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Fashion, music, politics, sports

[April 6, 1968] The mountain of despair (the murder of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.)

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by Dana Pellebon

On April 4, 1968, my world changed and I wasn’t even aware of how much. My day was as any other. Go to work, come home, make dinner, do a little reading, and go to bed. Yet, on April 5th, the horror of opening my newspaper made my world stop. Front Page. Dr. King Murdered. As the paper slipped from my hands, gravity took my body and the tears now flowing to the floor. Who? How? I tried to read the words on the now wet pages, but I couldn’t escape the feeling of intense pain and sadness. When you’ve lived through a man shepherding you and the world through progress, what does it mean when he’s not here? I ached for his wife and children. I dreaded the moment I had to move my body to figure out what was next.


Civil rights leader Andrew Young (L) and others on balcony of Lorraine motel pointing in direction of assailant after a shot mortally wounded Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  Photograph by Joseph Louw

Somehow I got off the floor to ready myself for work. The bus there was filled with other Negroes like me silently crying. At the next to last stop downtown, a small group of men came on the bus and were very loud about ridding the world of another one of “them”.  I straightened my head, methodically dried my tears, and looked right in their direction. My steel gaze was met with some chagrin on their part and blessed silence. It was in that moment that I knew I would never let another one of them see me cry ever again.

I hear there is a work strike coming up. Already people are mobilizing. There’s rumblings on the radio about the riot in Memphis and DC. I read the words of Robert Kennedy talking about his brother’s death and how he too was killed by a white man. How we should not take this time for violence but instead for compassion. I want to take in these words of reconciliation but my heart is cold and distant from such talk. 

I believed in the dream of Dr. King. Nonviolence begets understanding and peace. He may be targeted but he was special. Malcom X was killed because of who he was. Dr. King would stay alive because of who he was. Or, so I thought. My naïveté was on full display as I realized that him dying was the only inevitable outcome for whites who hated his message. My new understanding that peace and conflict are natural bedmates. As I step into this world without Dr. King, I must ask myself, what is next?

This is the question for the Negro. Without our great Shepherd, how does this flock move through the pasture? Who leads the next part of the movement? What legacy of his can we grab of our own to continue to shape the world into a just and equitable future? I don’t know what the path forward is and how to get there, but I think of the last words Dr. King said the night before he was murdered and I know in this moment and the next and the next, every thing I do will be to realize the vision of our collective promised land. 

“Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.”


Dr. King, giving his last speech at Mason Temple, Memphis, on April 3.


by Jessica Dickinson Goodman

When morning finds me, I read the newspaper. Earlier and earlier these days, as my newborn moves towards infancy and begins to make his own dawn schedule.

It was one of Will Roger’s favorite lines: “All I know is just what I read in the papers.” As a Cherokee man born in land that was treaty promised and greed taken, he knew better than most how wrong the press can be. But still, it’s the only first draft of history many of us are privileged to see.

Which is what makes reading it while nursing my baby so strange some days. Like a few weeks ago, when, on a single page, these were the headlines:

  • "Policeman Admits He’s a Klansman"
  • "‘Oakland in 1983: Over Half Negro’"
  • "Commission Warns: Spend Billions or Face Rebellion"
  • "‘Had To Tell It Like It Is’ — Riot Report Jolts Congress"
  • "Policeman’s Lot Not a Happy One"

On mornings like this when decency weeps, a page like that perhaps only has one or two truly true things in it. One, I suspect, is from the "Commission" report breathlessly exaggerated in the headlines, whose full and proper title is “Report of the National Advisory Commission on Civil Disorders;” that commission includes the former Illinois governor Otto Kerner Jr., leading Congressmen from both parties, and Atlanta Police Chief Herbert Jenkins. The paper says of the report:

“For instance, the commission said, belief is widely held that riot cities were paralyzed by sniper fire. Of 23 cities surveyed, there were reports of sniping in 14. And probably there was some sniping, the commission said, but: “According to the best information available to the commission, most reported sniping incidents were demonstrated to be gunfire by either police or National Guardsmen.’”

There’s a lot of passive voice in there, unfortunately common with newspapers’ coddling of police officers’ egos (see the unsourced and useless sob piece in the bottom left hand corner). But those “sniping incidents” included a mother shot in the back and murdered inside her own home during a riot as she tried to pull her 2 year old to safety, away from the glass window.

I hold my baby tighter as I read that.

In another powerful moment, the paper says:

"Asked why the panel made such a hard-hitting report, Harris said: 'We all knew these things intellectually – but we didn't feel it in the pit of our stomachs.

'We want people to see this as we did. We thought we had to tell it like it is.'

Another commissioner returned from a ghetto inspection tour and switched his position on one issue, remarking:

'I'll be a son-of-a-gun. You might be 99 miles further to the left than I thought I would be.'"'

Another bit of truth came from Dr. Martin Luther King Jr, as it so often does. He called the report “a monumental revelation of what we had seen since the burning fires of Watts.”

The report laid the blame for the riots on centuries of white racism and systemic lack of funding in Black communities. It prescribed deep and meaningful investment in those communities to try to make back some of the time that was stolen (the “billions” listed in the third headline, as if we don’t spend “billions” in Vietnam every year).

Reports of commissions like that are the second, or even third drafts of history. I suspect they get it right more often than they do not.

I heard on the radio last night that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was shot and murdered in Memphis. The radio report wasn’t even the first draft of history, maybe just the notes for a future draft. Later, Bobby Kennedy came on, said something like:

“My favorite poet was Aeschylus. He wrote: ‘In our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.’”


Robert F. Kennedy, speaking in Indianapolis, April 4.

I don’t know what the headlines will read today or tomorrow or when the killer is caught, if he is caught. A lot of people hate Dr. King, blame him for the riots. God knows the newspapers did in their first drafts. But reports like the Kerner Commission, they tell us the true causes, lay blame at the right doors.

Until then, until we know more about what happened than we read in the newspapers, I’ll stick with Senator Kennedy, who knows at least something about surviving deaths by violence. I'll try to find some wisdom in the awful grace of God. I’ll try to think about one of Will Roger’s other great quotes, “It's not what we don't know that hurts. It’s what we know that ain’t so.”

I’ll keep trying to teach that to my baby, the things I thought I knew from the papers that I now know aren’t so. I'll try to tell it like it is, as much as I can for someone of his small size. And I'll hold him just a little tighter.


by Mona Jones

My husband calls me from the living room. Any other day, I might think him or Big Mama needed a drink of water. But something about his voice sends a shiver down my spine. He calls me again.

“Mona, you better get in here.”

I walk into the living room just in time to hear a recording of Robert Kennedy over the radio say, “Some very sad news for all of you and, I think, sad news for all of our fellow citizens and people who love peace all over the world. And that is that Martin Luther King was shot and was killed tonight in Memphis. . .”

