Thoughts on Gods and Generals

I finally finished watching the DVD of Gods and Generals yesterday evening. Due to the length - three and half plus hours – and my schedule, it took me several nights to work through the film.

Gods and Generals is the first part of a (possible) Civil War trilogy. The second part, Gettysburg, was released some ten or so years ago; it remains to be seen if the third installment, The Last Full Measure, will make it to the screen. While Gettysburg focused in great detail on the pivotal battle of the same name, Gods and Generals is much broader in scope, depicting the battles of First Manassas, Fredericksburg, and Chancellorsville as well as certain events in between.

The movie has drawn critical fire from a number of different quarters. Among other things, Gods and Generals has been criticized for: the sanitized violence of the battle scenes; the focus on Gen. Thomas ‘Stonewall’ Jackson that omits mention of his brilliant campaigns in the Shenandoah Valley; the treatment of slavery, the scarcity of black characters, and an alleged pro-Southern bias; the ponderous dialogue spouted by many of the characters; and the omission of the battle of Antietam, the Civil War’s bloodiest day. Now that’s a long list and I think you get the idea - a lot of folks had a lot of quarrels with this film.

Frankly, I think certain of the criticisms above are inevitable when you take enough material for a twelve or twenty hour mini-series and cram into a three-hour movie. Others I believe are due to the provocative nature of the material; even today, the topic of the Civil War still brings out strong opinions and emotions. Any director, writer and cast would be hard-pressed to produce a Civil War film that satisfied all comers. For myself, I found Gods and Generals to be a decent enough film. Having a rough knowledge of that era of history helps as the movie doesn’t explain events (particularly the flow of the various battles) in nearly the same detail as Gettysburg but it’s not that difficult to understand and follow what is being depicted on screen.

My chief criticism of the film is not it’s portrayal of the ‘big’ historical events, themes and characters, but rather with the cliched vignettes of ‘ordinary’ folk that we are presented with, presumably to draw us into the film and make us feel the full horror and tragedy of the conflict. Watching the movie one is presented with such cliches as the tearful-departure-from-home-scene, the soldier-who-has-premonition-of-death-and-is-killed-shortly-thereafter, the enemy-combatants-who-discover-how-much-they-have-in-common, and many of your other favorites. These sorts of scenes are total clunkers, and insult the viewer’s intelligence.

It’s a pity because there are plenty of real life vignettes on the historical record that would have served far better than the above cliches in giving the film some emotional depth. Take for example the account of man called Sullivan Ballou, first brought to the attention of many by Ken Burn’s Civil War miniseries. Born, raised and educated in Rhode Island he left a promising career as a lawyer and public servant (he served as Speaker of the Rhode Island House of Representatives) to enlist in the Second Regiment of the Rhode Island Volunteers. On June 19th, now Major Ballou and his men left Providence for Washington DC. On July 14th he wrote the following to his wife:

My very dear Sarah:

The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days -- perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.

Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure -- and it may be one of severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine O God, be done. If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing -- perfectly willing -- to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.

But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows -- when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little children -- is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?

I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death -- and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.

I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved and I could not find one. A pure love of my country and of the principles I have often advocated before the people and "the name of honor that I love more than I fear death" have called upon me, and I have obeyed.

Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me -- perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar -- that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.

Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have oftentimes been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night -- amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours -- always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.

Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.

As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father's love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care and your development of their characters. Tell my two mothers his and hers I call God's blessing upon them. O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my children.

Sullivan

Now there is a cliche - the-last-letter-home-in-case-I-fall-in-battle - that is more than a cliche. The passion and emotion of the letter draws the reader (or listener) in immediately and makes him care for the author.

As it happens Maj. Sullivan Ballou was killed in action along with twenty-seven of his men, one week after writing the above letter, at the Battle of First Manassas on July 21, 1861. He was thirty two years old. Sarah Ballou was twenty-four when her husband died. She never re-married and died at the age of eighty in 1917.

Summertime Blues

Ya know, some days I can't help but think that the great mass of humanity is greedy, self-centered, idiotic, and venal wastes of DNA. Call me misanthropic, call me cynical, and you may well have a point. But I wasn't born like this folks - I got this way by paying attention.

