5/2/23
Newsletter #324
The Crack of Dawn
The only Jew I know of to be excommunicated was the Dutch philosopher and lens grinder, Baruch Spinoza (November 24, 1632 – February 21, 1677), who managed this unique feat at the precocious age of 23. The Jewish version of excommunication is called herem – the shunning by the Jewish community – and was issued by Spinoza’s synagogue in Amsterdam for “abominable heresies that he practiced and taught” and his “monstrous deeds.” What were those “abominable heresies” and “monstrous deeds”? After much intense study of the Bible, Spinoza concluded that the first five books, called the Torah by the Jews, and the Pentateuch by the Christians, were not actually written by Moses, but were a compilation of stories written much later by a number of other people, which is certainly the case. Spinoza wasn’t being sacrilegious (yet), nor did he ever dispute the existence of God. Nevertheless, his statements (he hadn’t written a book yet) got him excommunicated.
Having relocated to The Hague, Spinoza had one book published in his lifetime. His major work, Ethics, was published posthumously. He died at the age of 44 of lung illness, possibly as a result of breathing in glass dust from the lenses that he ground. Baruch Spinoza is considered the father of modern western philosophy.
A Jew gone bad? You decide.
My pediatrician when I was a little kid was named Dr. Kovan. From my extremely young perspective, he could have been anywhere from 40 to 80. He was a grumpy, dyspeptic, impatient man who always had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He performed his examination with smoke rising up into his face, causing him to squint, while I watched his cigarette ash grow longer and longer. The ash fell wherever it fell: down the front of his white coat, on my head, into the urine sample. His thin, bony nurse was named Mary, and she wasn’t particularly friendly, either. Ah, the good old days. Back when America was great, and a pack of cigarettes cost a quarter.
At the expertly-run Helsinki Film Festival, I was picked up at the hotel each day at noon by the two fellows who ran the festival. It’s been 25 years so I can’t remember their names, but they both wore long dark coats and sported Hamburg hats. They purchased a case of local beer, then we went to the public sauna, which they pronounced, sow-nuh (their English was perfect). We then cooked ourselves in a big old steam room with a variety of local men of all ages, and drank beer. Old ladies came and went picking up wet towels, oblivious to our nakedness. Outside the steam room was a large, open area with six picnic tables. This is where we all sat in towels, drank beer and smoked cigarettes. At a point, one of the film festival guys said, “Fucking Swedes.” I looked around having no idea to whom he was referring. It turned out to be a nearby table of five or six men happily discussing something. It now became clear that they were speaking Swedish. I asked, “What’s the problem with Swedes?” All of the Finnish men at the table were aghast. They asked, “What’s the problem with the Swedes? Well, they’re Swedish.” I’ve come across this several times since, particularly in Holland. I get a feeling that none of the Nordic countries like Sweden, but I don’t know why.
In Helsinki, I was talking to a bright young Swedish fellow, and of course I immediately went to Swedish filmmakers, and mentioned Victor Seastrom (actually spelled, Sjöström), and he lit up. Of course he knew who Victor Seastrom was, he was Ingmar Bergman’s teacher. Yes, he ultimately became that (and starred in Bergman’s film, Wild Strawberries [1957]), but he was a major European director in the silent era who went to Hollywood, was very successful, then went back to Sweden and taught.
Victor Seastrom’s biggest hit film, made for Samuel Goldwyn, was He Who Gets Slapped (1924), starring Lon Chaney. The second-leads are Norma Shearer and John Gilbert, who immediately became the two biggest stars in Hollywood. This is the film’s story. A brilliant scientist comes up with a great discovery. His partner steals both the idea and his girl, so the scientist naturally gives up science, joins the circus and becomes a clown. His clown name is He Who Get Slapped. His clown routine, that everybody loves and makes him famous, is that everybody gets to slap him, then laugh as hard as they can. It’s an extremely well-made film, and it made money, but it’s insane. I enjoyed it, and I’ve seen it several times, but it’s still insane. I don’t believe that this Swedish fellow to whom I was speaking cared about movies, or Victor Seastrom, for that matter, however me speaking negatively in any way about someone Swedish, let alone someone both Swedish and famous, was unacceptable. I honestly don’t think that I was being negative about Victor Seastrom, just the plot of that movie. Anyway, he was horrified. He turned and walked away. I felt like an asshole, and I respect Victor Sjöström so much I’ll put in the umlauts.
But I wasn’t done making friends. I was a lot younger then, but even still, starting the day off in the sauna drinking was a bad idea. Then just like everybody else I kept drinking all day into the night. Guess what? That’s stupid too. Drinking is just stupid. But I digress. At dinner that night, in a nice restaurant, there were twenty of us – all filmmakers from around the world, plus the two guys in Hamburgs – and a French guy at the other end of the long table asked, “Did anyone see (French title) today? I missed the screening.” He missed the screening of his own movie? You generally only get one, maybe two. I I raised my hand and said, “I saw it.” He asked, “Were there many people there?” What am I supposed to do? Lie to assuage this guy’s feelings? I said, “No. There was me and three other people, in a 500-seat house.” Everyone went silent. Was I not supposed to say that? Maybe I should have skipped the size of the theater. But this guy wasn’t done; he wouldn’t stay on his stool in the corner. He asked, “Did you like it?” Well, it was awful, but I didn’t want to say that. So I asked, “Who did you make that movie for?” Proudly, he said, “Myself.” I said, “Good, because it wasn’t for me. And why did you end every scene with an iris?” An iris is when the picture turns into a circle, then shrinks until it’s gone; a very popular effect in the silents. He said, “I like irises.” I said, “Obviously.” One of the fellows in the Hamburg whispered to me, “I can’t believe you’re said that.” I said, “What? He ended every scene with an iris. All I did was ask.”
No sun, but the sky is blue.