Bad dads

The worst complaint most people will make about their father is driving too slow on the freeway or dancing to embarrassing effect at a wedding reception. But we still love the big lug.

Then there are those whose dads leave a little more to be desired, and in extreme cases, become worthy of autobiographical study. Read Jeannette Walls’ “The Glass Castle” or Frank McCourt’s “Angela’s Ashes,” and it’s hard to find more egregious examples of failed fatherhood.

Both books are painful recollections of bad parenting from the child’s point of view. The misbehavior runs the gamut, from severe alcoholism and chronic unemployment that subjects the family to poverty and starvation, to a more benign but no less scarring outright absence from the lives of their children. In both cases, the protagonists endure alternating levels of abuse and neglect, leading them to eventually give up on not only their fathers but entire families as they split town in search of a better life.

That’s obviously a bittersweet resolution, but the best that can be expected from stories based in reality and not fairy tales. What surprises me, though, is the adult children’s desire to memorialize their fathers through their respective books. More than once, Walls and McCourt revisit rare paternal displays of decency and, yes, charm that complicate the overall picture. How they’re able to do that is a mystery to me when after all, Walls’ dad taught her to swim by literally throwing her into the deep end of a hot spring, nearly drowning her, and once half-heartedly attempted to prostitute his teenage daughter to raise a few bucks. McCourt’s father did little better, sinking any of the family’s meager financial windfalls into the local tavern and ultimately disappearing to England, leaving mom and kids to fend for themselves.

But, it’s their story, not mine, and should they choose to cling to any redeeming characteristics they can associate with their fathers, I have to respect that. It gratifies me, however, to list puttering along in the slow lane as the worst memory I can offer of my own dad.

Name games

What’s in a name? If it’s like mine, not much. Just words that let people get my attention, or organize me alphabetically in a classroom setting. But in rare instances, there’s a whole lot more to a name. There’s power.

Take for instance “Audubon,” as in the society dedicated to all things birds. John James Audubon, the man for which the society is named, certainly had a passion for winged creatures — he shot thousands of them over the course of his career in a crude, if effective, method of cataloging the various species. Yet because of the reputation the Audubon Society has built, his name shares rarefied air in naturalist circles with the likes of John Muir and Aldo Leopold.

Mention the name “Tommy John” in a baseball locker room, and you’ll likely send more than a few shudders through the pitching staff. Forget that John won 288 games on the mound; most associate his name with the revolutionary arm ligament surgery that bisected his career. News of a pitcher requiring Tommy John surgery generally poses two sobering considerations: a lengthy rehab, followed by an uncertain future. Although John went on to pitch in three World Series after the procedure, the surgery that bears his name carries the weight of an athletic death sentence. That’s power.

And then there’s “Uncle Tom.” Few names conjure up such cultural baggage as the protagonist from the Harriet Beecher Stowe novel. The association of Uncle Tom, particularly among black people, is not a positive one: he’s seen as happily deferential to whites, accepting of his subordinate position and, possibly most harmful, bereft of any sense of racial pride. However, it’s been noted and it bears repeating that anyone who assigns those traits to Uncle Tom isn’t likely to have read the book. Do so and you’ll find a surprisingly different man. True, he accepts his lot as a slave, but only because his deep, unyielding religious faith carry his spirit to a higher plain. His belief in the glory of God and a greater reward allow him to submit to varying levels of bondage, from the relatively benign Kentucky farm to Louisiana and the geographically and spiritually forsaken plantation of Simon Legree.

A high school English class can easily identify Tom as a Christ figure, both through his emboldened expression of faith and the increased suffering it brings upon him. Through gentle persuasion, he rises, Christ-like, above his mortal surroundings to become a beacon, for his tormenters as well as his fellow sufferers. In the process his character demonstrates a superior standing among his antebellum contemporaries that defies the conventional “inferior” Uncle Tom characterization that society since has come to embrace.

Yet embrace it we have. “Uncle Tom” is not a name thrown around in good cheer among black people, and it probably never will be. Though he desperately wished for his freedom, he never acted upon those wishes, even when given chances by indulgent masters. Why? He was too honest (a quality distinctly lacking among the white people in the novel). It’s possible that by standards of subsequent generations of both blacks and whites, that’s viewed as a moral failing. All the high-minded religious devotion he brings to the table doesn’t make up for his unwillingness to fight back, thus giving the negative “Uncle Tom” connotations the edge in the court of public opinion. Judgment has been passed, incorrectly or not, and that’s where the name derives its power.