Think that I'm suffering from an excess of bile? I offer the following four recent news items for your consideration:

The Cheat Market

Bush Takes Responsibility For Iraq Claim

How The West Was Lost

$10,000 or Skipper Dies, Says Dognapper

What did we learn here folks? In order...

1. People are using new technology to commit old sins. Progress is great.
2. The President thinks taking responsibility for what you say is important, at least if you can't avoid it. And you and I are considered too stupid to be allowed to know the details behind one of the greatest (if not the greatest) intelligence failures in American history. apparently, you may vote but you don't count.
3. Some money-hungry executive in Hollywood, lacking any original ideas, has decided to remake yet another classic of American cinema into a soulless clunker.
4. Some folks are really sick. This guy deserves a long, slow death.

But lest you think I'm hopelessly pessimistic, there are occasionally things that provide a moment of grace and a glimmer of hope.


Relationships with dogs are sort of like relationships with family. If Stella were a person, she would be like my Italian grandmother. She would sit at the kitchen table in a ratty bathrobe drinking black coffee and getting indignant over the newspaper. She wouldn't let me out alone due to a slightly irrational fear of strangers. When I was sad she would put a hand on my face, and say, "Why are you sad? No one beautiful should be sad."

And, I would love her not because she was always pleasant or perfect, but because I don't really know how to do anything else, and because, after all, she is my family.

OK, so maybe not everyone is rotten to the core. Don't you feel better already?

Link o' the Day

Did you really feel 'welcomed' to the Jungle by Axl Rose, or do you think that was sort of just insincere, halfhearted graciousness?

Quiz

In lieu of actual posting, here's some quizes for ya'll to play with. Warning: the second one is not on a work or child friendly site.


Which John Cusack Are You?

You Are A Romantic Kisser!

About Your Kissing Style:


You'll only kiss if the mood is right and if you think you are falling in love.

Some may say you're old fashioned, but when you kiss, you see stars!

One kiss from you, and anyone will be hooked forever.

What Your Kissing Style Says About You:


You're no prude, but if you're going to get sexual, it needs to mean something.

You prefer to take things slow, because it only makes them better in the long run.

You're much more likely to find yourself engaged than in some stranger's bed.


How Do *You* Kiss?

More Great Quizzes from Quiz Diva

Booze News

From today's Boston Globe, an account of a fledgling Scotch distillery on Nantucket.

Now that's Nantucket Nectar.

Night Moves

“I woke last night to the sound of thunder,
how far off I sat and wondered.”

Just a few moments ago I stood outside, watching the sun attempt to pierce the clouds smothering the sky. In the pale cold light of the waning afternoon, last night’s storms seemed far away and unreal, like a dimly remembered fragment of early childhood.

I’ve always been a light sleeper, waking up at least two or three times a night. In the last week or two before Molly died this tendency grew more pronounced. I would wake seemingly every couple of hours, listening in the dark for her breathing, reaching out in the dark to lay my hands on her and feel if she was sleeping peacefully. It’s taken me a month of traveling on weekends and sleeping in unfamiliar places to break myself of this habit.

But when I woke last night in the small hours of the morning (around 1:00 AM I think) my first thought was ‘the dog’s not feeling well’ and I groped blindly for a moment before I realized she was far, far away from me. I lay back down and then I heard it – the low distant rumble of thunder, sounding like someone dragging heavy furniture across a floor above.

It occurred to me that it might be a good idea to shut off the air conditioner in case the storm rolled in closer. I sat up and get out of bed, only to discover that my legs weren’t quite working right. Still sore from hiking, the muscles had stiffened and tightened while I was asleep, resulting in me lurching through the apartment like Frankenstein’s Monster, bouncing off of one corner and one kitchen chair on my way to the living room.

Oddly enough, it was dead quiet the next time I woke up. So I lurched back out to the living room, turned the air conditioner back on, and tumbled back into bed.