The rest of his words are drowned by the deafening cries of those in attendance of his last-minute press conference. Mabel must sense a change in the air because she leaves her uncle in the kitchen to come wrap her skinny little arms around my waist. “Mama, what’s wrong? Did something bad happen?”

She’s looking up at me for answers and I have no idea what to say. Even if the cries of the people on the air hadn’t drowned on Mr. Kennedy’s voice, I’m sure the blood rushing in my ears would’ve done the same. Thomas walks up to stand in the archway with me as Mr. Kennedy keeps talking.

“Martin Luther King dedicated his life to love and to justice between fellow human beings. He died in the cause for that effort.”

Even from our little home in Indianapolis, I can already imagine the streets of my hometown in D.C. filling with people with a whole lot of rage and hurt with nowhere to direct it but at themselves. I clutch my little girl closer to my side.

“On this difficult day and in this difficult time for the United States, it’s perhaps well to ask what kind of a nation we are and what direction we want to move in.”

Hasn’t this country already chosen? A great man was killed tonight, I think as my lips tremble and my eyes well up with hot tears. I don’t feel like a mother or a wife or even a sister right now. I feel like a child clinging to another child trying to figure out what’s gonna happen now that the one person who was allowed to care isn’t allowed to care anymore.

“For those of you who are Black – considering the evidence evidently is that there were White people who were responsible – you can be filled with bitterness and with hatred and a desire for revenge.”

Sounds of people yelling and crying echoes around the neighborhood. I fear it's only gonna get worse. I only hope that Thomas doesn’t get any ideas about running out there to help or hurt. He may not have agreed with the Reverend’s methods, but I could see it on his face that he was feeling it, too, plus all the anger that rushes out from inside of him whenever the position of Black people in this country comes up.

“We can move in that direction as a country. . .”

Easy for him to say. He’ll wake up tomorrow and still be a White man. We’ll wake up tomorrow and be Black people without a leader. We’ll wake up not knowing what tomorrow is gonna bring. If the Reverend Martin Luther King was killed, what’s gonna happen to us if we speak out? I can’t tell where this country is headed, and neither can Mr. Kennedy. But I have a feeling it’s nowhere good. Nowhere good at all if a man like that can be taken from us so very, very soon.


by Victoria Lucas

Mel and I grieve that Martin Luther King, Jr. has been taken from us. The turmoil of the day only underscored the tragic events.

It’s not like NYC where mimeographed newsletters were hurried out to the streets with the hour’s news—it takes time for the Berkeley Barb or other newspapers to be ready to distribute. What a difference a Gestetner makes.

Thus, it’s quite possible to drive into something unexpected, as we did on the day of the assassination. People glared at us, yelled at us, even threw things until we stopped and asked someone what was going on. It seems we were supposed to have known to place a black ribbon on our radio antenna or someplace else on our car, as a memorial to Dr. King. We had no idea. We hurriedly found a ribbon and attached it.


Berkeley during the Free Speech Movement a few years ago.

The lack of timely information and the increasing violence here are driving us out. Not only are the police getting more violent, but the Panthers are violent, the protests are getting violent; I cannot pass UC Berkeley's Sather Gate without seeing and hearing a male speaker getting purple in the face about “the pigs” (which now includes both the police and the UC Berkeley administration). What’s more, we're finding we cannot drive or walk around Berkeley at all and feel safe.

And so, we shall soon be leaving tumultuous Berkeley for points north. Our family member is staying, so we will be back to check on him and see friends. But living here has become too scary.

Maybe everywhere has gotten a little more scary.


by Joe Reid

Dr. King was loved by many for what he did with his life.  I thought I loved Dr. King for what he did, but I think that I really must not have.  For the thing I called love was ineffective and unhelpful.  It was empty in that it let another carry a burden alone, without me stepping forward to help.  While this man was walking around doing for others; walking around with a bullseye painted on his back, I only looked out for myself and mine.  It was good that Dr. King was doing the work of leading protests.  Organizing folks.  Giving speeches to inspire others.  Writing books so that others might understand our struggles.  All that I did was say that I loved his work, but I did nothing to help.  I worked and took care of my family and had the nerve to call another man brother when I didn’t lift a finger to try to make that man’s life better.

Dr. King was clearly not like me.  When he called you sister, it was because he cared about what happened to you.  If he called you brother, it was because he saw you as family.  He was able to see another man’s struggles as his own and was willing to use what talents he was given to do something about it.  When I see another man’s struggles, I see it as that man’s struggles.  How does that make me any different than most white folks?  People that might not hate me; might not call me a nigger, but who don’t see themselves in me.  They don’t see my struggles as their own.  Dr. Martin Luther King Jr was not that the kind of man that I have found myself to be.  He clearly possessed something that I lack.


Dr. King, flanked (from left) Hosea Williams, the Rev. Jesse Jackson, and the Rev. Ralph Abernathy on the Lorraine Motel balcony in Memphis on April 3.  Photo by Charles Kelly.

I think that my problem is that I don’t love God.  How could I say that I love God, if I don’t love those who God loves?  Like how if you love your friend, you will help your friend's family because of that love.  That I am not willing to step away from my own life to take up the cause of another shows me how fruitless my love is.  It shows that I don’t love my neighbor, I don’t love my coworker, I don’t love my family, I don’t even love myself.  If another man is fighting a battle for me that I won’t fight for myself, then I must not love myself.  I really don’t love myself, if I haven’t walked with the man.  My inaction proves the point that I must not love God.

Dr. King was not only fighting for negroes in this country, but also for poor folk of all stripes.  This man truly loved others.  His actions showed that.  He loved his children.  His speeches showed that.  He loved his brother.  His hands demonstrated that.  Lastly, it is now obvious to me that Dr. King really and truly loved God.  His life was a testament to that.

So, if I am going to claim to love God, as this man clearly did, I need to stop seeing people as separate from myself; realizing the truth that if anyone is being denied participation, representation, opportunity, or even their very life, I am being denied those things as well.  It was very unloving of me to let others fight on my behalf without me.  It’s time for me to start loving God and those who He loves.  Dr. King, thank you for your example of how to love.  You will be missed, but you will never be forgotten.


by Tom Purdom

I was doing the dishes and listening to our local all-news station, KYW, when the news came over the radio.  The first thing that leaped into my mind was Carl Sandburg’s poem Upstream:

The strong men keep coming on.
They go down, shot, hanged, sick, broken.
They live on, fighting, singing, lucky as plungers,
The strong mothers pulling them on,
The strong mothers pulling them from a dark sea, a
great prairie, a long mountain.
Call Hallelujah, call Amen,
The strong men keep coming on.




