entertained the troops.
Months went by and Schramm lost contact with her, mainly because he had no idea what to say after seeing (and sharing) her video clip. After months of dodging snipers, enduring the extreme desert climate, helping to construct buildings for his camp, and performing his assigned communication duties, all the while being on alert at all times for an attack from the enemy, it was finally time for Schramm to take a much anticipated two-week leave.
When he got back to the U.S., he and a couple of buddies dropped their drab green duffel bags in his apartment in Rochester and headed to the Twin Cities. They stopped at the first bar they saw, and Schramm ordered an ice-cold beer. He took a long sip, put the bottle down, and nearly spilled the rest of it when he was abruptly hugged from behind. He turned around and found himself face to face with his risqué friend from the personals.
Stunned, Schramm quickly devised an exit strategy. He was tired, he said. Long flight from Baghdad, he said. After his narrow escape, he briefed his friends: There would be no further deployments to that particular bar.—Micki Bare
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Ley of the Land
The other day, Michelle Mayama stood in the Lake Harriet Spiritual Center, an unassuming church at Forty-Fourth and Upton in Linden Hills. She held a chain, at the bottom of which hung a smooth piece of amethyst. As she entered the main glass-domed sanctuary, the stone spun almost too quickly to see—at about six hundred rpm. “I’ve broken a pendulum here before,” she explained. “It just flew off.” But, she explained, that was during a particularly strong surge of energy. On most days, things are pretty quiet here as vortexes go.
With shortly cropped silver hair, a calming manner, and berobed in loose cloth, Mayama described herself as a “midwife of consciousness” who delivers people into broader self-awareness. Then she described the “ley lines” that serve as a sort of circulatory system for the Earth. She walked around the space, and her pendulum jigged as she moved through the three energy meridians that converge here.
The vortex has always been here, Mayama said, but its pulse had grown faint when, on September 17, 1992, under an overcast but otherwise calm sky, with no sign of rain, witnesses reported seeing a bolt of lightning travel up Sheridan Avenue. It struck the dome of the church and scorched the interior of the sanctuary. The strike happened around the time of Hurricane Andrew, and Mayama believes that both events happened as the earth realigned and reactivated old vortexes. The resulting fireball inside the sanctuary got the vortex flowing again, rather like Mother Nature using a Bioré strip to unclog a pore.
Early in the 1900s, an Englishman named Alfred Watkins began to chart the physical features that lined up in interesting ways across the emerald isles of Britannia: church spires and standing stones, barrows and river fords. Watkins was a habitual countryside walker, complete with anorak and walking stick, and, while tramping across the heaths of England, he realized the Saxons had dotted the land with markers that could be sighted from a distance. Over time, these points inevitably became gathering places where cathedrals and public houses arose; they became imbued with the psychic residue of all that passed through.
Watkins thought it took a special person to dowse such lines. In the little treatise he published on the subject in 1922, Early British Trackways, Watkins mused, “Such work required skilled men, carefully trained. Men of knowledge they would be, and therefore men of power over the common people. And now comes surmise. Did they make their craft a mystery to others as ages rolled by. Were they a learned and priestly class, not admitted until completing a long training—as Caesar describes the Druids. Or did they—as Diodorus and Strabo say of Druids—become also bards and soothsayers. Did they, as the ley decayed, degenerate into the witches of the middle ages.” It begs the question: Which came first, the human or the ley? Watkins suggested that underneath the track lays a force that only a spiritually inclined person could harness in plotting the way from Point A to Point B.
Mayama would agree. “The Native Americans knew about vortexes, for sure,” she told me. We left the church and walked down to Beard’s Plaisance, the lakeside park one block south. Here a ley line shooting southeast, out of the corner of the sanctuary, intersects with another that runs roughly due east, out across Lake Harriet. Their intersection forms a much larger vortex, and Mayama’s pendulum once again pulled on her wrist like a poodle on a leash. This particular knoll has been an important site for centuries—legend has it that an American Indian chief placed a curse on the Europeans from this spot, harnessing the power of the vortexes. While we looked around, a father and son volleyed a ball back and forth on the tennis court.
