The Golden Bowl

Adam is a rich American living in England with his daughter Maggie. Prince Amerigo is a penniless nobleman who marries Maggie, egged on by Adam and by a friend, Fanny Assingham (and if you think that this old man didn't giggle frequently at that name, think again). But just before the wedding, Amerigo is thrown together with Charlotte, a woman from his past; they loved each other but considered themselves too poor to make a married life together. Charlotte was a close friend of Maggie's and is in town for the wedding. At some point (it's not clear, as much in this book is not clear), Charlotte and the Prince begin an affair, made possible in part by the fact that Adam and Maggie spend so much time together. To some degree, a hothouse foursome develops.

I like Henry James and his long sentences and his ambiguous plot points. I did not like the experience of reading this, his last completed novel. In some ways, it feels like self-parody. In his previous books, he had sentences that went on for a paragraph, and paragraphs that went on for pages. But he always came back to ground. Here, it seems sometimes like all he gives us is chapter-long paragraphs during which nothing happens except characters (through the words of the narrator) think about things that have happened but which we have not seen happen--a kind of early version of stream of consciousness, I guess. I admit I skimmed many of these paragraphs and even chapters.

A thick dust layer of James's words seems to stand in the way of total comprehension of the plot and of character motivations. Those words are often lovely but still frustrating. Most critiques of the novel say that the important theme is knowledge: who knows what about what's going on, when do they know it, and how does it affect the power they hold over others. I can buy that. But even on the last page (page 443, for heaven's sake) I don't think I know what has happened and who has come out on top. I have since watched the movie (from 2000) in which things are simplified, but I'm not sure that James would agree that Merchant and Ivory have interpreted him correctly.

Of course, I'm not in school, as a student or a teacher, so I don't need to come up with definitive answers for an essay test. Honestly, I don't feel too bad about the ambiguity I was left in by the end. Despite the adulterous behavior of Amerigo and Charlotte, I can't help but think of Maggie and Adam as the "bad guys," to put it far too simply. But I'm not sure that's how James wanted me to think. As much of a chore as it felt at times to read this, I am inclined to revisit it some time in the future, and certain passages have stuck with me. In particular, there is a delicious chapter in which Fanny and her husband are trying to communicate about the central situation and completely fail to understand each other. I was laughing out loud (would James have approved?). If you've never read James, for God's sake don't start with this one. Only for hardcore fans.

WCOL Hit Line, June 16, 1969

 

Here's another WCOL chart from the summer of 1969. It's only two weeks after the first one I posted so there's not a lot of interesting chart info. It is notable that Zager and Evans' only hit, "In the Year 2525," in just its second week on the chart, is already in the top 10; it would hit #1 the very next week. It wasn't even on the national Billboard chart yet, though it would eventually hold the #1 spot on the Hot 100 for six weeks. One of my favorite songs of that summer, "Spinning Wheel" by Blood Sweat and Tears, is #10; when I bought that single, I brought it home, popped it on the stereo and played it like 10 times in a row.  I bought "Black Pearl" by Sonny Charles the same day and also gave it multiple spins. 

My first experience with understanding the difference between short (45 single) versions and long (album cut) versions of songs occurred with "Let Me" by Paul Revere and the Raiders. I bought the 45, then must have heard the longer version--sometimes WCOL would play album cuts after dark. I bought the album, Alias Pink Puzz, just to have that version. Listening now, I actually prefer the single--the main difference is that the LP version takes longer to fade out. Also on the chart: "Moonflight" by Vik Venus (not Vic as misprinted on the list), my first experience with the "break-in" song, in which a voice would interview someone and the answers would be short snatches of songs, in this case all songs that had been hits on Buddah Records. On this one, the interviewer is talking to astronauts  (the moon landing would happen a month later). For example, the question, "How do like your food?" is answered "Yummy, yummy, yummy, I've got love in my tummy"--from a hit the previous year by the 1910 Fruitgum Company.