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Movies

[July 6, 1966] Baillie's Bailiwick–the Other Castro Street

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by Victoria Lucas

Experimental movies on the rise

Mel and I like this little tiny independent theater off Broadway in San Francisco where we're now living. We've seen some great experimental films there, funny and not so funny. From where we live it's only a few blocks to walk, they only show films on weekends, and they don't charge a lot because it's not a tourist attraction, so it's not a big expense or far to go. Many of the movies we see are shorts, as is the one I discuss here.

I just have to tell you about a film we saw there. They show films from Canyon Cinema and other experimental shorts and foreign films. We haven't been to a mass-production movie theater I think since we met. It's been live theater, foreign films, experimental films, or nothing. Neither of us is fond of Doris Day.


The other Castro Street

Anyway, the film is called "Castro Street." Like the music of John Cage, it changed my life. Whereas Cage taught me to listen, Bruce Baillie, the filmmaker of this wonder and founder of Canyon Cinema, taught me how to look *and* listen together, immersing myself in my environment and watching it cinematically, listening to the music life makes (or whatever is in my head). There is music in "Castro Street," bits of Erik Satie, one of my favorite composers, often in my head.

Just in case you're wondering, "Castro Street" has nothing to do with the Castro Street neighborhood in San Francisco, famous home to differently sexed people whose lifestyle is still not legal and still excoriated. This Castro Street is one in Richmond, home to oil refineries and railroads.


Another still from "Castro Street"

Musique Concrete means "Found Sound"

That is what we see and hear in "Castro Street," trains and industrial facilities, but not as in a documentary. There is no narrative, no story, no voices at all, not even anything to hang a story on. Even Canyon Cinema member Stan Brakhage's 1959 film "Window, Water, Baby, Moving," at least has a birth as a bit of a narrative. This particular thing is happening. Whereas, with Baillie, nothing is happening, or, as Cage said in his "Lecture on Nothing," "I have nothing to say (pause) and I am saying it." I like nothing.

It's only 10 minutes. See if you can find "Castro Street" and watch, listen to it. How many stars for this movie? All there are. There's a new one of Baillie's out, "All My Life," and the Ella Fitzgerald soundtrack is fine, but the visuals stand alone without it.


Bruce Baillie

"24 realities per second"

About another one of his films made this year, the 2-minute "Still, Life," Baillie is reported to have written to Brakhage, "The film manages, I think, to suggest how light itself is movement, how color is movement, and how the combined play of light and color reveal that this tableau represents not only a single reality but 24 realities per second. Being is seen as transitory; everything is in the infinite process of becoming." Yes. Oh, yes.

Live long, Bruce Baillie. I'm sure you have a lot more films in you.




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Fashion, music, politics, sports

[June 18, 1966] Avant Radio for "Satisfaction" (Bob Fass on WBAI)

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by Victoria Lucas

"The Man Come On the Radio"

Last time I visited this journal, I mentioned Pacifica Radio and how their broadcast of stories from Vietnam via the Christian Science Monitor is influencing my thinking on Vietnam. But KPFA and KPFB aren't the only public radio stations, and others contribute (read "sell") content to them. I'm thinking particularly of that non-mainstream star Bob Fass, of WBAI (New York).


Bob Fass in the WBAI Studio, New York City

I can't get no "useless information"

I do love surprises–intellectual ones, not generally practical jokes. And Fass is full of jokes and japes and surprises. He's the kind of guy who would invite John Cage onto his show and play Cage's "Silence" (4'33") despite the rules against silence on the radio.It's no wonder his show is called "Radio Unnameable," although I had to look up the label, because I just turn on the radio and I guess it's lucky that I tend to turn it on when he's holding forth. Of course, the show is 5 hours long, emanates from the East Coast, and must be time-shifted, because he starts with "Good morning, cabal" at midnight in New York. So, for anyone tuning in from San Francisco after dinner, as I do, it's just there in the evenings weekdays starting at 9. (I miss him when he's off weekends.)


Fass with SNCC member, Abbie Hoffman

"Satisfaction"

What does he do with those 5 hours? Miracles. I think he would get LBJ on if he could. As it is, he satisfies himself with guests such as Abbie Hoffman, Paul Krassner, Richie Havens, Arlo Guthrie, Joni Mitchell, Allen Ginsberg, Frank Zappa, Country Joe, and many more, as well as random people who call in, sometimes more than one caller at once. Isn't that The Fugs playing right now as I write this? It doesn't matter how long or how short you make your song, you can sing it on his show. Someone you know having a bad acid trip? Call his show and he'll put on a psychiatrist to help you get through it unharmed (don't go outside unless you have a short walk to get help!)


FM Radio at Its Best

"He Can't Be a Man"?

Did I forget to mention that we're talking FM radio here? I recently went into a store to buy a new radio when my old one bit the dust. The salesperson who sprang upon me while I was innocently browsing among the machines wanted to sell me an AM/FM radio. I said no, that I intend to never move out of the range of an FM radio station. (And I almost never listen to AM radio.) Of course, like all the best laid plans of mice and men, who knows what will happen. For now, Mel and I are eating the occasional bit of shark meat on our hibachi that we put outside on our tiny porch, with some vegetables & rice cooked inside on the stove where he sometimes has to warm up his head when his pseudomigraines start. And going to see Carol Doda on Broadway, the occasional experimental movie, play and so on. There is so very much to do here in SF besides radio! But yes, I can get "Satisfaction," on the radio and elsewhere.

Speaking of radio, Bob Fass would be right at home at KGJ, our radio revolution!




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Fashion, music, politics, sports

[April 4, 1966] A Bookstore to Remember (City Lights)

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by Victoria Lucas

I will never forget that afternoon when I first saw Lawrence Ferlinghetti.


Lawrence Ferlinghetti

It might have been a weekend, but I spent many evenings after work in North Beach, either going to see The Committee (improv) at 622 Broadway, a movie at an independent moviehouse, or volunteer at the Playhouse theater.  So I would often pass his bookstore, walking from my apartment (now at Army and 25th) or taking the cable car. It was still light, in any case. He was surrounded by a crowd, but I had a height advantage from the lay of the land at the off-grid intersection of Columbus and Broadway, and he could see me and I him. It seemed to me that our eyes locked and my world changed. (Cue romantic music.)


Cary Grant, Deborah Kerr in "Affair to Remember"

But not for long. (Music stops abruptly with the sound of a needle scratching a record.) He went off with some people and that was that. End of story. My affair to remember (thank you very much, Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr, but no thanks) was with the bookstore and not with the poet. (In any case, I'm now seeing someone, and we're moving in together.)

As for the books, I should admit that I was a virgin when it came to political bookstores. This was my very first time coming into contact with leftist publications and ideas beyond Ramparts Magazine and Stop-the-War demonstrations. That was only foreplay to the heavy breathing of anarchism and leftward utopianism, and the airy sparkle (or existential wail) of life among the poets.