This particular vortex spins counterclockwise, Mayama said; behind us, another up the hill swirls the opposite way. Standing in a vortex is like standing in a hot tub for your mind; meditating in a clockwise vortex can help actualize what you dream for—a career change, a relationship, inspiration—while the counterclockwise vortex helps the body release what it’s been holding on to. Even if I hadn’t had my own pendulum, which was spinning rather limply in my hand, it was a spot I’d be drawn to.
Mayama pointed out signs of the vortex’s effect on local flora—elms splitting at their bases, trunks skewed at odd angles. Around us, several large trees twisted in their trunks. Their arms flowed counterclockwise, like a frozen whirlpool. It was a peaceful spot, a nice place for a picnic. But you wouldn’t want to set up permanent residence. The constant flow of energy stresses the body, Mayama explained, “Like building a house in the middle of a river.”—Jason Weidemann
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Capote
Frankly, we’re sick and tired of biopics (Joaquin Phoenix as Johnny Cash? Pshaw!), but this one promises to be a breed apart–as much about the making of an American masterpiece as it is a bio of its author, Truman Capote. He and his childhood friend, the novelist Harper Lee, seemed like an unlikely duo to set up camp in Holcomb, Kansas, and research the brutal murders of a local family for what was to become In Cold Blood. Things grew stranger still when Capote unexpectedly developed a deep friendship with one of the killers, Perry Smith. Both men had tragic childhoods, and Capote saw Perry’s life as one he could easily have lived. Although the twee socialite partied with the likes of Marilyn Monroe and basked in his own celebrity, his past deeply haunted him, and this film explores the personal turmoil and societal changes uncovered as he wrote his groundbreaking “nonfiction novel.” 612-825-6006; www.landmarktheatres.com
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Thumbsucker
In this offbeat coming-of-age story, a meek seventeen-year-old tries to break a lifelong habit with the help of a transcendentalist orthodontist (Keanu Reeves), group therapy, and ADD drugs. The incentives to remove his thumb from his mouth once and for all are strong (and curvaceous), but in the course of doing so he’s forced to transform his life in every regard. This film’s soundtrack has three songs by the late Elliott Smith, whose own inability to cope with the adult world mirrors the struggles of the film’s protagonist; and a score created by the Polyphonic Spree, the psychedelic pop chorale whose music has been described as the happiest sound in the world, gives Thumbsucker a bizarrely inspirational, grand air. 612-825-6006; www.landmarktheatres.com
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From Norway >> A Night at the Nobels
Late in September each year, Gustavus Adolphus College conducts its “Nobel Conference” in St. Peter, Minnesota. But this should not be confused with its namesake back in the Old Country. The actual Nobel Prize awards ceremony is an extravagant affair that takes place far away from academe. In the next couple of weeks, this year’s nominees will be announced, and the prizes will be awarded around Christmastime.
Alfred Nobel, the Swede who invented dynamite, willed that all of his awards be given in Stockholm except for one: the peace prize. In 1900, when Nobel established the awards, Norway was united with Sweden, and some speculate that he wished to honor the Norwegian Parliament’s facility with international disputes.
Two years ago, I got my hands on a ticket to the ceremony through the Fulbright Foundation, but it was a pyrrhic victory; I had to endure an eight-hour bus trip south over the mountains to Oslo, and to a slightly less stoic breed of Norwegian. On the other hand, I’d get to see the king and the awarding of the world’s most prestigious prize. Iranian human rights lawyer Shirin Ebadi won the prize that year; she is an activist who poses a serious challenge to the conservative mullahs in Iran.
