Cinema Shardiso

So I saw THE FIGHTER recently. Not a bad movie. Not a great movie, by any means, but not bad. I think the movie would have had more teeth if it had gone whole hog and admitted it was about Dicky and not Micky. I'm from Lowell, but I have had no interaction with any of these guys, so my observation is simply as a moviegoer. And if the movie had been about Dicky, then it could have turned on that phone call when Dicky discovered that Micky had listened to him about the approach to the Vegas fight. That happens, Dicky is redeemed, he cleans himself up, the movie is about him. On the other hand, I'm sure Dicky's story was a bit under-told, and perhaps his redemption might not be as viable as Micky's achievement. I don't know. Still, Bale wins the Oscar, over Jeremy Renner, who received the only Oscar nomination scored for a better movie, THE TOWN.

I am from Lowell, though, and I have to say this...

Watching THE FIGHTER prompted me to watch HIGH ON CRACK STREET, the searing, 59-minute documentary that is a crucial part of the plot of THE FIGHTER. Because it's a short film, you won't find it on Blockbuster or Netflix. But you can find it very easily online, and you can watch it for free on your computer.

So if you see THE FIGHTER....

...and then you see HIGH ON CRACK STREET...

...and you are from Lowell...

...then you can't be very happy about the way Hollywood has depicted your city.

Sure, both stories, interwoven as they are, are legit and worth telling.

But, my God...are these films the city's cinematic legacy?

Sure, Ricky Gervais' THE INVENTION OF LYING showed scenes of Lowell at its nicest. But it did not acknowledge the name of the city. So that doesn't count.

I've written a play about Lowellians, entitled THE PORCH. Perhaps sometime, some theatre in Lowell will stage it. So far, one has rejected it. Too bad. I think folks in the area would appreciate its message of hope and friendship. But I can't help at the moment.

I'm just sayin'...

There are Lowellians out there living sane, productive, and INTERESTING lives, and they have stories to tell. Paul Marion and other local writers pen wonderful material about the city.

But the rest of the world sees us in THE FIGHTER and HIGH ON CRACK STREET and...

I'm just sayin'...
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I think I saw THE SOCIAL NETWORK and I think it was pretty good. I just can't remember all that much about it. I'll watch it again. If it takes Best Picture, that's fine with me. Besides, I am a huge fan of director David Fincher, whose SEVEN is one of my all-time favorite films.
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Jeff Bridges is terrific in TRUE GRIT but it looks like he hasn't shaved or bathed since before CRAZY HEART. I don't think you should win back-to-back Oscars without changing your clothes. Good, solid movie, though, from the Coen Brothers, who stepped a little away from their customary quirkiness to tell an old fashioned western story extremely well. Hailee Steinfeld? Superb.
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Colin Firth is probably going to win the Best Actor Oscar, but, for some reason, as good as he is in THE KING'S SPEECH, I had a little trouble getting past the technical acting-out of the stammering George VI. That's not fair, I know, but...that's my reaction. What I took away from that movie was the nuanced, moving, brilliantly subtle work of Geoffrey Rush. My God, is he good in this movie. Can't win the Oscar, though. Not with Christian Bale as competition.
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Michelle Williams turns in a star performance in BLUE VALENTINE, which also features Tewksbury's Maryann Plunkett as Williams' mother in the film. Williams scored an Oscar nom, her second, for her work. But, for my money, the standout performance in BLUE VALENTINE belongs to Ryan Gosling, who breaks your heart as a man who just wants to be a husband and father, but who doesn't have the life skills to provide for his family. Just a beautiful job of acting.
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I kind of have a feeling I saw INCEPTION, but I'm just not sure if it was a dream. I'll have to look for the ticket stub.
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Okay, are you sitting down--I still say that the best film I have seen this year is TOY STORY 3. It is meticulously structured, hysterically funny, occasionally scary, and downright moving. There is a moment late in the film that I still can't believe happened, it was so fresh and surprising. It will be Best Animated Feature but...I think it needs to be considered as best of the year.

