Tag: book-review

Genius or Madness? Must There be Both?

I recently pondered that age-old question how far is the distance between genius and madness?

From where I’m sitting not so very far.

It seems those whom have been gifted with great talent are also cursed with torment and a cornucopia of demons.

I may be wrong, as it has been known to happen for sure. Yet when we look at some of the great artists, they seem to have carried a great deal of baggage on their trip through life.

I will focus on music and begin with Michael Jackson. Now of course there are those who may argue it was his upbringing and not his genius that caused his behavior and demons.

I imagine it was both. Yet watching him perform there is a certain tension one feels that he may explode from holding all that talent in and BOOM!

It’s as though if he sings one more chorus and does one more moonwalk he will literally explode.

His body seems unable to contain whats inside him.

No one who has seen him perform, either live or on screen can argue this is a man with an overabundance of talent. A gift that exceeds most by so far, it’s impossible to ignore.

It’s also quite obvious his demons are as great as his talent. His behavior cried out he was hiding pain. Yet, I imagine he was happy in his way.

Any man that possesses two battling spirits must be confused. The Michael that created and felt the excitement of performing and executing his art. Then there was the other Michael. Unsure of how to contain such a vast amount of talent. It must have been difficult to be him. I am not going to use this platform to judge him or his actions. I am far from convinced he was as kind or caring a person as he seemed.

In fact, I am sure he could be relentless and unscrupulous to a frightening degree. I’m just assuming a dark side to his character, but if I’m wrong, I apologize. Michael Jackson was not a man who felt or acted in small ways. It was all over the top and beyond.  

Did we enjoy his music? Yes. Did we enjoy watching him perform? Yes, as well. Do any of us really believe he had a handle on his demons? Of course not. Yet it didn’t seem to stop us from being amazed by his talent. We accepted his genius was simply too much for him to control. Watching him perform one ran the gamut of emotions from excitement to awe and ultimately confusion. Confused his extraordinary gifts also seemed to be his greatest curse.

If we’re talking about those who are blessed with enormous talent one must never forget Bob Fosse. Another prime example of a man with extraordinary abilities to transfix, excite and move us, yet unable to contain his demons.

Yes, there is a pattern emerging here and it’s a scary one.

I was a great fan of Fosse since the golden age of MGM musicals. They were catnip to me and I reveled in watching Howard Keel sing, and Ann Miller and Fosse dance. There were so many great talents displayed there, but even at a young age I couldn’t take my eyes off Fosse. Something about the way he leaped higher, moved more stealthily and had that IT factor was never lost on me. He seemed to fly higher through the air, smile wider, engage more; he was simply Fosse.

He went on to increase his gifts with the advent of directing in addition to choreography. Broadway became a perfect vehicle to display his genius. Fans appreciated every moment spent watching Damn Yankees, Sweet Charity or Pajama Game.

Cinema welcomed him to create an unforgettable adaptation of Cabaret and his public ignored the drugs, infidelity and self- destructive behavior he exhibited.

But that’s what we do with our idols. We accept somehow there’s a price to pay for such gifts that rise so far above us mere mortals, we’ve stopped questioning why.

As someone who actually watched up close and personal as Robin Williams performed onstage, I can tell you I believe that man’s brain did not work like other people’s.

Now of course we all know, and I freely admit that yes, comics are a bit, shall we say, off, to start with. But true comedy genius reaches another level. Robin achieved that level. Watching any great comic is a double sensory experience. Our eyes and ears are working together to bring us the message that will click in our brains and spark our funny bone.

Robin added another intensity to our sight. One could almost see his mind working as hilarity spewed from his mouth. Constantly and consistently nonstop.

It was as if you’d boarded a train going one hundred miles an hour and had no desire to jump off.

Robin was rare. I can tell you there are many brilliant and hilarious comedians, many I have been privileged to know and work with, but Robin was unique. His brain took off like a rocket ship and the stage was his launching pad.

There are many other great talents I could name, and many although incredibly talented owe much of their pain to drugs.

I imagine some used drugs or alcohol to soothe the pain of genius.

So many gifted people the likes of Van Gogh, Beethoven, Orwell, Frida Kahlo, Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison, Hemingway and countless other musicians, writers, poets and artists created and suffered simultaneously. And no list of gifted performers would ever be complete without the incredible Sammy Davis Jr. He made it all look so damn easy. The man oozed talent.

Despite the tortured aspects of their personalities, they used their gifts. I cannot say whether their pain caused them to be greater or less.

If one is honest there seems to be a great many people besides artists battling demons. I only know when one looks at the geniuses we admire, they seem to have greatly suffered.

I for one am grateful they fought to excel and create as we are the benefactors of their talents. Especially now, the world is a more musical, beautiful and uplifting place because they did.