One of Ferlinghetti's books from City Lights Publishers

This is particularly heavy for me since I'm currently working for a band of lawyers who are creating this type of bank card like the Diner's Club or gasoline or department store cards. (They call it "MasterCard," including Crocker Bank.) I am learning far too much about both how lawyers operate (meetings for which I type minutes but that never happened) and how Xerox machines work (some days I'm just all over black plastic dust that doesn't come off easily–one has to stir the stuff occasionally, you see) and how the frequent repairmen do too.

I'm not entirely sure which is the real me, the junior legal secretary or the beatnik-in-waiting. But I'm pretty sure it's the beatnik; like the Zen koan of the man dreaming he's a butterfly vs. the butterfly dreaming he's a man, I think I'm the butterfly.

So walking into that bookstore is an experience both warm and scary, both imaginary and real, the lights glinting off the windows, the chairs all occupied before I get there, the discussions I hear, and the erotic feel of the books themselves. I've learned it's the only all-paperback bookstore, that City Lights became a publisher 2 years after Ferlinghetti opened the bookstore, and that (with the help of the ACLU) Ferlinghetti beat a rap after publishing Allen Ginsberg's "Howl" for the first time ("obscenity"–when even I know it's the government that's the obscenity). (Oops, sorry, did I just violate a norm? It must be the butterfly fluttering inside me.)


The "obscene" book

My affair will only end (and maybe only temporarily?) when I leave San Francisco. I keep coming back to California: born in LA, move to Tucson, move to San Francisco. What's next? Only time will tell.

I digress. I love North Beach. I wander around there every weekend. I think my new boyfriend and I will settle here for a spell close by. And then maybe I can spend even more time wandering from the Spaghetti Factory to City Lights to the Playhouse to The Committee and beyond.


The "obscene" bookstore

In the meantime, I sometimes take the cable car (and/or I walk) to City Lights. After seeing that there was no pressure to buy (an important part of the experience, given my still impecunious state), I take advantage of what appears to be a policy that no one bothers people who read the books or even the magazines. They also have great bulletin boards with notices of readings, concerts, plays, everything that's Going On. The more people inside the windows in the brightly lit store, reading, the more come in from outside–and maybe buy something. I don't buy very much at City Lights, but I am becoming familiar with a lot of titles, a lot of poetry, and a lot of polemics, politics, Asian and Indian religions, new ideas.

As I caress the new ideas, and they sweet-talk me, I still find an analytical spirit within me that doubts that their ideas of the future are any more valid than other promises I've heard. I resist the temptation to embrace them fully, even though I am also pushed into the arms of the left by Pacifica Radio (KPFA/KPFB with studios in SF & Berkeley) and its reports from the Vietnam front sent by intrepid reporters from the Christian Science Monitor who manage to elude the US government and find out what's really happening there. I try to be clear-eyed about what I swallow, but sometimes it's not so easy to avoid becoming emotional about the fate of the human species.

And then there's my new boy friend. Mel is an insurance inspector (steam boiler) who has spent much of his life at sea, a graduate of the Merchant Marine Academy. While having a girl in every port, he became seriously leftist and went to meetings of the Communist Party at one time. (He finally rejected the Party as being too reactionary.) We have both decided, I think, that the only hopeful politics are radical, but nonviolent and seriously sexual.


Sometimes I feel like the City Lights logo

We met because he is a sometime actor and poet who wants to make films. So do I, and we met in such a group–but I want to write for them. In the group we met a filmmaker who only lacked a camera. Marks that we were, we bought him a camera, believing that we would be working together. Guess who absconded with the camera–it wasn't us. So we bonded over the loss and resolved to be less gullible. But we still believe in each other and try not to believe everything we read or hear (or everyone who asks for money).

So Mel has had to put up with my affair with the bookstore–after all, we aren't married (yet). He reads, but he's not in love with print as I am. Meanwhile, please excuse me while I get back to my copy of The Berkeley Barb, for which I occasionally write.




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Conventions/Performances, Uncategorized

[September 4, 1965] Doctor's Orders (Review of "A Doctor in Spite of Himself")

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by Victoria Lucas

The Best Sign in the World

Time travel is a staple in science fiction. If the nearest planet isn't far enough, try a few hundred years ago, or a few thousand. I recently viewed a performance of Molière's play, "A Doctor in Spite of Himself," and while it does not feature time travel, for me a work of art from another era always requires time travel to appreciate it.

However, to get to the time to which I just traveled–the late Baroque era in Europe–travel in space was important in several ways. First, I had to travel from my home in San Francisco to Saratoga, an exotic kingdom nearly 50 miles south, southwest of San Jose. The object of going there was a play at the renowned Paul Masson Winery, sponsoring "Music at the Vineyards" for the summer, in particular last Sunday the 29th, for the matinee performance. I don't have the kind of money to either buy a ticket for the performances at the Winery, or to buy gasoline to feed my old Dodge car that is parked on the street most of the time, so arrangements were necessary. Travel in time for the travel in space was about an hour each way.

Processed By eBay with ImageMagick, z1.1.0. ||B2

The second type of space travel was the travel in the play I went to see itself. In "A Doctor in Spite of Himself," the French actor and playwright known as Molière takes us to "the countryside" of France. This travel engaged mental faculties only, no gasoline necessary. The transition was made easier by the presence of the Woodwind Arts Quintet of Los Angeles, who had had to do some traveling themselves to get to Saratoga and set up no later than 3:30 pm. Focusing on the late Baroque period in France, when the play was written, the music was mostly by Jean Philippe Rameau, with a little help from Francois Couperin and Christoph W. Gluck. (The originals were heavy on harpsichord, not a feature of wind quintets, so some arrangement was necessary and mentioned in the program, below.)

Program for "The Doctor in Spite of Himself"

The third type of space travel is entangled in time travel in that understanding the late Baroque period requires some adjustment in attitude. In thinking about the play I realized why space and time were so important. Like England's Shakespeare, France's Molière was well-known in his time and changed his language forever. Unlike England's Shakespeare, Molière was condemned by the Catholic Church and shunned by the aristocracy and saw one of his now best known plays, "Tartuffe," banned. When he died, priests refused him the last rites.
Molière, around 1658, as depicted by Pierre Mignard

The difference? I think it was that Molière did not, like Shakespeare, change the space or time of his plays to make it seem that he was not talking about the present or the nearby. Consider "Hamlet"; it was set in Denmark. Consider "Othello"; it was set in Italy. "Henry IV" was set nearly 200 years in the past from the year he wrote it. I am not advocating such subterfuge, I am just opining that it could save your bacon if you are criticizing a current dictator or monarch and/or his/her politics, mores, or religion, or those of the ruling classes. Molière was a favorite of the king and court, but not of the church or the ruling classes outside Paris. Fortunately, in my own space and time, we are allowed to not take Molière seriously, and, as he has his "doctor" say, "When a doctor makes a patient laugh, it’s the best sign in the world." Are we not all patients at some time or other?