Shards of the Season

Songs of the Season I will listen to until they're over, regardless of whether I am parked in front of my house and it's freezing:

White Christmas - Bing Crosby
Jingle Bell Rock - Bobby Helms
Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree - Brenda Lee
A Holly Jolly Christmas - Burl Ives
Do You Hear What I Hear - Bing Crosby
The Little Drummer Boy - Harry Simeone Chorale
O Holy Night - Andy Williams
Mele Kalikimaka - Crosby and the Andrews Sisters

And that's it. I did not forget Nat Cole's The Christmas Song. It's beautiful, but it won't stop me from turning off the ignition.

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And speaking of Do You Hear What I Hear - how come that's the title of the song? It's not the tag of the first stanza of the song. That's Do You See What I See. It's not the tag of the final stanza of the song. That's Do You Know What I Know. It's not repeated any more often than any other Do You Whatever What I Whatever in the song. Who decided Do You Hear What I Hear was going to be the title? Should I worry about this? Should you?

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And here's the deal about The Little Drummer Boy. First of all, with the Harry Simeone version available, there was really no need for anybody else to record the song. However, some people did. Some people keep doing it. Hey--that's their right. Be aware, though, you people who make up your mind to sing this song, that you damn well better know how to Parump A Bump Bum. There are a number of versions out there in which the Parump A Bump Bum is atrocious. Very few humans can pull off the Parump a Bump Bum required to make this song work. I think Crosby comes close in the version of The Peace Carol/Little Drummer Boy he sang with David Bowie on that Christmas TV Special he filmed in England about five minutes before he died. I think he lucked into a correct reading of Parump a Bump Bum because he was so embarrassed singing the song with David Bowie that he kind of turned his brain off and pretty much threw away the phrase, making it strangely effective. Truth be told, though, damn few singers can execute the phrase properly. My recommendation: leave the song alone. There's a perfect version out there already.

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I see Die Hard turning up in lists of people's favorite Christmas movies. Okay. I'll buy that. I'm just pretty sure Sister Gonzaga would not have chosen it as the movie to show us back in the eighth grade at the Sacred Heart before sending us off for Christmas vacation.

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If you're looking for a holiday film and you're kinda over some of the all-time favorites, I strongly suggest you get a copy of Ricky Gervais' 90-minute finale of his THE OFFICE. Gervais and Stephen Merchant decided to end their brilliant BBC series after only a couple of seasons, and fashioned this piece to tie up loose ends of the two most prominent stories the series featured--Gervais' David Kemp's attempt to live and love, and the "it has to happen but how?" romance between Tim and Dawn. And they set it at Christmastime. Frankly, the show is painful to watch, as Gervais and Merchant put Kemp through humiliations that would destroy most people--funny, but painful--but the astonishing two endings of the above-mentioned storylines make all the pain worthwhile. (Spoiler Alert) The moment when Tim and Dawn finally come together is as moving and as tastefully handled as anything you've seen in film or on television, ever. You can probably watch this without having viewed the two full seasons of Gervais-Merchant's THE OFFICE. But it is best appreciated knowing who these people are, and how they got to be at the point and time covered in the finale.

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So the holiday season is sometimes a depressing one. Let's face it. Not everybody is filled with joy and cheer and the Yuletide is not always as gay as the song would make it out to be. But please, people, those of you who insist on putting those enormous blow-up Santas and Snowmen and Rudolphs out on your lawn--for the love of God, get up in the morning, go out to the lawn, and RE-BLOW THE DAMN THINGS UP! If a guy is having a tough time dealing with the season, for whatever reason, if he's down in the dumps and weeps uncontrollably as he drives to work while Mariah Carey blares out that all she wants for Christmas is him, there is NOTHING more emotionally deflating than seeing all these elves and reindeer out of air and sprawled on the lawn, waiting to be revitalized for the afternoon commute. COME ON PEOPLE! BLOW UP YOUR LAWN SANTAS! KEEP CHRISTMAS ALIVE!

