Tuesday, February 14, 2017

David Farr (1942-2016)



 David Farr (left) and Ed Roynal with Best Dog on their wedding day, February 2016 (with photo-bombing couple in background)


On a recent Saturday evening, the little hand bell group at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Oakland rang bells for David Farr for the last time.

David was St. Paul’s choir and music director for seven years. Amid the tumult and death of 2016, his unexpected passing on December 15, mere months after both his retirement and wedding to his longtime partner Ed Roynal, may seem a minor event to the wider world. But to St. Paul’s congregation, David’s family and colleagues, and I’m sure many others, it dug a deep hole in the heart.  

I adored David Farr. The best adjective I can find for him is sweet, as sweet and holy as the music that rose like incense under St. Paul’s old vaulted ceilings under his quiet, patient direction.

He was one of the essential reasons I chose St. Paul’s as my church home. “Music is from God,” he once declared to us, an echo of my belief that it is surely the greatest evidence for His existence.

Being of recent vintage (both as Christian and St. Paul’s parishioner) I had no notion of the world of St. Paul’s before I walked through the door during Pentecost in 2011. According to those who eulogized him at the service, his knowledge of ecclesiastical music—especially Anglican—was truly astounding.

In the summer of 2012, with the choir on vacation, Elizabeth and I joined a vocal workshop he organized. I like to think it was an audition to join St. Paul’s superb choir. But sadly, about three weeks in, an enigmatic vampirical malady hooked its fangs in me and stayed until the fall. Afterward, I hoped he would start his workshop up again, but that didn’t happen.

Instead there came a Sunday when he approached me after services, his face aglow, and asked, “Thom! Would you and Elizabeth consider joining the bell choir we’re starting!?”

David was one of the few people to get my puckish, punnish humor. After I once dropped one of my god-offal puns, his eyes froze and he heaved a little Anglican sigh as he turned to my wife: “Oh, you poor dear . . . how do you live with that?”

Jeff Bellamy, our bell director is nicknamed “Paco” and David couldn’t have been more delighted when I suggested we call our bell choir “Paco-Bells.” (The idea was shelved as being a bit silly for St. Paul’s august chambers and sacred mission.)

Elizabeth and I stayed with the bell choir for over a year. Through some mysterious workings, my last day on bells, February 7, was also the day David and Ed were married in St. Paul’s. I couldn’t have been prouder to play for them. I managed to attend, as a “civilian,” David’s retirement concert that May.

David also me to read my first Dorothy Sayers novel, The Nine Tailors. I didn’t much care for that one, but I was not surprised to later learn that David was a deep fan of the sub-genre of Golden Age Mysteries, with the largest collection of twentieth-century British whodunits and thrillers I’ve ever seen. I was only able to give it a cursory inspection when we attended a dinner party at his Oakland home in the fall of 2015. That too is a fine memory, tinged with a little regret that we didn’t talk more.

When his mother passed a few years ago, I offered my condolences. His face glowing, he said, “You know how it happened? She opened her arms to it!”

At the end of Saturday night’s service, as David’s ashes were carried out to “For All the Saints” with the bells chiming over, one of the ringers called out “This is for you, David!”

No one in the church heard the cry . . . but, surely, it was heard.


Copyright 2017 by Thomas Burchfield

Thomas Burchfield’s Butchertown, a ripping, 1920s gangster shoot-‘em-up  novel will appear this April 2017. His contemporary Dracula novel Dragon's Ark won the IPPY, NIEA, and Halloween Book Festival awards for horror in 2012. He’s also author of the original screenplays Whackers, The Uglies, Now Speaks the Devil and Dracula: Endless Night (e-book editions only). Published by Ambler House Publishing, all are available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble,  Powell's Books, and other retailers. His reviews have appeared in Bright Lights Film Journal and The Strand and he recently published a two-part look at the life and career of the great film villain (and spaghetti western star) Lee Van Cleef in Filmfax. He lives in Northern California with his wife, Elizabeth.

Friday, January 27, 2017

Eye on Books: "Oceans Apart" by Kevin McCarey






While my own boy’s soul never heard the call of the sea, many another young man has dreamed of setting sail since the dawn of human perception. In the wake of those adventures, a great literature has arisen, including countless memoirs by those who’ve sailed in times of both peace and war; for profit and for glory.