I’m not sure if I actually saw the lightning flash that woke me for the third time. Maybe I woke a split second before the storm lit up my bedroom, or maybe the flash somehow leaked past my eyelids to wake me up. I don’t know - all I can remember is waking up to a vivid impression of white light. There was a pause of about a heartbeat, then the loud CRACK-BOOM of thunder, directly overhead. I staggered out of bed, heading for the air conditioner again, and there was another bright flash and peal of thunder. When I stood before the air conditioner I was seized by a sudden fear that when I touched the knob to turn the unit off, lighting would strike it at that exact moment and I would be blasted out of existence in the seeming safety of my living room. A brief stand-off between me and the air conditioner followed, before I quickly snaked my arm out, turned it off, and went back to bed feeling vaguely triumphant and self-satisfied. Dan 1, air conditioner 0.

The last time I woke up was to the steady thrum of a heavy rain coming down. The rain was coming down so hard, the sound had an almost solid presence, as if a sound could somehow have physical qualities of thickness and density and depth. I rolled over and pushed the window shade aside, wanting to see this sound, but the panes were all misted over and all I could get was an impression of a world drowning. I rolled back over and lay still for a while, listening to the rain lash the roof, the window, the streets. The clock said it was sometime in some beastly early hour. Sleep wasn’t coming back so I got up, opened the front door to let the sound in, and put a kettle on the stove.

When the tea was up, I sat down at the kitchen table, watching the rain through the screen door. I thought about my travels of the past month, and all the friends I had seen, and friends I hadn’t seen. I wondered what they were all doing at that moment. Some, I knew were sound sleep. Others were no doubt awake: tending to a child, stretching for a run, getting ready for work. For a moment I felt that if I let my mind drift further I could somehow touch them, and make them aware of me, thinking of them, here in my kitchen in the very early morning. But such things aren't possible, and the feeling was only a waking dream, brought on by lack of sleep and the steady thrum of the rain.

“Ain't it funny how the night moves,
when you just don't seem to have as much to lose.
Strange how the night moves,
with autumn closing in.”

Mountain Song

Notes from a trip north

The reason for the delayed departure Saturday morning turned out to be my sister's intended. Before setting out at zero-dark-hundred, he insisted on taking a shower, thereby earning himself the sobriquet of 'Mr. Clean' for the remainder of the trip.

The weather was perfect for hiking on both Saturday and Sunday. The views as we ascended the Headwal of Tuckerman's Ravine were breathtaking. And when we summited Mt. Washington on Sunday, visibility must have been a hundred miles at least. In 18 years of tramping that region, I can't recall any other instance of similar weather magic, especially on Washington.

My hiking boots are dead; long live my hiking boots. Picking our way down the side of Mt. Jefferson on Sunday, I noticed the front soles of my boots shredding and detaching from the rest of the boot. By the time we descended to the ridge Jefferson and Adams, the rocks had completely shredded the soles of my boots - I guess I was being optimistic when I figured the old dogs had one more trip left in them. Two seperate groups of French-Canadian hikers lent me some duct tape to try and lash the soles and uppers together (God bless the French-Canadians, merci beaucoup) but the rocks eventually tore through the tape as well. So I made the last mile of our hike into Madison Hut with my toes literally poking out of the front of my boots, and cursed a blue streak everytime I stubbed them on a rock. The rest of my party found this hilarious, especially since the sun highlighted the silvery tape covering much of my boots. Many references to astronauts and moon boots ensued.

The last leg of our trip, the descent from Mt. Madison down the Valley Way to the highway was the worst part of the trip for me. Instead of hiking boots I wore low-cut Chuck Taylor Converse All Stars. Not the ideal footwear for humping a 40 pound pack down a mountainside. I prayed the rain would hold off (it did) and watched my footing very carefully so as not to turn, twist or sprain an ankle. I felt every rock edge and knotty root through the thin soles of the Chuck T's.