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Merry Christmas

The Luck of the Wall Socket

I am in the Barnes and Noble café in Nashua, NH. As usual. Trying to work. Sometimes it's easy. Sometimes less so. Most times, I can achieve a level of concentration here I can't reach in a more private atmosphere. Today, at least at this moment, is not one of those times.

I'm in the only seat I could get near a wall socket. A seat near a wall socket is crucial at Barnes and Noble, because I have to plug in my computer. Yeah, I have a battery, but the computer is about four years old and the battery doesn't last all that long. So the wall socket is a must.

Unfortunately, today, I am sitting next to a couple of 20-somethings, a man and a woman (boy and a girl?), who are in the very first stage of chatting each other up. Emphasis on the chatting. And the conversation is as inane as any conversation I've ever heard. The most prevalent words emerging from their lips are the words "like" and "awesome." The conversation has evolved in the last thirty minutes from dogs watching him kissing his "ex" in bed (he made sure he emphasized the "ex" part) to his receding hairline, which is not really receding, which he knows, but which, since he brought it up, she feels compelled to defend. Points for him. (He's 26, tops, and he just used the phrase "If I could do it all over again…") You can, asshole! Twice!

Sitting on the table in front of her is a paperback entitled, "Personal Development for Smart People." From what I've heard of the conversation, she hasn't had a chance to begin reading yet.

Okay, he just said, "That was my first tattoo." She called it "cool." He thinks the lines are too thick. She doesn't agree. She thinks it's fantastic. He has absolutely NOTHING to worry about in terms of action later in the day. Or night.

Two more "likes," a "sucks" and a "basically." Classic.

I just took a quick glance in the guise of a look to the clock or something. She is wearing jeans and a shirt, each of which is full of carefully calculated holes.

As I said, this guy is In Like Flynn.

For those of you who enjoy century-old baseball references.

I'd really like to get down to work on this new play I'm writing, but I can't. I know--I should go home and lock myself in my room and concentrate. But I can't. I do my best writing in the cafe at B&N. That's just the way it is. I have to wait for these two to shut up, or else wait until another wall socket opens up so I can move.

These two shutting up is not going to happen. Not for a while. She just looked at her watch, gushed, and asked him if he knew what time it was.

He said, "I dunno. 11:30?"

It's 2:30.

She gushed again.

This guy knows exactly what he's doing. I think he told her he's an Emergency Medical Technician. Even if it's not true, it's gonna get him through this day. And night. I guarantee it. He's so smooth there's no question she's paying for dinner, too.

If they make it to dinner.

Maybe he parked his ambulance outside. That'd be quicker.

I wonder if she's gonna buy the book.

Uncle Crumbs

A couple of months ago, I introduced you to Eddie and Timmy. I had just moved in with them and my brother and sister-in-law in Derry, NH, where I set up my man cave and began perpetrating whatever it is I do on society from there. Let me reacquaint you with the boys.

This is Eddie. Eddie is the shaggier of the brothers. A little lankier, a little longer than Timmy. If the two brothers walked into a doggie saloon, Eddie would be the one the girl doggies would slobber over. He'd lope up to the bar, casually order a Milk Bone (which he wouldn't have to pay for), and fake chew on it as he eyed the doggettes up and down the bar to select which he would grace with his charm for the rest of the evening.

And this is Timmy. Timmy's the stockier one, the fireplug. Timmy would be Eddie's wing man as they ambled into the doggie saloon. Timmy would not be concerned that the doggettes were slobbering over his smoother-looking brother, because Timmy knows, 1. He's the brains of the outfit and 2. Eddie's hand-me-downs are gonna be just fine for his purposes.