One of the latest is Oceans Apart: The Wanderings of a Young Mariner by Kevin McCarey (The Glencannon Press, 241 pp., 2016). McCarey is a distinguished, prize-winning documentary filmmaker who’s produced nature films for PBS and the National Geographic, among others. Several Emmy and Peabody awards shine from his mantle.

But years before finding his life’s work, McCarey spent part of his youth as a merchant seaman, a trade that, thanks to various technological changes, has been in decline for the last five decades.

Full disclosure: McCarey was a family friend, though about a decade older than I. We’ve only recently reconnected.

McCarey was born and raised down the road from me, in Putnam Valley, New York, across the border from where I lived in Westchester County, a bit east of the Hudson River. I can state plainly, the Hudson River Valley is a most beautiful part of the world, but unless you have money, it can be a hard and ugly land on which to live; a place you need to escape from. Country life is no stroll through the woods for those without.

McCarey’s family were “tenants on a perpetually fallow potato farm.” They were an excellent illustration of Tolstoy’s dictum that each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. As his father, a frustrated, penniless comic-strip artist, was sinking into alcoholic self-pity, his high-spirited mother was raising Kevin and his three brothers by the simple dictum “Don’t get caught!”


While playing hokey by the Hudson near Peekskill one day during the early 1960s, McCarey espied an old World War-II Liberty ship being nudged and dragged away from the Ghost Fleet (whose gray misty silhouettes I also recall) by a tugboat before sailing off down the Hudson River.

“But to where?” he writes. “What ports of call? I wondered. Buenos Aires? Shanghai? Zanzibar? The other ships, stuck at anchor for almost two decades, must be envious, I thought. And I was envious, too.”

If he’d known at the time where that vessel was headed—likely Vietnam, as that war was already brewing—McCarey might have hesitated. But even if he had known, the sea had made its irresistible call.

Shortly afterward, he enlisted at the State University of New York Maritime College for several years of hard study and youthful hijinks. After graduating, “Maharry,” as he was called by one of his mates, found himself on freighters bound across the Seven Seas. While his itinerary seems inexact and sometimes confusing—given this is a memoir rather than a formal autobiography—he takes the reader on waves of adventure that teem with gamy colorful characters, including crazed captains, dissolute sailors, and sex workers (one of whom, a Portuguese girl, lured McCarey into posing as her fiancĂ© to help her put on a respectable face for her strict family.)

Then there was the time that McCarey took a quick dip in the middle of the Atlantic. And then the sharks came. And then his ship started to sail off without him. And then there was that loose military ordinance shell rolling around below decks while on the way to Cam Ranh Bay, one of the largest U.S. bases in Vietnam. Following an episode right out Apocalypse Now, it’s a wonder McCarey didn’t hand in his papers for a nice safe janitorial position in a school somewhere.

 

Fortunately, McCarey had the sea legs and stuck with it. Most of the freighters he sailed on were virtual slums, but another love was rising to the surface: a love for the ocean. He started opening to its mysteries, giving birth to another dream, one like a distant island in the mist at dawn. There wasn’t only life on board ships, there was also life in the seas, endless life. Eventually that life would become his vocation, a most essential one in our times.

Oceans Apart is a spirited read, a must for travel and adventure readers, a colorful, pungent, funny and exciting story, at times as hair-raising as a Category 5 hurricane.

And it’s all beautifully written, literate and endlessly enjoyable, its prose shimmering like blue sky, full of salt air and ocean spray. It’s an armchair journey worth your ticket and time.


Copyright 2017 by Thomas Burchfield

Photo by author
Thomas Burchfield’s Butchertown, a ripping, 1920s gangster shoot-‘em-up novel, will appear this March 2017. His contemporary Dracula novel Dragon's Ark won the IPPY, NIEA, and Halloween Book Festival awards for horror in 2012. He’s also author of the original screenplays Whackers, The Uglies, Now Speaks the Devil and Dracula: Endless Night (e-book editions only). Published by Ambler House Publishing, all are available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble,  Powell's Books, and other retailers. His reviews have appeared in Bright Lights Film Journal and The Strand and he recently published a two-part look at the life and career of the great film villain (and spaghetti western star) Lee Van Cleef in Filmfax. He lives in Northern California with his wife, Elizabeth.



Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Eye on Movies: Noir City 15: Ten-Day Crime Spree







Alright, I’ll talk! Stop! Don’t hit me no more! I’ll tell ya everythin’ I know. Get that light outta my eyes, will ya? I can’t think!