When I arrived in Oslo, rainbow flags draped from windows all around the city with the word “FRED!” emblazoned across the colors. I assumed Fred was a local politician, perhaps an incumbent in search of re-election. My trusty dictionary explained Fred in one word: “peace.” In front of the Rådhus, the City Hall building where the prize is awarded, four thousand children gathered, waving little flags proclaiming “Redd Barn” (“Save the Children”). Traffic was diverted for a block around the Rådhus by policemen who carried no guns in deference to the peace prize ceremony. This low-key security stood in stark contrast to the nearby U.S. embassy, which was surrounded by razor wire and two sets of checkpoints with metal detectors.
Inside, just as the thousand or so diplomats were ready to take their seats, Michael Douglas walked in with a beautiful young woman. A buzz rippled through the crowd: a movie star was here to promote peace. “It’s Catherine Zeta-Jones!” exclaimed the bejeweled woman next to me who was doused in Chanel No. 5. “Excuse me, I have to meet her!” She pushed me aside, her pendulous earrings swinging into snag radius. She used her elbows and apologies to approach the movie stars. A crowd gathered around Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones, and the normally aloof diplomats eagerly put out their hands or a slip of paper and pen for an autograph. The stars graciously signed a few programs and shook hands awkwardly stretched over the shoulders of the inner ring. The excited crowd grew as my fellow Americans tried merely to sit down because they were late.
Meanwhile, the woman in the earrings walked right up to the famous couple and held her camera a foot from their faces. Paff! The flash startled them. The movie stars blinked repeatedly to regain their eyesight, but more cameras were thrust forward. This was the only time I’ve ever seen Norwegians lose their cool.
Two regal guards rolled a red carpet down the aisle. Trumpeters stood at attention in the balcony as the Nobel committee and the prizewinner walked the carpet to a standing ovation. Then the royal heralds blasted through their bugles. Embroidered cloths dangled from the extended bells of their horns. In strutted Sonja, Queen of Norway, accompanied by her son, Crown Prince Haakon. The woman next to me provided color commentary, whispering, “It’s only because the king is in hospital that Sonja’s son can accompany her.” After I’d endured a hellish eight-hour bus trip to see the king, he’d eluded me.
Prince Haakon’s wife, Mette-Marit, walked behind him wearing an enormous purple velvet hat. She managed to avoid the pregnant-woman waddle despite being just a month from her due date. Nearly constant flashes sparkled from the press cameras in the balcony; Mette-Marit is front-page material for the Norwegian tabloids—they loved to speculate on the sex of her unborn baby.
The Nobel committee leader gave an extended speech followed by some quiet piano music—Grieg, of course. Then a Persian group, the Kamkars, dispelled any formality, lighting up the hall with a wild and melodic folk song.
Against the backdrop of a three-story mural entitled Work, Administration, and Celebration, featuring stone-faced bricklayers raising their hands in victory, Shirin Ebadi accepted the peace prize from a man two heads taller than she. He lowered the microphone to her level, but when she spoke from the lectern, she seemed like a giant. Her speech not only urged reform in Iran, but condemned the United States for not abiding by all United Nations Security Council mandates.
Before climbing back on the bus for the eight-hour return trip to Trondheim, I saw the jubilant crowd gathered in front of the Grand Hotel, waiting to see the prizewinner greet them from her balcony before her return to Iran. The next day on Norwegian newsstands, Zeta-Jones beat Ebadi for the cover photo because of her own accomplishment that day—a dramatic, dazzling hairstyle change sometime between the ceremony and the reception.—Eric Dregni
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Dear Wendy
American gun lovers who hated Bowling for Columbine have got another thing coming with Dear Wendy. Scriptwriter Lars von Trier already raised hackles on these shores for his blasting of bedrock American values in Dogville; that’s partly why Dear Wendy was directed by his buddy, Thomas Vinterberg, who is himself responsible for The Celebration, one of the best dysfunctional family dramas of all time. Given the proclivities of this Danish duo, expect some outrage over this story of how Dick, inspired by love for his gun (which he calls “Wendy”), establishes a club for the other boys in his small town. Homoeroticism is bound to be the least of Dear Wendy’s provocations. 309 Oak St. S.E., Minneapolis; 612-331-3134; www.mnfilmarts.org
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Good for the Liver?