Eddie and Timmy, after about four months of allowing me to share their domicile, have adjusted to my presence. That is to say, they know my place in the household. I am the guy who tosses doggie treats at them all hours of the day and night. I am the guy who, when preparing his dinner in the kitchen, brings a little can of PikNik Original Shoestring Potatoes with him and who, as he stirs his soup or manages the franks in his George Foreman Grill, will sprinkle PikNik Original Shoestring Potatoes on the floor near the stove to keep Eddie and Timmy occupied while dinner is being prepared. I am the guy who, after he eats his breakfast in his man cave, will be very careless with the toast crumbs and the New Kellogg's "Simply Cinnamon" Corn Flakes (free with rebate for a limited time), so that the carpet in the man cave is replete with bits and pieces of toast and flakes ready for the little doggie vacuums to consume.

I am...Uncle Crumbs.

There are advantages to being Uncle Crumbs. For one, it means the dogs like me. True, it's kind of pathetic to be appreciated for your food scraps, but one takes what one can get in this life. Yes, I know that when Timmy scratches on my door mid-morning (Eddie never does the scratching. That's the wing man's job.), I know he's not visiting to shoot the breeze or catch up on the latest reading of one of my plays, but rather it's to see whether I've gone back to Lightly Sweetened Multi-Grain Cheerios, which he and Eddie find inferior to the new Cinnamon Corn Flakes. I mean, they will eat the discarded Cheerios, but, come on (they think), not only do the Flakes taste better, there's the damn rebate! But it does mean they visit, which is a good thing. I fear that if I cleaned up my act and stopped spilling my breakfast on the floor, I'd never see them again. But that won't happen. I'm something of a slob. They know it. They'll always be back.

September 15, 2010: A Night on THE TOWN

About a year ago, I was called in by CP Casting to read for an upcoming film to be directed by, co-written by, and starring Ben Affleck. As I recall, I initially read for the role of a Charlestown gangster leader whose flower shop fronted for his operation. I read the scene and was called back another time to read it again. Eventually, I was called in to read for another part, Arnold Washton, one of the guys guarding the stash of concessions cash collected at Fenway Park after a four-game series with the Yankees. In other words, if I got the part, I would be guarding a lot of fake Hollywood dough. My first few auditions were for the CP folks, my last one--a callback for "Arnold," was for Ben Affleck. I remember I walked into the audition room and stepped boldly to the table where Ben was sitting. I held out my hand, and it occurred to me that Ben was not expecting this. It also occurred to me that his not expecting this meant that he was going to consider me an asshole and not consider me for the part. I went through with the handshake, though, even though Ben's ball point pen stayed clumsily in his hand as he shook mine. Never ambush a movie star who's wielding a ballpoint pen. It's just not done.

Anyway, I read the scene for Ben, and I thought the reading went less successfully than the reading I did for the CP people but...that's the way it goes. As I walked out of the room, the woman who runs CP asked me if I would be available for a table read. A bunch of folks were going to sit around and read the script, see how it sounds. I said sure, of course, but that table read never came to pass for me. I was to read the part of the Charlestown gangster, a major supporting role, and, as it turned out, they didn't need me. But it was fun to be asked.

Anyway, I do get the part of "Arnold," and I do the shoot, which lasts two days and I think I covered all this in an earlier blog entry. Fast forward to last night, Tuesday, September 14, 2010, when the finished film is to be given its Boston premiere at Fenway Park, which is the location of the final heist of the film. I was amazed that they planned this. It's outdoors, in mid-September, and it's not a football game. It's a movie. Could it be anything but cold, uncomfortable, and possibly even wet?