The perils and pleasures of re-reading

I've been a voracious reader all my life but I have never gone in much for re-reading. Until last year (not counting books I re-read books for school, as a student and as a teacher), I'd hardly ever re-read books for pleasure: The Great Gatsby, Mrs. Dalloway, some Ray Bradbury, some Ernest Hemingway, some Henry James. But in my retirement, in addition to catching up on books that have been piling up in the basement over the years, I have been doing some re-reading. I've probably read Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes four or five times, but a new attempt last year left me cold. It threatened to spoil my lovely memories of the book so I quit. Oddly, with one of the major characters, the dad, being an old man figure a bit like me, I thought I would find new resonances in the book, but the opposite happened--I found myself bored by the father and by the philosophizing. I will keep my Bantam paperback, bought in 1967, with me forever but I probably won't be tempted to read it again. I'll let my memories remain unsullied.

Some things I've re-read with success, finding even more to enjoy in them now. Julian, Gore Vidal's historical novel about the last pagan emperor of Rome, first read in my 20s, was one of my favorite novels and I worried that revisiting it would be disappointing (I had tried about 20 years ago and didn't get very far) but my older vantage point was actually an asset as I understood more, about the history and the philosophy, than I did back then. The same thing happened with A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller Jr. It's a post-apocalyptic story told in three parts, covering three different and widely separated time periods. A nuclear war destroys civilization as we know it, but humanity, along with religion and science, claws its way back, and soon we have an even more advanced technology that we had in the 20th century. But have we learned enough to avoid our old mistakes? I read it in college (mid-1970s) and have fond and vivid memories of stretching out on a couch in the student union building and reading it, but when I picked it up now, I remembered almost nothing about it. This time around, I liked the first and third sections very much, but the middle chunk was tedious and I almost gave up on the re-read. I'm glad I didn't. I think the first and third parts felt more like science fiction than the middle part; they also have more "world-building" going on. I'm a little surprised that it hasn't been adapted for streaming television.

I got an even bigger jolt when I re-read The Carnivorous Lamb by Agustin Gomez-Arcos. In 1984, it was a highly esteemed literary gay novel about two brothers in 1950's Spain who have a lifelong sexual relationship. In 1984, the book felt like a fever dream and I raced through it in two or three sittings. It's erotic but also political, with the fall of the Republicans and the rise of Franco after the Spanish Civil War affecting all the characters. This time, the writing style felt awkward, with a stop-and-start flow that bothered me. The erotic feel was still there, but I was surprised how little sexual description there was--it doesn't come close to being pornographic. Overall I was a little disappointed, but I was glad that the last 30 pages or so were still a bit "feverish." I've been thinking of re-reading Garcia Gabriel Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude, another book I remember as dreamlike, but I'd hate to be disappointed. Hence the perils and pleasures of the act of re-reading. If I could somehow clear my memories of the first read out of my head, I might be less worried about it. But the past and present experiences will always, I think, be in contention.  So I'll keep going with this project but I'll allow myself to give up on a re-read if it feels like it is spoiling the past experience too much.

My first Top 40 summer

In Columbus, Ohio in June of 1969 when I was 12, I became hooked on top 40 radio. Though I was well versed in the Beatles from the tender age of 7, having watched them on Ed Sullivan in 1964, I didn't much listen to current pop music until a few years later. Between 1964 and 1968, if I owned records, aside from Beatles albums, they would have been Broadway cast albums or soundtracks--yes, I was a theater kid that early on. But somehow by 1968, I was listening casually to pop radio. The first non-Beatles 45 RPM singles I bought were Daydream Believer by the Monkees, Chewy Chewy by the Ohio Express, Those Were the Days by Mary Hopkin, and Bang-Shang-A-Lang by the Archies. By the summer of 1969, I had a transistor radio which was tuned permanently to WCOL-AM, 1230 on the dial. I was earning an allowance by doing dishes and I would prop my radio up near the sink and listen; soon I was putting it under my pillow and listening at night. This was also the age when I started going downtown on the bus all by myself, and I would spend much of my allowance at the Lazarus department store on singles. Below is the very first WCOL "hit line" list that I ever brought home--they were free in the record department.

Columbus was a fairly vibrant top 40 market back then. WCOL was the biggest youth oriented station at the time, aside from WVKO which played "soul music", the genre name for Black R&B music, and at the far end of the dial, it was sometimes difficult to tune in. WCOL would often break records before they became national hits. For example, the week of June 2, "Good Morning Starshine" by Oliver was #1 in Columbus, but only #57 on the Billboard Hot 100. It would eventually make the Billboard top 5 in mid-July. Other top 10 hits on WCOL that week that were just getting going nationally include "Israelites," "Medicine Man," and "I Can't Quit Her." "Ruby Don't Take Your Love to Town: by Kenny Rogers, #10 in Columbus, didn't even appear on the Hot 100 until a week later, down at #98, though it would eventually hit #6 weeks later.