Worst of all, about a third of the way down, my left knee began to ache..which turned into a rather sharp pain everytime my weight came down on my left foot. I soon realized I was counting an odd and profane kind of cadence in time to my left stride...'ouch'..right step...'shit'...right step...'sonofabitch'...right step...'goddam'... . Towards the very end the whole leg bucked and I had visions of my knee blowing out and me spending a happy 33rd truly gimping off the mountain, or worse still, waiting for help. But I'm nothing if not stubborn and manged to haul my cookies down with my knee somewhat intact, though I have a feeling I was sheet white by the time I hit the trailhead. The knee feels allright today, so I'm hoping it was just a strained or pulled muscle or tendon.

I think I'll be sticking around here this weekend.

33

Contemplating the events of last July 21st. And the events of this July 21st. And the year in between. And what has changed?

Nothing.

Everything.

The Horror, the Horror...

...of having to get up this early. And having everyone else be late.

Oh, they'll pay for this.

See y'all next week.

Chunky Monkey Birthday

Allright, so it turns out that Bucky Katt and I don't share the same birthday. But he is a Cancer like me - which probably explains why he's so cranky, weird, and temperamental.

So who does share my birthday? Ernest Hemingway (cool, one of my favorite authors), Cat Stevens (yuck, purveyor of wimmpy music turned nutjob), Robin Williams (formerly funny Cokehead who now makes abyssmal movies), and Don Knotts (rock on Mr. Furley!).

Black Ships

The 20th Annual Newport Black Ships Festival begins today and runs through Sunday the 20th. There's a lot of things I'd love to check out: demonstrations of Ryukyu Kenpo (a style of Okiniwan Karate) and Kobudo, Iaido, Aikido, Shorin-ryu (another style of Okinawan karate) as well as a sake and wine tasting. There's lots more than that (just follow the link to find a schedule of events) and while I have to spend this weekend hauling my cookies up and down some mountain, there's no reason the rest of you can't check it out. I'll just have to wait until next year.

Birthday

Looks like Bucky Katt and I may share the same birthday.

And if any of you are getting me something, well, I don't want any cheap lemur either.

Overture...Light the Lights

I'm lacking inspiration today, so once again I'm leaning on This-Or-That Tuesday to spark the brainbox and get a post up. The fact that it's all about cartoons is an added bonus.


1. Bugs Bunny or Daffy Duck?
Bugs Bunny, no doubt about it. Bugs is slick (remember that fire trick he did to impress Merlin?) and unflappable in the face of danger. Although his tendency to dress in drag does occasionally worry me, he's certainly far cooler than Daffy Duck, who is a spastic loser.
2. Tom or Jerry?
Tom all the way. Er, he is the cat, right? Because I always thought the mouse was insufferable and nasty.
3. Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck?
Neither. I've always been a Looney Tunes kind of guy - Disney cartoons never did it for me. Plus, they were never on during Saturday mornings, when all good children watch cartoons.
4. Rocky & Bullwinkle or Boris & Natasha?
Neither again. I hated this show as a kid, and always fled the channel when it came on. Even Captain Bob was preferable.
5. Road Runner or Wile E. Coyote?
Wile E. Coyote ...Super Genius. How could you not root for Wile E. Coyote to finally catch the Road Runner? Rocket sleds, catapults, giant elastics..the poor bastard never gave up the hunt. A good lesson for kids.
6. Sylvester or Tweety?
Sylvester of course. See a pattern here? Somehow I was drawn to root for the underdog, the dude who just never quite made it..but kept coming back for more.
7. Popeye or Bluto?
Neither really. I have only the vaguest recollection of ever watching this toon as a kid.
8. South Park or The Simpsons?
The Simpsons. Because I don't have cable. And Monty Burns makes me scream with laughter.
9. Jetsons or Flintstones?
Flintstones, I guess. Hanna Barbara didn't do much for me either, for the most part.
10. And finally, the eternal question asked by all good Scooby-Doo fans: Velma or Daphne?
Hmmm, this is a difficult question. Daphne is definitely the hotter of the two - but she hangs with Fred who wears an ascot ferchrissake, so minus big points for that. Plus, she doesn't seem like the quickest mental draw in the Mystery Machine. Velma is a geeky know-it-all butshe's mellow enough to hang out with a hopeless stoner like Shaggy and she obviously likes dogs. So I suppose I'll go with Velma.