Turns out, none of the above. A beautiful late summer day turned into a gorgeous late summer evening. My friend Sandra and I got into town early (I am a huge traffic beater, whenever I can swing it), and planned to have dinner before the premiere. We parked in the main Fenway Lot (FREE PARKING PASS!!!!!! ANYBODY WHO'S BEEN TO FENWAY KNOWS WHAT THIS MEANS.) and I looked across the street to the Cask and Flagon. Now, again, anybody who has gone to a Red Sox game knows that you just don't go to the Cask and Flagon before the game. Mainly because you can't get in there. To paraphrase Yogi--"Nobody goes there. It's too crowded." But I could see that there was plenty of room inside, and even though the C&F ain't the height of New England elegance, I thought we'd give it a shot, because I'd never get in there again. We found a table near the window which looked out on to Gate E, which happened to be the Gate those of us folks privileged to be invited to the premiere were supposed to use. We figured we could sit and watch the stars go by.

Well, we did sit and we did watch, but no stars went by. Unless you consider Jerry Kissel a star. I actually do. I think he's one of the best actors in Boston. But when you're looking for Jennifer Garner, Jerry Kissel just doesn't cut it. Still, it was fun to anticipate things that never happened. Eventually, we left the Cask and Flagon and became just another couple of non-stars waiting to get into the park. Finally, Gate E opened and we stepped inside, only to be greeted by scanners and pat downs and all kinds of "keep the terrorists away from the movie people" security. No big deal, but I did have a lot of change (I never go to Boston without dozens of quarters), and it was embarrassing filling up the plate that was whisked through the scanner. Took me twenty minutes to get everything back in my pocket. But I did, and we followed the throng up the ramp to Section 26, which overlooks the third base line.

Walking into Fenway, no matter how many times you've done it, or how old you are, is a thrilling experience. It is just one, big, damn, beautiful place. (To look at, not to sit in, but that's another story.) But rarely does one walk into an essentially empty Fenway, to see a mammoth motion picture screen mounted on scaffolding, and spanning the entire third base line.

There seemed to be a Red Carpet rolled along the stands next to the Red Sox dugout on the first base side, with a group of movie posters lined up with the carpet. The folks were pokily making their way to their seats, which were mostly in Section 26, handily tucked between two posts so that everybody could see the screen. Ultimately, people sat in Sections 25 and 27, but only where the posts wouldn't interfere. Sandra and I took our seats in Row 6, #s 8 and 9. As we did, we were handed an official THE TOWN blanket, which Warner Bros. provided gratis, in case autumn stealthily intruded during the screening. The blanket was black, and had "The Town" sewn into it, in red. Things did not get under way according to the schedule, and there was a lot of sitting around and "Howayahs!" shared by the folks in the stands, many of whom, it seemed, knew each other. Now that everybody and his brother is making gangster movies in Boston, the need for gangster types among the local thespian crowd has grown precipitously. They were all having a hell of a time. Sandra became very deft at taking photos without looking into the lens.

Finally, at about 8:40, all the stars had arrived and taken their seats, and Fenway suddenly went black. That's quite an experience if, as I am, you're used to the place in stunning brightness. Then, just as suddenly, a spotlight hit Ben Affleck, who stood in front of the screen and graciously thanked the Boston film community for the good experience he had working in Charlestown and thereabouts shooting the movie. He didn't introduce the stars with him (it was just too dark), but did let us know that Jeremy Renner, Blake Lively, Rebecca Hall, Chris Cooper and Jon Hamm were present, as was Ben's friend Matt Damon. Alas, no Jennifer. (I've been a big fan since ALIAS.)

At the conclusion of his really terrific speech, the film began. At first, it seemed like it was simply going to be an evening of people recognizing themselves and their friends on screen and doing the WHOOP! thing, but, though that did happen occasionally during the evening, by and large the audience watched the film with interest. It is beautifully shot, and the sound and sight systems set up for Fenway were excellent. The story may have a hole or two, but the performances, the humor, and the incredible (I use that word intentionally) special effects and action sequences make it a damn good show. I think it will do very well, and unless five other actors do bang-up work in supporting roles between now and Oscar time, I think Renner gets a nomination. If the film is a huge hit, look for Affleck, too, to get a nod, as director.