Fact: Old Ladies Solve Murders

Agatha Christie was right, old ladies make great detectives. Spies not so much with all the shooting and chasing. But great detectives and not for the reason one might think. AI may be threatening to take over the world. And I will admit I’ve seen some campaign commercials here in LA lately that absolutely speak to the brilliance and benefit of AI. Yet, sometimes things can’t be duplicated, even by great tech.

So how do old people beat AI? Oh sure there is wisdom that accompanies age, but it’s more. The skills it takes to be a detective are not the only advantage aging brings. It is the hard and extremely cold fact that old ladies are invisible. They can travel about unnoticed as they check out the clues quietly summing up the scene.

Now of course some are better than others.

However, there is a common denominator as they all live in small towns or villages, if you’re in England.

Yes, New York would be hard to navigate, although Jessica Fletcher did venture out of Cabot Cove occasionally.

However, the cases always involved someone in close proximity to her. A relative or neighbor.

Even Miss Marple couldn’t know everyone in New York. Nor I imagine would she want to. But that’s a blog for another day.

So what is it about older ladies, especially widows that seem to hone their investigative skills?

First and foremost, I imagine it’s because they are quiet. They listen and pay attention to details. So when a murderer is spouting a piece of evidence that directly links them to the crime, they actually hear and absorb that knowledge.

Unlike younger people that are so engrossed in social media they hear nothing. Save of course the blare of loud music or pings that signify a text has just come into their phone.

Older women also have years of watching people speak. They have developed a sixth sense about those who are lying, skirting the truth and avoiding the question.

Good information if you’re looking for a murderer.

They are also smart and know the questions to ask. For example. Someone in her village has come to enjoy a cup of tea.
Knitting needles come out, but this is merely a ruse because Miss Marple already has a plan. She has a list of questions she will inconspicuously ask to discern if the person is the murderer.

Yes, it’s just that easy apparently, to figure it all out. Sadly, the police are usually the last to know.

So she has poured the tea, offered the biscuits. And no, I have no idea why the British call cookies biscuits, another one of their supposedly charming quirks I imagine. Despite how heinous the killing, there is always time for tea.

The killer couldn’t be more at ease. Unsuspecting while sipping and munching in a haze of comfort around who they believe is someone totally harmless.

So as with anyone in that position, the guard is let down and a killer tends to slip up and let out a potential clue.

Aha! Marple attacks ever so cleverly. Knit one, purl two, knit one. “So, how are your hydrangeas doing?”

“Oh thank you for asking. They are much better now that you told me to use that special mix. They seem to be thriving. How did you figure that out?”

“Just something my mother used to do to help her garden when it seemed tired. Did you get the mulch at the florist I sent you to? He seems to have just the right mix to make the formula work?”

“Yes, I went there as you suggested.”

Marple is no fool and this was nothing about mulch of course. She is well aware the florist is closed for the month and on vacation with his family at the shore. Aha! She has uncovered a lie. So much for that alibi.

Now Marple must unearth the reason for this deception. Although she is already highly suspicious.

She backs off a tad knowing that after a lie, the killer will be a bit on guard.

“Did you hear the schoolmaster has accepted the job in Cornwall?”  She inquires ever so innocently.

“Yes, what a loss. I had him in first form when I was eleven. Such a wonderful man. A great loss for the entire village.”

Excellent, the killer is back at ease.

Marple strikes again.

“I should wonder they’ll have trouble finding a replacement. After all, one of those who would be considered was the victim in that dreadful murder.”

Marple looks up from under her specs and studies the killer’s reaction.

The killer flinches noticeably. She catches herself quickly, but not fast enough for Marple to have learned all she needs to know. She has determined the person she is with is guilty.

After a few other pointed questions Marple has what she needs to offer that murderer up on a bone china biscuit plate.

And she does so with humility and relish. Although inside of course she is aware she is much smarter than the authorities and can run circles around their skills any day of the week.

Yet she is nothing if not generous and humble. She wants the police to praise her skills and appreciate her help.

And although they consider her an old busy body, they are forced to admit, she’s got the goods.

The method and the ending never vary. Oh the murderer and victim may change, but Marple’s methods remain the same. Tea, biscuits, knitting needles and a few pointed questions then Bob’s your uncle.

Another case solved in one or two hours.

Only Agatha Christie could create a Miss Marple, because she was her in every way. A woman who understood the value of paying attention to details.

I suppose that’s why to this day people still love, read and reread her novels, watch her movies and refer to her as the undisputed Queen of Mystery.

Christie is a master of understatement and suspense. Unequaled in her ability to craft a convoluted mystery in a clever and interesting manner.

Guessing along and figuring out the killer is a source of pride for any mystery lover, and more reassurance the greats always do it best.

Brilliant? yes. An unassuming woman? Indeed.

Still the greatest of all time? You bet, and AI can put that in their pipe and smoke it. Knitting needles and all.

Now Where’s That Damn Rabbit Hole Again?

Now Where’s That Damn Rabbit Hole Again?

I honestly don’t believe it would surprise anyone who knows me to learn that Alice in Wonderland was my favorite story as a child.