Freeze Frame

Thanks to the lovely and talented Miss Beth, you can now go here and view a selection of her snaps from the all-day-and-into-the-night 4th o' July Ska-b-q in Annapolis Rock City.

What...no shots of the police showing up?

I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

Posting has been light for some time now, for the simple reason that I've been away for the last three weekends. Weekend life has been a blur of airport shuttles, road trips, hotel rooms, bars, bad food, floors and futons. Weekdays have been a different blur, hasty mix of catching up on work missed due to days off, uechi class, laundry and other household type chores, and nights out to catch up with friends - before turning around and skipping town again.

But after this coming weekend there will be a respite (albeit most likely a temporary one). I'll be ascending into the White Mountains for a three day jaunt, returning in time to mark my Christ-like 33rd birthday by having a beer with friends at the local. After that trip though, I think I'll spend at least a couple of weekends sleeping in my own comfy bed before hitting the road again. In the meantime, I intend to try and post a little more frequently.

The past two weekends were spent in Annapolis, Maryland. I don't have much to say about Annapolis - it's pretty much the equivalent of Newport-below-the-Mason-Dixon-Line. However, I did discover a couple of things.

Carbombs will make you silly in about no-time flat. Avoid darts or anything else with sharp or pointy edges and tips if you're going to have even one of these.

Yuengling is an acceptable subsitute for the Champagne of Beer.

Wearing an Irish Marines t-shirt, complete with eagle, globe and anchor, around a Navy town will get you a variety of puzzled, inquiring or even dirty looks from a number of people. On the flip side, the bartender being hassled by that hopelessly intoxicated naval officer will give you a wink and a nod and make sure you get your beer before the navy guy. Every time. Semper fi.

Notes From South Dakota

So it was a looong long weekend in South Dakota, filled with beer, conversation, bowling and other mayhem. Here are some random observations...

The staff at the Mt. Rushmore snack bar are all foreigners, from the former Soviet Union. How do I know this? Because they have helpful nametags, that display their name and place of origin. Like "Olga" from "Russia" and "Vasily" from the "Ukraine." It was all very odd - at first I thought the girl taking my order was 'slow' or something, because she couldn't seem to process my request for a Coke. Then I noticed the nametag and thought 'how silly of me. She's not retarded, she's from the former Soviet Union. Like everyone else working here apparently. Makes perfect sense.'

I am still a very poor bowler. So poor in fact, that I won the prize awarded for the lowest score: a foam baseball hat with the emblazoned logo South Dakota is Big Cock Country alongside a picture of some kind of giant bird. Sadly, the hat was left behind, but feel free to enjoy any double entendres you can think of.

The Black Hills surrounding Mt. Rushmore would be completely lovely (and is lovely in spots) if not for the hideous tourist traps that infest the area. My favorites were the numerous establishments advertising Chuckwagon Dinners and Cowboy Shows, which sounded to me like some sort of gay dinner-cabaret with a western motif. And luckily for me, a friend of mine satisfied my curiousity and visited The Mystery Spot (or something like that) a tourist attraction promising all sorts of otherworldly happenings, which turned out to be a wooden shack with a funhouse mirror inside.

Apparently chicks now dig me for five second intervals. As I was standing in The Firehouse (the bar we adopted as our local away from local) on Friday evening, a young woman appeared out of the crowd, said "it's nice to see someone having such a good time," planted one on my cheek, and vanished again. I'd of chalked the whole thing up to some sort of beer mirage except my non-drinking friend whitnessed the events (and found them rather amusing, especially the confused expression on my face.)

A lot of folks in South Dakota are really into Jesus. Even the bikers sport WWJD gear. I have nothing against folks getting their God on (as long they don't try and recruit me); what struck me was the faux funky alternative/indie band T-shirts that were actually about Their Man. Rock on Jesus.

Gabba Gabba Hey

What Punk Icon Are You?



Sorry folks, that's all I have for you today. The full tale of mayhem in South Dakota will have to wait; I'm taking off for the weekend again tomorrow evening. So expect a long rambling account of various goings on early next week. Have a great 4th of July y'all.