When the film ended most eveybody hung around a bit to watch the credits, and those of us with small roles were very happy when our names did appear. I had done two days on the film, and had one line as I was tied up by Affleck as he robbed Fenway. My line did not survive the cut, but ten seconds of me looking frightened in medium close-up did, and for that, I'm grateful. And there was my name. Up there on the screen. For the first time.

All in all, a truly cool evening.

And, oh, by the way, that part I had initially read for and was called back for--went to the great character actor Pete Postlethwaite. Why they'd want to use him instead of me....

And my parking space was sooooo good....I got outa town in no time.

August 27, 2010 Movies: The Unexpected

This is a Good News/Bad News thing. I saw a couple of movies this week, one in a theatre, one via Netflix Streaming. My expectations were knocked sideways with each film.

First, the Bad News.

I really like Steve Carell (Wait, while I go to the Internet and check, once again, on the l's and the r's in his name.) Okay. Carell. I remember his earlier work on THE DAILY SHOW. And I remember how blown away I was with his performance in LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE. Who knew the guy had acting chops like that? And then there's THE OFFICE. I am now watching a lot of OFFICE reruns. The show itself is brilliant. Brilliant in a different way from Gervais' brilliant British version, but brilliant nonetheless. Brilliant in a decidedly American way. So the first time through these shows, it was the show--and the beautifully written and performed arc of the Jim/Pam relationship--that made the show work for me. Now, on my second time through, I'm recognizing how remarkably honest and funny Carell is in the show. Episode by episode he brings everything he's got to the table, and that's a lot. He is at once silly and ridiculous and pathetic and charming and...sad. Gervais does all this as well, it is true, but...Carell (and the OFFICE writers) need to be recognized for this wonderful character. Okay. All right. I love Steve Carell. I thought both he and Tina Fey were very good in DATE NIGHT, though I thought the writing let them down. Okay. All right. But the other day, in a theatre, I saw DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS.

Here's how I think the pitch meeting for DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS went down.

PITCHER: Are you ready? Guy wants a promotion. His boss says okay. But the guy has to bring an idiot to dinner so the boss and his cronies can make fun of the guy. DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS. Whatdya think?

PRODUCER: Are you sure this will...

PITCHER: Schmuck is Steve Carell.

PRODUCER: Make the movie!

And that's where the creativity stopped. The movie is a long exercise in badly considered and executed "comic" situations and hideously unfunny jokes. I am terrible at remembering specifics about movies, so I am unable to regurgitate the jokes for you here but, trust me, the writers are sophomoric and talent-free when it comes to getting to the heart of the comic matter. And the very talented (I think) and very witty Zach Galifianakis is wasted in a stooge role that is offensively underwritten. It takes a lifetime to get to the dinner, and when we do, we are treated to more of the same lame humor and patented "guy movie" cliches we sat through to get to dinner. My question: Did Carell and Paul Rudd and Galifianakis actually read the script before committing to the movie? Or did they, like the producer, just sign on with the pitch? I'm guessing the latter. Because all of those actors are much, much, much better than the material in DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS.

And then there's TRANSSIBERIAN.

(No matter how many times I type that title, the spell check always goes into Panic Mode, but as far as I can tell, that's the way it's spelled.)

This is a thriller I don't think anybody saw. Made in 2008 by writer/director Brad Anderson (THE MACHINIST, NEXT STOP WONDERLAND), it's a story about an American couple (Woody Harrelson and Emily Mortimer--yeah, playing an American), who are taking the Transsiberian Express from Beijing to Moscow after doing some social work in China. Along the way, they encounter an "interesting" young couple who attracts them in varying ways, and the results are far from pleasant for Woody and Emily. The plot involves the Russian drug trade and the shady way in which the Russian police force goes about its business. Eduardo Noriega and Kate Mara play the mysterious strangers on the train, and Ben Kingsley plays a Russian detective. The Lithuanian shoot stands in for Siberia, and the film is beautifully rendered.