And why not? It was filled with bunnies, a confused girl, an evil queen, fresh tarts, adorable Cheshire cats that talked and blew smoke rings in the shapes of letters and of course the perennial favorites Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. I understood twins because my mother was one.

Of course, the fact there was a tea party and a table set with goodies didn’t hurt its cause any.

So there in a nutshell is why it contained all my favorite things; cute bunnies, great jewelry like pocket watches, evil queens with colorful red hearts, precious pussycats and weird twins. Lest we forget most importantly yummy food! 

Yet there was far more to Alice than met the eye and to say it was a children’s story would be a serious understatement. 

Today more than ever I identify with Alice. Lewis Carroll’s character is the epitome of a human being in today’s crazy, confusing world, only we didn’t have to fall down a hole to wind up in a land filled with fantastical characters. We were just born here.

Lest you think I am stretching the truth a bit, one simply need look around at the upside-down world in which we now exist and open one’s eyes to see how far into some perverted wonderland we’ve fallen.

Alice is the typical American who has awakened to find herself in another country. She is a much older Alice than was written by Carroll because it is a Baby Boomer story after all. A fable of sorts about a generation that no longer recognizes the world into which they were born.

I know what you’re thinking, and I’m very aware of the old adage about we are all born into one world and leave from another. I simply have a difficult time believing the world in which we now exist is in any way even related to the one we came crying and fussing into.

It hardly bears a resemblance to the America we loved. Where we stood happily and proudly each day to say the pledge of allegiance. 

Where we walked to and from school with our friends, never worrying about who might be following us home, night or day.

Where we played outside until the street lights came on and where ice cream trucks ringing bells were the highlight of our day.

Where we shopped in a store and actually paid for the merchandise before leaving.

Where we could sleep well at night with full knowledge bad people would be put away so they couldn’t hurt us anymore.

A world filled with wonders like television and then a peacock that spread his feathers and gave us color.

A world where Disney was asleep and gave us Mouseketeers and wonderful cartoon fairy tales and even Bambi that turned us all off hunting for life.

Where we talked to our friends face to face or on the phone and didn’t have to read what they had to tell us.

Where our mothers cooked dinner and our fathers came home from work and we sat around the dinner table as a family discussing what we’d done that day. No question we carefully edited our discussion to include only our best grades and fun activities. And no I am not saying that women didn’t work, many did and that was fine with us.

A world that included blow up pools, but if you were really lucky an above the ground one that you needed a ladder to climb into.

We sat in front of the fan on hot summer nights before central air conditioning or in front of the window screen in our bedroom to catch a breeze wafting by. 

We watched horror movies like I Was a Teenage Werewolf and then had to sleep in our parents’ bedrooms to alleviate our fears.

We felt safe, happy and chose our friends because they lived nearby and we liked them.

This is no longer America. I know what you’re going to say…times change. Kids today will have their own memories.

I say it’s not the same.

Today kids stay up nights worrying about global warming.

Little girls don’t want to grow to be mothers because they no longer want to bring children into this world.

An America where more kids are confused about who or what they are than the entire population of New York City.

A world where you can’t walk down city streets without stepping on people, or worse, and even in your own back yard you’re no longer safe from predators.

Whose fault is it that the world has changed so much and not for the better?

Perhaps it’s the Baby Boomers. Or am I just too willing to accept guilt even if undeserved?

Were we too certain that the gravy train would ride forever?

That Dick Clark would always be at the Bandstand and John Kennedy would someday return in the form of John Jr.

Our hopes were dashed with the realities that seemed to set in every day as we went about our business, raising our children, shopping and wondering what to do with our lives in our golden years.

We attended weddings, graduations and funerals. Lots of funerals. And buried lots of family and friends we love and miss.

There are those who would disagree with my ramblings and memories of a time gone by. They would even emphasize how much better off we are now with modern science and new innovations.

There is no doubt being bionic is a boon to seniors, but I’m not convinced the price we’ve paid as a nation justifies the Internet or AI.

Yes, there are definitely some good things about this new-fangled-high-tech world, but it seems to me that the more high-tech the world becomes, the more it reverts to its primitive self. That instead of using these innovations to grow as people, we use them to return to the caves to carry out petty wars and pathetic tribal rivalries.

So what good is a world filled with innovation accompanied by low intelligence? Is it possible to march forward on one level and rush backward on another?

I’m not quite certain human beings are capable of handling the modern world that was foisted upon them and it’s leading instead to a caveman mentality. Like handing a toddler an UZI and not expecting him to pull the trigger.

Have we all fallen down a hole without the benefit of cute little rabbits, tea parties and delicious cakes?

Speaking for myself I’d rather join Alice and the March Hare and use his watch to turn back time to a gentler, kinder America. 

Yes, I’m remembering it with rose-colored glasses, but I defy anyone to watch the news and not want to turn the channel and believe none of the insanity is actually happening.

Now where is that rabbit hole again?