It was Eddie and his gang. The Film Noir Foundation. Yeah, you coppers know them heisters. Chumps like me are scrapin’ the gutter for peanuts, while Eddie and his FNF gang are breakin’ into film vaults all over the world and makin’ off with the crown jewels of sixty years of crime flicks. He’s made crime pay alright damn him while I’m stuck in the middle of Oaktown watchin’ reruns of Midway on AMC!



Yeah, yeah, I’ll tell ya where. Put my arm back in my socket first, will ya? And take that thumb outta my eye!






What’re the movies about!? What the hell d’ya think they’re about, flatfoot? Heists! Big heists! Big steals that wind up screwin’ the pooch . . . jus’ like they’re always goin’ wrong with me. Well, how the hell was I s’posed to know them rocks belonged to the Kardashians!?



No, I don’t know all the jewels, but I seen a whole bunch of ‘em, some of ‘em a long time ago. Yeah, they’re beautiful all right . . . lemme tell ya . . . .



***********************************************************************


The first gem from the vault is the Robert Siodmak-directed Criss Cross from 1947, starring Burt Lancaster and Ava Gardner, both ashine with resplendent youth. Like many a noir, it’s about the things a guy will do for love. Lancaster is the love-befuddled sap to Gardner’s femme fatale, who’s attached to that perfectly slimy piece of toast Dan Duryea. You may find the ending a little weak as I did, but the build-up is terrific.

Better yet, the festival tops off its opening night with what some call the crown jewel of all heist films, The Asphalt Jungle (1951). From a W.R. Burnett novel, it’s true to its title as there’s not a whiff of nature to be seen anywhere until the unexpectedly moving ending in another of director John Huston’s many masterworks. I also like how it portrays the human violence unfolds in real life—randomly, stupidly.

The first Saturday matinee brings a little treat for fans of the character actors of the 1950s and 1960s in Kansas City Confidential (1953). Directed by Phil Karlson, it’s the story of a poor mug (John Payne) framed by criminal mastermind Preston Foster for a robbery he didn’t commit. Once out of the can, Payne tracks Foster down to a Mexican resort to get his justice.

The film’s best fun comes from the casting and performances by Foster’s gang of hapless miscreant mugs in the background: growling block-headed Neville Brand, sweaty, wall-eyed Jack Elam and, best of all to some, Lee Van Cleef, dispensing a bit with his great reptilian sneer to cheerfully play a self-styled Valentino named Tony Romano with humor, charm and skill. (You can read more about Van Cleef’s work in this film here and in my recent two-part profile of the actor in Filmfax magazine.) No doubt about it, it’s Bad Guy Heaven. Be seeing you there!

Winding up that Saturday afternoon is Violent Saturday, an offbeat thriller from 1955 about a gang of bank robbers (Lee Marvin, another angel from Bad Guy Heaven, of course; Stephen McNally; and J. Carroll Naish) attempting to rob a small-town bank while trying to avoid entanglements with its troubled residents—sort of Peyton Place meets Richard Stark. Directed by a master craftsman, Richard Fleischer (The Narrow Margin) the film’s violence is quite brutal for its era. And Ernest Borgnine as an Amish farmer seems some sort of peak in oddball casting.

While some pick The Asphalt Jungle as the best heist film ever, others will nominate Jules Dassin’s Rififi (1955) in that eternal debate. Dassin directed this after his exile from the United States during the Red Scare. French filmmaking benefitted thanks to the bringing of American skill and sensibilities to their genre movies. The heist sequence is the most exquisite ever as it unfolds without a word of dialogue, a perfect example of what Hitchcock called “pure cinema.” This or The Asphalt Jungle? It’s enough to split a guy’s heart in two.

The following Monday, January 23rd, brings The Killing, directed by a young Stanley Kubrick, from a script he cowrote with Jim Thompson (The Grifters). In addition to the terrific cast (Sterling Hayden, Marie Windsor, Elisha Cook, Jr., Timothy Carey, Vince Edwards et al), you can also get an early look at Kubrick’s unique sense of space in widescreen format. Bay Area horse racing fans will also enjoy the scenes of long-gone Bay Meadows racetrack.