What is it about Americans and guilt? Mr. Bush, it seems, may now be willing to admit that the world is warming up. But he would not have us think that the human race (let alone its industries and motorcars) is in any way responsible. Mustn’t feel bad about it, must we?
This is strange because the sort of Christianity favored by President Frutex (Latin for Bush, don’t you know) used to be particularly keen to impress on people that all have sinned and all have fallen short of the glory of God. Augustine developed the notion of original sin partly from a conviction that the world was actually by nature good (adjust your set, there is no fault in reality). Oliver Cromwell struck a chord with the Puritans of the Rump Parliament when he beseeched them “in the bowels of Christ, that ye may be mistaken.” John Wesley famously felt himself to be a brand plucked from the burning, and generations of evangelical preachers have striven to convince people they are sinners, so that they can then pull the redemption rabbit out of the hat.
Cromwell’s political successors seem to feel that it is other people who make the mistakes. The axis of evil has moved elsewhere (though the only thing I can see that Iran, Iraq and North Korea have in common is that all three irritate the United States). Of course, politicians are hardly the only ones to deny guilt. We the People do so often, and avidly. I had pupils when I taught in California who seemed simply impervious to the mildest suggestion that a mistake might have been made (which is easy enough when writing Latin sentences); correction, as the Frenchman said, ran off their backs like a duck’s water. The word has even been verbed—as in the accusation, “You are trying to guilt me!”
Such shunning of a sense of personal error does not ensure universal happiness. The whole horror of modern no-fault divorce is designed to ignore the possibility that sometimes fault is involved. The masterpiece of those who advocate the avoidance of guilt must be the doctrine of passive aggression. This holds that you may employ the patience of Griselda or of Job putting up with my nonsense, but mysteriously it all remains your fault; I am not responsible for the fact that I behave like a bastard.
Admitting mistakes gives people the chance to put them right. Of course, eating humble pie is not a particularly pleasant pastime. The word “humble” as applied to “pie” does not actually derive from anything to do with humility; it comes from the same root as lumbar (as in lumbar pain), and the humbles (or numbles) of a deer are its innards. All the same, humble pie is the opposite of a delicacy, even if it was a dinner as familiar in the Middle Ages as haggis and chips in modern Scotland.
Innards are something else Americans have difficulty with. All right, not everyone savors the scrunch of prairie oysters or the sliminess of cervelle. Cockneys can keep my share of tripe and onions. But heart cooked long enough (it is, after all, quite a tough muscle) is, well, heartening, and grilled kidneys on fried bread is one of the most toothsome breakfasts I know. Perhaps the best bargain at the butchers round here is liver. (Is life worth living? That depends on the liver.) Cut thin, dust with flour, salt and mustard powder, then fry fast with bacon and onions—it is one of the few cuts of meat that gets tougher the longer you cook it—and anoint with the pan scrapings transformed into sauce. The gritty flavor of liver is the perfect accompaniment for spinach cooked quickly in butter.
And a good wine for both liver and spinach together is a red from California that is tough enough to take on any taste (even haggis). Better still, it sells for only about eighteen dollars locally. The 2003 DeLoach California Pinot Noir, from the Russian River valley north of San Francisco, is bright and honest. There is at first a sweetness and flowery charm, but then a delightful roar, as determined as a motorcycle engine, develops in the back of the throat. The sweetness turns into fine strong tannins and, as the wine goes down, aroma rises through the nose. This is wine that engages the attention on every level, like a really worthwhile woman; it has both immediate appeal and depth. But the real beauty of combining it with liver and spinach is the resulting symphony of bitternesses. Who knows, a patient appreciation of these may even make you sorry for your sins.