More than all this, though, is the fact that TRANSSIBERIAN is a terrific thriller, and terrific thrillers are hard to come by. Most of the time, the plot line in current thrillers is transparent almost from the first reel. This movie, like Polanski's THE GHOST WRITER, is a current thriller that involves the viewer carefully, and then, about halfway through the movie, just grabs the viewer and takes him on an unexpected ride full of twists and turns that lasts until the very last frame.

TRANSSIBERIAN had the misfortune of opening the same weekend as THE DARK KNIGHT, the biggest opening in film history, and thus accounts for its relative obscurity.

But it's still out there, available to see, and I recommend it without reservation.

August 24, 2010--Sister Annette, the Russians and the Mulligan Twins

I'm always hearing stories about how the nuns messed up the lives of so many of my Lapsed Catholic friends. (Yes, Catholics can be friends with Lapsed Catholics. All a Catholic has to do to maintain the friendship is to nod and laugh when the Lapsed Catholic tells him how much the religion messed the LC up. When the C laughs, then the LC thinks the C is an LC and everybody is happy. One thing the C should never, ever do is try to explain to the LC why he, the C, is still a C. That's just asking for trouble. Because all the C is doing, really, is triggering the GUILT the LC has been harboring since he turned LC. And once the GUILT is triggered, the friendship between the C and the LC is endangered, because dredging up that GUILT is just not the friendly thing to do. The C rarely intends to trigger the GUILT but...that's the way it is with GUILT. It kind of sideswipes you like a neglectful Nissan driver in a slippery parking lot.)

Anyway, I never had any real trouble with nuns. Well, one, maybe. Sister Annette. I'm not changing her name because there's no way she's still alive and if she is she deserves to be really, really old. She was my second grade teacher and, I swear to God, she had us thinking the Russians were out in the cloak room ready to pounce on us if we so much as sneezed during Arithmetic. Yeah. Russians. Russians were very big back in those days if you wanted to scare the crap out of kids. And Sister Annette knew what she was doing when it came to kid crap scaring. I remember back then that I was afraid of Protestants (that's just a level of paranoia I do not want to examine right now), but not nearly as afraid as I was of the Russians. Back then, our only option when it came to escaping the Russians was to "duck and cover." Or, in the case of those of us in the Sacred Heart School, to move single file down the stairs to the basement where the Russians, we understood, couldn't get to us. Sister Margaret Claire in the first grade and Sister Perpetua in the third grade never mentioned the Russians. Perhaps that's because they were older and Russians to them still lived under Tzars and hadn't procured the hydrogen bomb. But Annette--she knew Russians, and she knew that if she wanted something out of us, all she had to do was invoke the imminence of World War Three and we would comply. Another thing about Annette that bugged me was that, one time, she heard somebody talking in the boys' room. This was strictly forbidden. I have no idea how talking might have negatively affected urinating, but she seemed to believe it would and banned chatter from the lav. Anyway, she heard talking one day (I guess she was just outside the boys' room door, listening), and when we filed out of the lavatory, she lined us up against the blackboard and demanded to know who was the chatterbox. Nobody owned up. We all knew that whoever owned up was going to be fed to the Russians. Trouble was, I KNEW who was talking. It was one of the Mulligan twins. It didn't make any difference which one it was. They looked the same and acted the same and both had a habit of talking in the boys' room. And I knew it was one of them. And it showed on my face. And Annette was really, really good at honing in on a face that showed. So she looked me in the eyes, and asked me who was the talker. I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. The Mulligan twins were enormous, and all I could think of at that moment was either I tell on the twin that I can see and who can kill me, or I hope to God that Annette is lying about the Russians.

I was punished. No Russians. Just blackboard clapping or something, I forget. But I was held responsible for the bathroom gabfest, even though I never, ever said a word in there.

I think, though, that the Mulligan twin who did the talking gained a modicum of respect for me after that day.

I have no idea what happened to Sister Annette.

But I hope the Russians got her.