Separate but equal

John Irving once said the key to making a movie out of one of his novels is to throw away nine-tenths of the novel. Given the size of a typical Irving book, that seems like a fair ratio. The trick is to keep the right 10 percent.

It’s a common conceit that a big-screen (or small-screen) adaptation of a literary work is going to be inferior, and to an extent I get that. The two media have different aims and different means — books have an unlimited capacity to immerse us in a story, while movies traditionally are expected first and foremost to entertain. I’d point to Steven Spielberg’s “Schindler’s List” as a classic example of cinema’s inability to convey the drama and pathos of the remarkable narrative that unfolds on the printed page. In the hands of a more artful director, it might have worked, but I’d recommend the book to anyone who wants to gain a full appreciation of Oskar Schindler’s story.

That doesn’t make it a rule. This week I caught a screening of an Italian adaptation of Stephen Amidon’s “Human Capital,” at which the suggestion came up that the movie is actually superior to the book. I haven’t read it, so I’ll have to take that assertion at face value, but what struck me about the film was the depth of its characters. That’s a telltale sign of a book as the source material for the script, and I applaud the producers for understanding its value. There’s a decent thriller plot to drive the story along, so a lesser director (I’m looking at you, Spielberg) could’ve easily latched onto suspense and narrative twists at the expense of character study.

Luckily, that didn’t happen, and we care what happens next while caring about the people it happens to. Whether that makes it “better” than the book, I can’t say. I’m more inclined to argue that the best we should hope for is “equal.”

The most “equal” screen adapation of a book I’ve seen is Lawrence Kasdan’s “The Accidental Tourist,” primarily because of the lead performance by William Hurt. Interestingly, I saw the film first, so I’ll never know how I might have envisioned the Macon Leary put forth in Anne Tyler’s novel. Hurt forever defined the character for me. His puzzled and sometimes pained delivery captures the character’s maddening attempts to stoically ride above life’s turbulence. That came through when I read the book, but was it because Hurt put it there? Like I said, I’ll never know. That’s extraordinary casting and an extraordinary performance in a film that’s worthy of its literary counterpart.

“Wonder Boys” benefits from similar casting brilliance, but for the film version of  Michael Chabon’s book, I’d substitute “equal” with “different.” Michael Douglas is the perfect choice for the lead role of befuddled, drifting Professor Grady Tripp, but I found room for my own interpretation of the character when reading the book. Perhaps this is because there are significant differences between how the two versions of the story play out.  To me, they were equally enjoyable. In the spirit of Irving’s nine-tenths rule, the filmmakers understood that Tripp is the beating heart of the novel. As long as the they stayed true to that character, other differences wouldn’t matter.


It ain’t me

Four kids on the corner trying to bring you up
Willy picks a tune out and he blows it on the harp

Based on what I know of his catalog, the last word I would use to describe John Fogerty is angry. OK, “Fortunate Son” was seething, but that was a righteous anger, a rallying cry against the privileged classes. But for the most part, Fogerty’s legacy, first with his seminal band Creedence Clearwater Revival and later during his unlikely comeback as a solo artist, is one of loving devotion to his craft. His folksy observations on life captured in songs like “Down on the Corner” and “Lookin’ Out My Back Door” carry an everyman appeal without the slightest hint of belligerence or bitterness.

fogertySo it was a surprise to me to find so much vitriol in Fogerty’s recently published autobiography — puzzlingly, if predictably, titled “Fortunate Son,” considering the agonies described within its pages. Much of the suffering he bemoans is brought on by the legitimately rotten circumstances of CCR’s rise and fall. An onerous contract with its record label robbed the band of much of its income and Fogerty of his songwriting royalties. While this wasn’t uncommon in those times (just ask Grand Funk Railroad), Fogerty was subjected to unusually harsh provisions that essentially forced him into musical exile for more than a decade following CCR’s breakup.