Tuesday night, the 24th, brings one of the best comedies in any genre The Ladykillers. (1955, which seems to be a peak year for the heist genre) Produced by Ealing Studios and directed by Alexander Mackendrick (A Fish Called Wanda), it concerns a band of thieves who rent a hideout in which to plan their next heist. Unfortunately, they fail to account for their exquisitely caring and very nosy landlady. There’s Alec Guinness (with the greatest set of bad teeth ever), Peter Sellers and the underrated Herbert Lom. But all of them crumble before the adorable force of nature that is Katie Johnson. You owe yourself this one.




I haven’t seen The Sicilian Clan (1969) in years and due to the late hour of the screening (late Wednesday, the 25th), I’ll be missing it again. It’s a very good example of the crime thrillers Europeans started turning to as the spaghetti western craze played out its freaky string. This one features Alain Delon, Lino Ventura, and Jean Gabin and was directed by the Turkish-born Henri Verneuil, the director of another nifty Euro-thriller called The Burglars. At their best, these films are as sharp and entertaining as any B-crime picture from the 1940s and 1950s. And there’s Ennio Morricone’s score, one of the best of his huge catalogue. I may not have seen this one in a long time, but I know its music by heart (and good luck at finding the soundtrack).


For crowd-pleaser of the festival, I nominate 1974’s The Taking of Pelham 123, one of the best New York thrillers ever, filmed against the gloriously scuzzy backdrop of 1970s Gotham. It features hangdog Walter Matthau, chilly-eyed Robert Shaw, Jerry Stiller and a winsome Martin Balsam in a tale of a violent subway hijacking that comes down with a URI. It’s a perfect blend of laughs and thrills and is pure New York down to its bawdy bones. But hey . . . what d’ya want for twenty-five cents!? Take my word for it: see this with an audience!

Matthau returns yet again on the last Saturday matinee in Charley Varrick (1973), directed by genre legend Don Siegel (Dirty Harry, still a good movie even if you don’t like its politics). It’s a good two-fisted thriller: Matthau’s knockover of a small-town bank lands him in even deeper waters after he finds the bank was owned by the Mob. Good tough stuff as only directors like Siegel could pull off--the kind Hollywood studios cannot make anymore, even if they wanted to.

Immediately following Charley Varrick, comes Thunderbolt and Lightfoot, an offbeat tale of two crooks (Clint Eastwood and Jeff Bridges) and their lives on the lam. It's another I haven't seen in years, but it plays well in the memory. It’s one of the films credited with raising Eastwood’s profile among serious filmgoers, as well as Jeff Bridges' profile, who’s also terrific here. The film was directed by Michael Cimino, whose subsequent work (The Deer Hunter and Heaven’s Gate) seems to provide weight to the adage that success can ruin a man.

If you’ve ever wondered about the secret face of Mahatma Ghandi, you may get a real clue with Sexy Beast (2000), featuring the film embodiment of Gandhi himself, Ben Kingsley, the soul of yin and yang. He plays Don Logan, a mob enforcer of rabid ferocity who barks his way into the sunbaked retirement of ex-thief Ray Winstone, dragging, pushing and shoving him into pulling one more heist. Tense, funny, disturbing, seedy and stylish to a fault it, it also features Ian McShane as the big boss, a few years before his triumphant turn as Al Swearengen in Deadwood.

The festival closes with the last film in the distinguished career of Sidney Lumet, Before the Devil Knows Your Dead. It plays like a chamber piece, sort of The Asphalt Jungle meets Long Day’s Journey Into Night, as two brothers (Philip Seymour Hoffman and Ethan Hawke) concoct a harebrained scheme to rob their parents’ jewelry store. A genuine air of pathos and tragedy suffuses the film, making it a fine coda to Lumet’s career. And, of course, any excuse to see the much-missed Mr. Hoffman is a good one.



Copyright 2016 by Thomas Burchfield

Thomas Burchfield’s Butchertown, a ripping, 1920s gangster shoot-‘em-up  novel will appear this Spring 2017. His contemporary Dracula novel Dragon's Ark won the IPPY, NIEA, and Halloween Book Festival awards for horror in 2012. He’s also author of the original screenplays Whackers, The Uglies Now Speaks the Devil, and Dracula: Endless Night (e-book editions only). Published by Ambler House Publishing, all are available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble,  Powell's Books, Scribed, and other retailers. His reviews have appeared in Bright Lights Film Journal, The Strand magazine and he recently published a two-part look at the life and career of the great film villain (and spaghetti western star) Lee Van Cleef in Filmfax. He lives in Northern California with his wife, Elizabeth.