Where the Goat is Tied, There It Must Graze

"The goat" is the wet-nurse Jacqueline's image of herself: tied to an ignorant and jealous husband who helps the steward Valere find a doctor who will treat his mute daughter. In my case, no one has gotten my goat, but I am tied to San Francisco. The back story here is that my arrival in Saratoga was associated with a performance by actors and a director (Kermit Sheets) who usually work at The Playhouse in San Francisco. My fortune is such at this time that not only am I a volunteer at The Playhouse, but I know Cyril Clayton, who is an amateur actor associated with the Playhouse, and who was driving anyway to Saratoga to play Valere, so I rode along. In the play, in the process of recruiting the "doctor," Sganarelle (actually "a woodcutter"), Valere and Jacqueline's husband Lucas (no relation, thanks be) beat and kidnap him. Rather a rough recruitment, no?

But this is all a result of the scheme of Sganarelle's wife Martine, whom he beat, and who wanted him to be beaten since she couldn't manage it herself. Sound a little like Punch and Judy? Molière spent 13 years with an itinerant commedia dell'arte group, and of course elements of that raucous and popular tradition are incorporated into his art. Think R. G. Davis and the San Francisco Mime Troupe.

I am not disturbed by the roughness, but I am, as usual, bothered by stereotypes of women, funny as they may be. In this case, women and men share being the objects of a cultural prejudice that it is not a good idea to intervene in fights or bullying, because both sides may turn on the do-gooder. After chasing away an interloper, along with her husband, Martine begins to figure out how to have her husband beaten. Oddly enough, she thinks the best way to do it is to make people believe he is really a wonderful doctor and might have to be beaten to admit that he is.

You may enjoy the play, and I don't want to give anything away, so I won't reveal more of the plot now. I felt very privileged to be in the beautiful surroundings of the Winery's outdoor stage, sampling the wine, and walking among well-dressed and genteel people, enjoying the music.

This performance is over, but watch for more summer fare at this venue. If you cannot find another performance of this play, remember that San Francisco, the surrounding area, and many if not most major cities are engorged with libraries. Molière's work is not hard to find in translation–even this least frequently performed of his plays.

I think, in fact, that this play is exactly what the doctor ordered if you could use some laughs.

[Dn't miss your chance to see Kris, Cora, and Katie Heffner talk about the state of fandom in 1965, right on the heels of Worldcon! Register now!]




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Fashion, music, politics, sports

[June 4, 1965] Below the Ramparts

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by Victoria Lucas

On Class and Murder

This review is late. The performance of "The Exception and the Rule" happened on May 7, 1965, produced by Bill Graham at the Gate Theater. However, I was too stunned to write earlier. Not only did the San Francisco Mime Troupe appear in one of Bertolt Brecht's Lehrstücke or dramatic exercises, but journalist and publisher Robert Scheer was featured after intermission. Also, as you can see from the program, Pauline Oliveros of the San Francisco Tape Music Center provided the music, so that was an attraction for me.

program for Brecht play
Program for "The Exception and the Rule"

In the play, the "exception" was a "coolie" who tried to give his master a drink of water. The rule was the master's fear of his abused underling that led him to see the flask as a "stone" and believe the coolie was trying to kill him. The results were the death of the coolie, shot by his master, the absolution by a judge of the master's actions (which were underlain by his need for "self defense"), and the protest of those who saw things otherwise.

No Exceptions to the Rule of White Masters

In the Mime Troupe's version, of course, the actors wore masks (in the tradition of the commedia del' arte in which they place themselves) and updated the 1929 work by Brecht, whom they outed as a "Communist." Whereas the results could be expected, the conclusions were disturbingly thought provoking. Here are some bits of dialog I wrote down: "The police fire out of pure fear." "One must go by the rule [the master's fear], not the exception [the coolie acts on fear of his master's dying of thirst while he was dehydrated]." "Dehumanized humanity" is a description of the coolie-master relationship that creates fear on both sides. "Sick men die but strong men fight" is the war cry of social Darwinism (not invented by Darwin). "He [the coolie] can't make us believe that he'll put up with it all," therefore he is "dangerous."

Scheer Opinion

After this disturbing performance with its comments on "class" and murder, Robert Scheer gave what the program called "a morality talk" on "The U.S. War in Vietnam." Scheer is now managing editor and editor-in-chief of Ramparts Magazine, a new left voice since 1962, produced here in San Francisco. He is also their Vietnam War correspondent.

Report from the Front

So how is the war going, you ask? Badly, my friend, badly, for both sides. It's like reporting on a journey that is uphill both ways. While that is a common trajectory in San Diego, which is all mesas and canyons, it's usually thought that if a war is going badly for one side it's going well for the other. Not so this war.


Violation of Geneva Accords

Scheer points out that the Geneva Accords of 1954 that ended the French war in Indochina mandated elections within 2 years to reunite Vietnam, with the present border meant to be temporary until elections could be held. In Vietnam, though, political battles have been fought on a literal battlefield rather than via the ballot box, and the US has been obstructing holding such elections precisely because the belief among US government officials is that Ho Chi Minh would win. Scheer compares and contrasts the situation of Negros in the South, whose voting rights have been interfered with, to the "n*gg*rs" of Southeast Asia, who are not allowed to vote at all in the present conflict.

Voting Rights and Human Rights

Deeper than that political comment, Scheer calls President Johnson's "voting rights" bill window dressing, and the lack of elections in Vietnam an avoidance of obstructing what he calls the "colonial ambitions" of the US in Asia. Scheer does not share the fear of Communist takeover as a form of political suppression of democracy, defining American "democracy" as suppressive in itself. According to him, in the US "white makes right," and in Vietnam "might makes right." He makes the point that as we slowly wake up to Negro rights in the US, we should also wake up to human rights in other parts of the world, particularly now in Vietnam, where both sides are clearly losing.

Suppressed Reporting

I've been listening to National Public Radio (NPR), reporting mainly by Christian Science Monitor correspondents, since NPR has little to no foreign-correspondent budget. They actually visit American troops and talk with the leaders, and their home editorial desks do not suppress their stories. So instead of publishing the US government press releases as the mainstream press does, the Monitor and NPR report what they see to the public. Scheer's commentary is in line with what I've been hearing. In March the US began systematic bombing of North Vietnam and the so-called Ho Chi Minh Trail–the supply route from North to South Vietnam. This began with the first landing of US Marines at Da Nang. Stories of atrocities persist but are not reported by the mainstream news.

As the World Turns

In short, I think I hear the noise of the world whizzing by, but I'm usually too scared or tired to lift my head, get up, and look over the ramparts of our middle-class consciousness. The Mime Troupe always provides such a view (while being raucous and funny), but what I saw this time was uncommonly scary. If you want to take a peek over the ramparts, buy the June edition of Scheer's magazine, at newsstands in the larger urban environments.

If it hasn't been suppressed.