About that breakup: Fogerty has nothing good to say about his former bandmates, including his brother Tom. That’s a little odd. Most music bios I’ve read will reference some early period of productive collaboration, if not pleasant harmony, the good times before things went sour. According to Fogerty, that never occurred. He was an extraordinarily committed musician and songwriter, while Doug Clifford, Stu Cook and Tom Fogerty appeared to be along for the ride, enjoying the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle but contributing very little to the band’s success. This is where it gets difficult to fathom — Fogerty describes a dynamic in which he alone oversaw the band’s output, from writing the songs, teaching the guys their parts, supervising the recording sessions and doing the mixing and editing (which included re-recording his vocals over theirs when he determined they weren’t good enough, and at least in one case, painstakingly splicing the drum track to fix Clifford’s apparent bad timing). I completely accept Fogerty’s brilliance at face value — his music speaks for itself. But it’s hard to believe he could have established CCR’s beloved legacy with little more than bumbling sidekicks.

Reading between the lines, it’s more likely a case of a singularly gifted musician with a relentless perfectionist streak, the natural consequence being that he couldn’t get along with anyone. This bears out in Fogerty’s post-CCR experience, during which he continued to churn through musicians that didn’t measure up and ultimately relied on a “one-man band” approach that allowed him to control every last detail of the production. Not surprisingly, this didn’t make him any happier as he burned himself out on endless minutia while getting further away from the spontaneous, collaborative spirit that drew him into rock ‘n’ roll as a youth.

Happily, Fogerty comes to terms with it in the final chapters of the book, when at the urging of his wife, he produces an album in which current acts — encompassing rock, country and gospel genres — do their own versions of his classic songs. He’s honest about the initial anxiety he feels as he watches those bands take his music in uncomfortable new directions.  But perhaps recognizing his new role as one of rock’s elder statesmen, with his legacy firmly established, he learns to let go. Only through this process does he find a sense of peace and finally embrace, despite nearly a lifetime of misery, the title of fortunate son.

So the story goes

The practice of journalism and art of storytelling need not be mutually exclusive, but anyone who has tried to meet both objectives will tell you it’s not easy. Journalists are by trade restricted to telling the story as it happened — if that story involves a city council committee looking at a zoning request, then that’s what you’re stuck with. Unless a committee member pulls down his pants in protest over the decided course of action, it’s not likely to be a great story.

Storytellers, on the other hand, are not as concerned with facts as with developing a compelling narrative. But the further they stray from plausibility, the greater the risk of losing meaning. Even pure works of fiction need a basis in reality to capture and hold an audience.

One of the best examples of a writer mastering both is Jon Krakauer’s “Into Thin Air,” which chronicles the famously disastrous 1996 climbing expedition that claimed several lives on Mount Everest. What makes it a breathtaking (no pun intended) page-turner is the fact that it’s rooted in reality. The people who die in the book really died; likewise for the survivors, which included Krakauer. He gives readers the next best thing to climbing the mountain themselves: a literary equivalent of virtual reality.

He does so, however, with the benefit of a few narrative twists and turns that were subsequently disputed by others who were there. The strongest of these challenges came from guide Anatoli Boukreev, who documented the event in his own book, “The Climb: Tragic Ambitions on Everest.” As a professional mountaineer accustomed to keeping his wits in the fog of high altitude, his account comes off as more trustworthy, but also more cut and dried. It’s still a great read, just not the gripping tale spun by Krakauer. While Boukreev was highly critical of the moneyed amateur climbers courted by the commercial guide industry, which he blamed for creating the environment for just such a disaster to occur, Krakauer embraced these Joe Schmoes as major characters in his book, because he understood that readers were more likely to identify with them. I’m willing to overlook a few quibbles over minor details, because it’s a superior story.

Krakauer has gone in different directions since “Into Thin Air,” becoming a bloodhound journalist of sorts in the Mormon expose “Under the Banner of Heaven” and, just last year, “Missoula,” which explores a rape scandal that brought national attention on the Montana college town. Both books carry a distinct agenda within the subtext of Krakauer’s prose. His reporting raises troubling questions worthy of our attention, but too often the writing pushes the reader toward certain conclusions. That’s unfortunate, because the facts Krakauer presents are strong enough to perform that function themselves. It’s almost as if he didn’t trust the story to tell itself, which it did so eloquently in “Into Thin Air.” The storytelling instinct, once applied to such perfection, only clutters those later efforts, and in the process undermines some pretty good journalism.