Almost all the songs on that chart are still ones I can conjure up over fifty years later; I don't remember "Medicine Man" by the Buchanan Brothers or "Marley Purt Drive" by Jose Feliciano. But I was the kind of listener who would turn off the radio or switch to another station if I didn't like the song that was on the air. With car radios, I was a constant button-pusher, jumping from station to station, something I do to this very day when I listen to Sirius XM. I try to resist the temptation to be a boomer who claims that his music from back then is better than the music of today; I know that tastes change, and today's music isn't being made for this 69-year-old. But the music of the late 60s and early 70s will always have a special place in my ears, my head, and my heart. I plan on posting and briefly commenting on other WCOL charts from those early years frequently on my blog.

All That Glitters Is Not Gold: Notes on Theo of Golden

Theo of Golden by Allen Levi was originally self-published, became an underground hit, was taken up by a major publisher (Atria, an imprint of Simon & Schuster), and now sits near the top of the New York Times bestseller list. A friend who normally doesn't read mainstream fiction recommended it to me so I bought a copy and read it. I was left feeling, as my late mother would have said, comme ci, comme ca about it. I'm a bit baffled by this novel's popularity but I'm also baffled by those who intensely dislike it, and if Goodreads is any indication, many do. 

A mysterious old man comes to a small town in Georgia, discovers a coffeehouse that displays portraits of town citizens done by a local artist, buys the pictures, and gives them to the subjects of the portraits in little rituals he calls bestowals, enriching their lives with his compassion and insight as he chats with them, and in some cases, becomes involved in their lives. That's about it. It's a nice idea, feeling to me like a Hallmark Christmas movie directed by Frank Capra (though Christmas only makes a cameo appearance). The author has disowned the label "Christian fiction" for this, though on some level, it is, even as the religious aspects are for the most part downplayed or sugarcoated. Readers who label this "literary fiction" are wrong--this is written in a clear mainstream style, which is not the same thing as a "literary" style.

What I liked about it: the concept is interesting and Theo comes off as a genuinely nice guy, though his rationale for doing this is kept secret until the end; several of the characters are well-drawn and memorable (Asher the artist, Simone the cello player, Tony the bookseller); it's generally a good-hearted read that stresses the importance of human connection and compassion. 

What I liked less: most of the writing is clear and simple, which makes it easy to read, but there were sentences and word choices and plotpoints that felt wrong (I don't know how much extra editing was done for the Atria edition, but a little more would have been nice); at 400 pages, it's far too long and drags out the mystery of the title character too much; the explanations, when given, are tediously presented, and I agree with some readers who think that Theo's strategies for remaining mysterious are ultimately hurtful to some of the characters. It's all quite predictable, except perhaps for the climax which seemed awfully out of the blue. Readers who really dislike the book say it's for lack of narrative, though I think there eventually is one: it winds up being the story of Theo. Others bitterly resent it winding up as a Christian book in disguise, but it's pretty clear it's headed that way from early on. To its credit, it never gets ponderous or proselytizing. [Below is the author, Allen Levi.]

Some have speculated that its popularity shows how much kindness and connection and true Christian behavior are missing in our culture today, which is true. But the whole thing ultimately feels like a fantasy (a little Capraesque as I noted above) about how rich people should behave--Theo could not have done what he did without a lot of money. Another fantasy element is that all the major characters are likable (two minor characters are not and are mostly ignored). There is really no villain, though a bad thing happens at the climax. I found Ellen, the homeless woman, kind of irritating, partly because it's obvious that Levi almost desperately wants us to like her. I had the same feeling, to a lesser degree, with Mrs. Gidley, the cold woman who predictably warms up by the end. I admit to tearing up a bit in one scene (a cello recital), but the melodramatic and manipulative events at the end left me cold. I'm not sorry I read it but I remain at a loss as to why it's a top 10 bestseller.