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Fashion, music, politics, sports

[February 14, 1965] How I Found Love in the Vorpal Gallery (A Valentine for M. C. Escher)

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[The current "in" thing is Op Art, the manipulation of our visual sense in the two-dimensional plane.  Perhaps no artist is more representative of this movement than M. C. Escher, and no day is more appropriate for a love letter to said artist than Valentine's Day…]


by Victoria Lucas

A Fine Romance

It was simple. I walked into a room and there was this man.  Well, not exactly the man himself, but there are self portraits. It was still love at first sight.

M. C. Escher with curved glass
Maurits Cornelis Escher

I think I wrote about working on Battery Street in San Francisco, 633, as a matter of fact, for the capitalist taskmasters U.S. Leasing Corp.  (I'm kidding–I'm not that far left. But I don't like what they do to people who can't make payments on their rented cash registers.)  From that debt factory, just a 7-minute walk up (north on) Battery takes me to 1168 and a little gallery established in 1962.

The Vorpal Gallery

Named after the "vorpal" blade in Lewis Carroll's poem "Jabberwocky," Vorpal Gallery represents many artists, but I have eyes only for M. C. Escher.  Well, maybe I do glance at the other artists represented–occasionally, after I've had my fill of the master after work or at lunch break.  I pounce on any new work and gulp it in, forgetting about food.

Another Kind of Relativity

To introduce you to this man's work, here, for instance, is "Relativity," about which the artist wrote, "In this picture three gravitational forces operate perpendicularly to one another. Men are walking crisscross together on the floor and the stairs. Some of them, though belonging to different worlds, come very close together but can't be aware of each other's existence."


Relativity, by M. C,. Escher

Going Dutch

Born in the Netherlands, Escher became a graphic artist who made mainly lithographs, mezzotints, and woodcuts, but also carved three-dimensional objects.  (See below.)


Escher's Sphere with Reptiles, from 1949

Escher's work is mathematics made visible.  No formulas, just breathtaking elegance, beauty, simplicity.  He works with space-filling forms, like his spheres and tessellations.  He loved Italy for its landscapes and warmth, lived and worked there for many years.  However, although he had no politics to speak of, he felt forced to leave Italy when, after meeting and marrying a woman in Siena, and having a son, he couldn't stand the sight of his son wearing a school-mandated fascist uniform in the 1930s.  (They moved to be near his wife's family in Switzerland.)

Transforming the World

No subject is too humble or too fantastic for this man.  No matter how you orient this image of a puddle, it works to reflect and refract the world.


Escher's puddle, 1952

I want to continue to see the world through his eyes.  I'm not sure one lifetime is enough for that.

Find Your Own Puddle

In any case, whether you want to fall in love or not, I suggest you find a room or a book or a card with images by this Maurits Cornelis Escher who was fascinated by repeating patterns and impossible views.  I've found mine.




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Fashion, music, politics, sports

[September 30, 1964] San Francisco Arts Festival (Marantz Rocks the Plaza)

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[Don't miss your chance to get your copy of Rediscovery: Science Fiction by Women (1958-1963), some of the best science fiction of the Silver Age. If you like the Journey, you'll love this book (and you'll be helping us out, too!)


by Victoria Lucas

Life in the Big City

You'll be glad to know I've evolved a routine (haha). Weekdays: walk to 633 Battery after taking J streetcar to Market and Sansome, bus up Sansome, reading book. (I'm on Moby Dick right now.) Back same but bus goes down Battery Street to Market. Catch streetcar back to the end of Church at 30th where it turns around in front of my apartment.

Saturdays: walk to parks, sometimes all the way to North Beach. If I have any money I might drive to and shop at the Safeway at Market and 7th Street. If it's nearly Friday payday sometimes all I have left is spaghetti and margarine. Saturday nights usually a date (if it's with dinner I don't usually eat during the day). I very occasionally drive somewhere like Berkeley or San Mateo or Santa Cruz if I have money for gas and/or a show or concert. I wonder when I'm going to get a raise to a whole dollar an hour.

Sunday: mornings I pick up the Sunday Chronicle, a heavy load. I read the funnies first, then the pink section. The pink section is the entertainment section, and I eagerly devour it, looking for stuff I want to do–especially free stuff.  This last weekend I found something both wonderful and free and on my usual weekend route, at the Civic Center.

A patron of the Arts

I learned they have these Arts Festivals in Civic Center Plaza in the fall.  In fact, sometimes musicians play their instruments in echoing spaces under the eaves or in the lobbies of some of the Civic Center buildings, so I usually stop here on my weekend itinerary through the City.

Civic Center Plaza
Civic Center Plaza, San Francisco

This time the Plaza was my destination, shown here with City Hall, the building with the dome bisecting the Plaza's green areas.  City Hall faces Van Ness Avenue (not visible at the bottom, a major north-south street), and the Plaza takes up two city blocks, just as City Hall does.  I learned that it was the San Francisco Tape Music Center that furnished the Marantz speakers that enlivened the gathering from both ends of the Plaza.  This year the Arts Festival was held on September 25 through 27.  You'll notice on the program below that a misprint had September 26 as Friday, when it should have been September 25.

Friday it began with folk dancing and a "Dancer's Workshop" but at 8 pm The San Francisco Tape Music Center revved up its speakers and regaled us with contemporary music.  Oh, what bliss!  Then from 9-10 were experimental films, starting with Bruce Baillie.  But since I was alone (and the Tenderloin is right there), I couldn't stay, so I walked to Market Street and paid my 15 cents for the J streetcar back to my apartment. As I walked away I heard the first notes of the music accompanying Baillie's "To Parsifal," and knew I wouldn't be sorry I left. I hate Wagner.


Steve Reich, with San Francisco Mime Troupe

Saturday I wasn't really interested in the folk dancing so after a leisurely breakfast and walk I arrived at the Plaza in time for the San Francisco Mime Troupe's production of Moliere's "Tartuffe," directed by R. G. Davis and with music by Steve Reich, who is sometimes featured at the Tape Music Center.  Somebody told me that the Saul Landau listed in the program as responsible for "Lyrics" makes films.  They cranked up those Marantzes again.  Dance and poetry and dance again, and a puppet show by the Lilliputian Theater.


Lilliputian Theater puppet

Finally, at 8 pm more Tape Music Center.  The Marantzes danced.  Again the first film was by Bruce Baillie, and that's great, but once again I had to leave early.  On Sunday more dance, more puppets, El Troupo de Mimo (as the Mime Troupe likes to call itself) performed "Tartuffe" again. I hear they performed one of my favorite plays last year; I wish I could have seen it: Jarry's Ubu Roi.

"/
San Francisco Mime Troupe in Ubu Roi

Come on Down

After more dance the Tape Music Center was back on Sunday at 6 and only till 7, since Monday was a workday. It was still summer here, and the evenings were cool and breezes carried the smell of food cooking and being served from the carts and tents on the Plaza. People were everywhere. It was a delightful night, and I really, really hope they do this again next year–especially the Mime Troupe and the Tape Music Center. However, the Mime Troupe performs in the parks, and I'll be seeing them, and the Tape Music Center is on Divisadero right on a bus route. I'll be hearing them again soon. You should come and see them along with San Francisco's other sights. It's a happening City, and I love it!

[Come join us at Portal 55, Galactic Journey's real-time lounge! Talk about your favorite SFF, chat with the Traveler and co., relax, sit a spell…]




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Book

[May 6, 1964] The Predicament: Transit by Edmund Cooper

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by Victoria Lucas

It Finally Came!

Just a wee plug.  My favorite publisher is Faber & Faber.  While I was wiping the drool from my face during a perusal of their last catalog, something caught my eye.  An interesting book, of course, but this time not a playbook (my usual fare, when I can afford it): it was a novel by a popular British author, Edmund Cooper.  If you saw “The Invisible Boy” (the movie), you saw a version of his The Brain Child, a book published the year before.  But the novel I finally counted my pennies and bought long distance was Transit.  The hype made it look delicious, and it had a February 1964 publication date.  So it arrived at last from the Isles.


Cover art by Brian Rigby

Richard Avery/Edmund Cooper

One of the things I learned about Cooper when I looked him up was that he has a number of pseudonyms: George Kinley, Broderick Duain, Martin Lester, … and Richard Avery.  On page one of Transit, in fact in sentence one I learned that the protagonist of this book is … Richard Avery.  I don’t know what that means that he was putting himself in this book, but perhaps it indicates somehow that Avery and Cooper share opinions about things?

In the first part of the book we learn mainly about Richard, but as he suffers “transit” to another planet in this “sector” of the galaxy, he — and we — are introduced to Barbara, then to Mary.  On the planet where Richard, Mary, and Barbara are marooned, we meet Tom, also late of London as well.  They find themselves in a “predicament.”


Edmund Cooper

Predicament under Achernar

The planet is the fourth orbiting Achernar, a blue giant in a binary system.  (The star is real; who knows about the planet.) The four strangers, already divided into two couples by the choices made by their kidnappers, find themselves on a beach of an island in a strange ocean, with just enough food to last them a single day, but with flashcards identifying useful and dangerous animals and plants, one gun and some ammunition for it, knives and hatchets, and general camping equipment, including tents.  Some of their personal belongings have arrived with them, although they don’t yet know how or why. 

The word “predicament” appears in this early characterization by the narrator, Richard: “The predicament … was, itself, neither clear nor sane.” Of course I looked up the word (as I always do when faced with any word that appears to be important or undefined).  Partridge’s Origins, “a short etymological dictionary of modern English,” delves into the earliest prototypes of the word, taking it back to the Latin for “proclaim.” It is something proclaimed, thus circumstantial, and by extension unpleasant.  One does not land in a predicament by one’s own power except by being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Each of the protagonists looked down to see a crystal gazing up at them in Kensington Gardens or Hyde Park.  That was the wrong place at the wrong time that landed them on an island on another planet that had not heretofore been home to anything brighter than a crocodile-like creature.

From Kensington Gardens to The Garden

Like the garden populated only by Adam and Eve, this book concerns only four people (and some ghosts of the past haunting their brains) until close to halfway through the book, when unknown others make themselves known but not seen.  Before they begin to impinge on the solitude enjoyed by Tom and Mary, Richard and Barbara, the four (but especially Richard) are occupied by trying to figure out what has happened to them and why.  As they experience their first sunset under two moons, Richard considers the classic universe occupied by the 20th-century Christian, then continues, “But perhaps God had many children, and some of his children were adept at the manufacture of hypnotic crystals.  And other things.”

At first Richard misses London; then, as they camp out on an island on which they are apparently abandoned, he has a “vision of the morning rush hour packed with victims for the City’s concentration camp.” Richard considers that he is having entirely too many visions, and thinks, “Maybe I’m in a lovely nut-house in London” just before the hears the gunshots that herald the end of their idyl.  Instead of being ejected from a primeval garden by God, the two couples are rousted by what turn out to be another group of four dropped on the opposite shore of the island — but these are not humans.

Remaining Mum

To tell you any more about the plot would, I think, rob it of the elements of surprise on which Cooper depends to keep the story fresh.  I will disclose that it is an optimistic tale despite Richard’s and the other characters’ speculations, sufferings, and hardships.  Richard does speak of the “impossible unending promise of tomorrow,” and, particularly about their group, “the conspiracy of sex.” However, the really good thing about this book, aside from the quality of the writing, is the character development.  Most formulaic stories, including detective, romance, and science fiction — all of which Cooper has written — have little to no character development.  The people are often stock characters, Everyman or Everywoman, and they do not learn, change, or otherwise evolve during their stories.  This book is enough about evolution, change, development that I think perhaps “transit” is not just meant in terms of physically going from one place to another, but more like its synonym “movement” or the definition “pass through,” or (from the original Latin) “go across.”

Richard and his companions pass through many states of mind, grow and become different from the people they were when they first saw the crystals.  My criticisms below pale before this achievement.

The Demerits

You will be familiar with my first criticism.  It’s about the way women are generally treated in SF–even by women authors.  We are too helpless, too unintelligent, too timid to make our own decisions.  When they are first on the island, both women assert that “somebody has to be responsible for us” (the group of 4) and “make the decisions.” Barbara adds, “A man.” Of course it is Richard, who, despite a probationary period, remains the group leader afterward.  The women do learn to use weapons and to be responsible for themselves, but they do not make the decisions nor participate in them.

Second, the ending: I find it really unsatisfactory.  Without revealing too much, I feel as if Cooper, whose eighth novel this was, reached a word count and decided that was enough.  Perhaps he felt that with a wide-open future before his protagonists there was no need to expand further.  I’m too practical for that.  I want to know how their future could be accomplished with the tools they have, and I’m also pretty disappointed in the aliens who brought them to the garden.  The very qualities that they appreciate in the humans are the ones they seem to lack themselves.  Oh, well.  I say go read the book and see what you think.  I give it maybe 4 out of 5.  Pretty good.

Parting Note

And now for a word about my own future.  My own predicament is also “neither clear nor sane,” and I am doing the only thing I know to do about it, leaving for what I hope are greener pastures.  Look for me next month in San Francisco.

[Come join us at Portal 55, Galactic Journey's real-time lounge!  Talk about your favorite SFF, chat with the Traveler and co., relax, sit a spell…]




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Movies

[March 31, 1964] 7 Faces and 7 Places (The movie, 7 Faces of Dr. Lao)

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by Victoria Lucas

Place Number 1: Denver

The neat thing about film festivals is not just being able to see more than one film in a short period of time.  It's the gossip, the revelations, the people who show up, some of them onstage.  In this case the festival site was Denver, Colorado.  Seem an unlikely place for a film festival?  But there it was that "7 Faces of Dr. Lao," made last year, enjoyed its first U.S. release on March 18.  I went there basically to see that one film, but my ride-sharing friend went to see many.  So I saw a little of Denver outside the movie theater.  But I'm not here to review Denver. 