Random Notes on P.G. Wodehouse

I retired in late 2024 and the first thing I did after going through the Medicare wringer was to head down to the basement and start going through some of the hundreds of books I've carted around since the 1970s with the express purpose of reading in my retirement (which some part of me thought would never actually happen). Back in 1980, I read my first P.G. Wodehouse novel, Full Moon, and pretty much laughed out loud through the whole thing. I read a few more of his books over the years but realized when I went to the basement in December 2024 that I had about ten volumes of Wodehouse that I had never read (or didn't remember reading--more on that later), so I've been working my way through them ever since, and finding a few more at the public library.

Wodehouse was a British writer known best in popular culture for creating the characters of Bertie Wooster, a youngish upper-class fellow who doesn't have to work and therefore gets involved in all kinds of trouble, and his long-suffering valet Jeeves. There have been over a dozen novels or story collections featuring Jeeves and Wooster, not to mention movies, TV shows (with Hugh Laurie as Bertie and Stephen Fry as Jeeves, pictured below, and they are so perfect that I still always picture them when I read the stories), and later novels written in homage. But Wodehouse, in addition to co-authoring several hit plays, also had other characters he wrote about who basically existed in the Jeeves universe. Full Moon was one of several Blandings Castle books featuring Lord Emsworth and his beloved pet pig the Empress; other recurring characters include Uncle Fred and a man named Psmith, all with lots of money and time on their hands.

I started my Wodehouse deep dive with several Bertie & Jeeves books and was having a fine time until I hit my fifth book at which time I realized that perhaps binging these stories was not a good idea. I'm not a binge watcher of streaming TV though I have been known to soak myself in musicians and actors and authors when I discover them. But reading a bunch of Wodehouse books in a row made me realize that, even though his humor doesn't suffer, his narratives do. The plots are all both similar and inconsequential. Bertie gets into a romantic entanglement and Jeeves gets him out of it. Bertie gets in trouble with one of his aunts and Jeeves gets him out of it. Bertie is suspected of a crime and Jeeves gets him out of it. And so on. The novels usually wind up with several situations being dealt with at the same time, and though no one could accuse Wodehouse of writing realistic stories, some of the plot points get so outlandish that I gave up caring and read just for punch lines and witticisms. That's not necessarily bad, but I slowly felt like I was reading more and enjoying it less.

For me, the high water mark was The Mating Season, which featured several recurring characters (Catsmeat, Gussie Fink-Nottle, Aunt Agatha) and one, Esmond Haddock, described as a Greek god "combination of a poet and an all-in wrestler," who I hoped to meet again. But with the next book, I realized that I was just going through the motions, reading and chuckling but not really connecting with the characters or the stories. Not only were situations being repeated, but several laugh lines were as well, and I feared I was getting to the point where I would start disliking Wodehouse so I stopped for a while. 

After a few months I picked up Thank You, Jeeves and realized I should have waited a bit longer. This one has an unusual plot in that Jeeves, fed up with Bertie playing the ukulele (badly) at all hours, resigns. Of course, he still manages to help Bertie out of tight spots, and in the end, Bertie gives in and gives up the uke. But it all still felt kind of tired. I picked up another one and a third of the way in, discovered I had read it years ago—many of his books were published under alternate titles over time. Eventually I read a non-Jeeves books, a one-off called The Adventures of Sally, and was surprised (though I shouldn't have been) that it was largely a Bertie Wooster story (with a female lead) without a Jeeves. By the halfway point, I was trudging through it. I was worried that I had become permanently disillusioned with Wodehouse.

But somehow, after another few months, I found my way back to Wodehouse through a couple of Uncle Fred books (Uncle Fred in the Springtime and Cocktail Hour) and enjoyed them. There are few direct echoes of Bertie and Jeeves in these (though some jokes get repeated) so things were just different enough that I started paying attention to the story again. I read another one-off, The Old Reliable, set in Hollywood, with recognizable tropes and laugh lines, but again different enough to feel new. Interestingly, this feels like maybe the end of my Wodehouse period. There are many other volumes out there and I have read a couple of the recent pastiches, one of which, Jeeves and the King of Clubs by Ben Schott, was quite well done, recalling Wodehouse without being slavish about it. I'm thinking a couple of times a year may be enough. And there's always the Blandings TV show from 2013 with Timothy Spall and Jennifer Saunders (above) recreating Wodehouse characters almost as well as Laurie and Fry. 