My mom's postcard—I don't have a camera

Place Number 2: the MGM lot

If you saw my review of Finney's Circus of Dr. Lao back on June 16, 1962 you would know why I went to such (literally) lengths to see this movie.  It did not disappoint, but I did object to the interpolations of a soppy romance and a hackneyed Western takeover-the-town plot.  The "Circus" was filmed, according to sources, on the MGM back lots, although some of those Culver City hills must be pretty rough if that's so.  My theory is that filming on location was out due to the many roles of Tony Randall, who plays Dr. Lao, the Abominable Snowman, Merlin, Apollonius of Tyana, Pan, The Giant Serpent, and Medusa.  All those makeup and costume changes (to say nothing of any other cast) must have needed the workshop of famed makeup artist William Tuttle and a large selection of MGM costumes, as well as (not credited) costumer Robert Fuca.

Place Number 3: Chujen, Chu, China

This was the last place Laozi was seen alive (531 BC), if indeed he did live.  In the movie, but not the book, the Abalone newspaper editor, Ed, asks where he is from, and after Dr. Lao tells him this place, Ed looks it up (providing an opportunity to see his love Agnes, who in the movie is a librarian as well as a teacher) and confronts Dr. Lao with the news that Chujen no longer exists, so what is going on?  So we and Ed see the circus tent and Merlin (not in the book) for the first time.  And that provides me with an excuse to tell you the following.  The plot of both Finney's story and the film was, very briefly, that the circus comes to town, the town of Abalone, to be exact.  But it's not a Barnum & Bailey-type circus.  It arrives somehow with, or in the person of, the Chinese legend Laozi (Lao-Tse, Dr. Lao, or as you wish), since in the movie he arrives on a donkey with only a fishbowl and fish, as well as a pipe, which he ignites with his thumb as lighter.  It consists of other legends, myths, and gods in—as it were—the flesh.  The rest is what happens to, of, with, by, and from the circus and its hawker, guide, medicine man, and (in the movie) magical self, Dr. Lao.


Courtesy of University of Arizona Special Collections

Place Number 4: Abalone, Arizona

MGM's Abalone, understandably, looks just like all those old western towns you see in television shows and movies, more than one horse, but not more than half a dozen, and not more than that many streets.  I always thought of Finney's Circus as taking place in the late 1920s, when he began the story while he was still billeted in China by the U.S. Army.  But this version of the story takes place in that same smeared-out time zone that westerns always use—somewhere between 1890 and 1910, when record players were known as gramophones, and when men were men and women were uh … unable to take care of ourselves. 

Place Number 5: Tucson, Arizona

Many people, including me, think that Abalone, Arizona—the setting of more than one Finney story—was actually Tucson.  And there is an "Old Tucson," a movie set just outside Tucson that became a tourist attraction in which the stagecoach gets robbed twice daily.  The set really epitomizes that "Old West" stereotype that dominates in "7 Faces."  But in desert scenes, saguaro cacti figure heavily in the movie's landscape.  Most people don't know that saguaros are not found anywhere but in the Sonoran Desert.  There is a certain creep, perhaps a foot or so per year, as the cacti spread around mainly southern Arizona (U.S.) and northern Sonora (Mexico), but at this point they only live in the Southwest, and not on the MGM lot in California.  The ones on the MGM lot look pretty strange.  I would have said that the cacti were the worst things about the movie, were it not that I realized that their strange appearance (looking like cardboard cutouts) adds to the surreal nature of the film.


A real—not surreal—saguaro cactus near Tucson, Arizona

Place Number 6: Dr. Lao's circus tent

The circus tent of the good doctor is said to be "bigger on the inside than it is on the outside" by one observer in the movie, and indeed it has many twistings and turnings.  In fact it is rather like a layered labyrinth and is a remarkable movie set, one of the best inventions of the movie, I think.  There is a lair for every beast, a spiel for every part of the tent.  Steps up, steps down– Hurry! Hurry!–a very strange circus tent that provides the setting for the fish from Dr. Lao's fishbowl, not in the book, but in the movie an excuse for some animation when it grows to the size of the sea serpent advertised.  The book ends with the story of Woldercan (below), but the movie has a showdown with villain Clint Stark's henchmen that burns the tent.

Place Number 7: Woldercan

Woldercan was a city dominated by a vengeful god in Finney's Circus, and now, in the movie, destroyed by improbable cataclysms.  In both the movie and the book, Woldercan is shown as if unfolding outside as the rear of the tent rolls up, but in the movie the people of the city look like the people of Abalone, and they are led astray by a man who looks like Stark.  In the book they are threatened by starvation and flock to the temple, where a dispute over which virgin to sacrifice leads to the deaths of three people—not the whole city.  In the movie the story of Woldercan becomes the turning point in the Stark v. Abalone battle.


The author, courtesy of University of Arizona Special Collections

As I think of it, the movie was funny although not Finney, worth seeing for the performances of Randall and Barbara Eden (Angela), the jokes and pokes at westerns—oh, and don't forget the surrealism.  Go see this circus when it comes to town.

And now for a little catalog.  Finney put one at the end of his story, so I thought I'd put just a short one in:

Plots & bits interposed in Finney's tale:

  • romance of Angela & Ed
  • politics of Clint Stark v. Abalone, including meetings, printshop destruction
  • Lao's interruption of beating of George who is supposed to be a Navajo (Indians from Northern Arizona) played by a Lakota (Plains) Indian
  • inflation of sea monster
  • Lao's trick of lighting his thumb
  • Lao's trick of speaking any dialect, not just perfect English v. Chinee American stereotypical dialect.

Men-like creatures not in book:

  • abominable snowman (screenwriters' solution to the book's Russian v. bear problem)
  • Mike (Angela's son)
  • Clint Stark
  • cowboy muscle and snark
  • Merlin the magician (Apollonius was the magician in the book)
  • Ed Cunningham (Angela's honey and editor of the newspaper)

Woman-like creatures not in book:

  • Angela's mother-in-law

Ending as it began

As for Laozi (not pronounced LOWzee), he was last seen riding into the west, but in the 6th century BC that was on a water buffalo.  On the MGM lot in 1963 it was on a donkey, and in the direction of some cardboard saguaros.  Or, as the movie's Dr. Lao (pronounced LOW) would say, "Hello.  Goodbye.  Thank you."

[Come join us at Portal 55, Galactic Journey's real-time lounge!  Talk about your favorite SFF, chat with the Traveler and co., relax, sit a spell…]




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