The Problem with Charlie Chan

Back in the 1960s and 1970s, Charlie Chan would have needed no introduction to anyone with any pop culture knowledge. Chan was the creation of author Earl Derr Biggers, whose first claim to fame was a 1913 novel called Seven Keys to Baldpate. It was adapted for the stage, became a hit, and was filmed several times. But Biggers found more fame as the creator of Charlie Chan, a Chinese detective who worked for the Honolulu police department. Six novels were published before Biggers' untimely death in 1933 at the age of 49. (Pictured below is a reprint of the first novel, The House Without a Key.) The Chan property exploded in popularity on the silver screen, with some fifty films made between 1926 and 1949. In the beginning, they were high-level B-films in terms of budget and actors, but they were treated like A-films and made a great deal of money for Fox. Eventually the budgets dropped and the series was taken over by Monogram, a B-movie studio, but they still remained popular enough that one or two films a year were released. 

When I was a kid in the 60s and 70s, the Chan movies were run frequently on television, especially on weekend afternoons. Like the Sherlock Holmes movies that Basil Rathbone starred in over the same time period, I saw them as basically interchangeable, and they played more like episodes of a TV show. Most adhered to a formula which involved Chan traveling somewhere, on a vacation or a visit to a friend, and getting involved in a murder investigation (sometimes his friend was the murder victim). In most of the movies, one of Chan's adult sons accompanied him, offering assistance but usually being more of a hindrance than a help—the phrase "number one son," which is how Chan often referred to his son, was an oft-used pop culture saying. (Below is Victor Sen Yung as Jimmy Chan.)

Three actors played Chan: Warner Oland (until his death in 1938), Sidney Toler (until his death in 1947) and Roland Winters (in the last six films of the series). All three actors have their fans, though I think Oland was the most closely associated with the series—after his death, the budgets shrank and the movies started looking and feeling like cheapies, even though they were still very entertaining. Though there was a 50s TV series, there were no more movies (except for a lame and campy film in 1981), but their constant presentation on TV, including a Saturday morning kids' cartoon show in 1972, kept the character alive for a while.

In 2003, Fox restored their library of Chan movies, ran them on their cable channel, and released them in DVD boxed sets. They proved to still be popular, but by this time, the films had become controversial, accused of being racist, or at least steeped in racism. It wasn't so much the character of Chan that caused problems—he did speak in a somewhat halting English, parodied beautifully by Peter Sellers in Murder by Death, but he always outwitted not just the bad guys but the white good guys, often cops, who mocked him or underestimated his abilities. The real problem was that none of the three actors who played Chan were Asian. They all wore varying versions of "yellowface" makeup to make them look like the stereotype of a Chinese man. What is overlooked in current-day complaints about the films being racist is that in the 30s and 40s, there were no Asian stars in Hollywood. The Chan sons and other Chinese supporting characters were played by Asian actors, but there were no bankable Asian stars to play leads. To compound the problem, most of the later movies featured a stereotyped Black sidekick character who often conformed to degrading stereotypes. (Below is Oland as Chan with co-star Boris Karloff in Charlie Chan at the Opera.)

I can completely understand people today being offended by the portrayal of Chan in the classic era and choosing not to watch the films. But I have remained a fan over the years. All three of the Chan actors wore their stereotypes lightly and I don't find the intentions or the results of the portrayals to be racist. (The books are even less so.) Some Chan fans bemoan the fact that no one is making Chan movies these days. I think even if a Chinese actor played the part, there is a thick patina of stereotyping and potential offensiveness that could not be diluted, and the film would have to be comic or satiric. The Chan movies, to some degree, have been victims of cancel culture, as they are not run much anymore on TV—even TCM doesn't show them. However, they are available in various ways: DVDs, streaming services, YouTube. Every Charlie Chan film that was made (except for a handful of early ones that are lost) has been released for home video and they are still for sale. I stand in the middle when folks start yelling about this issue. Many members of a Charlie Chan fan group I belong to on Facebook (mostly older white people) bitch up a storm about the idea than anyone can find them offensive, unable to put themselves in the shoes of Asian (or progressive) viewers. On the other side are offended viewers who would be OK with the films being suppressed. I would argue that, in the main, they are not racist, even if the production structure behind them was. As for me, I own them all and watch them frequently, though I would never share them with people who didn't know what they were getting into. Below is my complete Chan movie collection.