#4: The Dog

"The dog I rate fourth. He is courageous, faithful, monogamous in his devotion; he is your parasite too: his failure (as compared to the cat) is that he will work for you—I mean, willingly, gladly, ape any trick, no matter how silly, just to please you, for a pat on the head; as sound and first-rate a parasite as any, his failure is that he is a sycophant, believing that he has to show gratitude also; he will debase and violate his own dignity for your amusement; he fawns in return for a kick, he will give his life for you in battle and grieve himself to starvation over your bones."
—William Faulkner, The Reivers

Faulkner's Top Five. #5: The Horse

"The horse I rate last. A creature capable of but one idea at a time, his strongest quality is timidity and fear. He can be tricked and cajoled by a child into breaking his limbs, or his heart too, in running too far too fast or jumping things too wide or hard or high; he will eat himself to death if not guarded like a baby; if he had only one gram of the intelligence of the most backward rat, he would be the rider."
—William Faulkner, The Reivers

The wisdom of a preacher-man:

"The Bible says the hairs on a man's head is numbered, but listen, brother, where does that leave the baldheaded man? Is he shut out? Is he not even kept up with? Is he cut loose adrift without his name put down in the great book of records? The good book says His eye is on the sparrow, is a hairless man not as deserving of His eye as the fowls of the air?"
—William Gay, Provinces of Night

Glengarry Glenross: The Death of More Salesmen

Glengarry Glenross—a film based on a play by David Mamet, one that won the Pulitzer Prize—tells the story of real estate salesmen and the boss who supervises them at Premiere Properties. Times have grown hard; properties are not selling. Employers blame their salesclerks; the clerks blame their leads.

To fix the problem, management has introduced two new business initiatives. First, they have purchased a new set of leads from Glengarry Glenross properties. However, before they put these "good leads" into the hands of their sales team, they want some signs of assurance. For this reason, their second step is to launch a sales contest: the winner will get a Cadillac, the runner-up will get a set of cheap steak knives, and the others will get the axe. The problem for these salesmen, aside from the prospect of placing third, is that the contest requires them to use the old Rancho Rio leads. The duress that follows turns them into cornered rats.

This film portrays men who feel no need to, as Wendell Berry advises, "stand by words." In their world, everything is permitted in the name of closing a sale, and these creatures take full advantage of such leniency. They lie to customers, and in ways that sound familiar. "Our computer has chosen you of all the customers who have requested information about our properties." Or: "I'm here overnight and have to go home tomorrow. But Danny, I know you're serious, and because of that I'm going to shove my appointments around." Trying to pressure customers into quick decisions on bad products, they also cheat their clients. Indeed, there is no hero to admire here.

In spite of this lack, Glengarry still has many serious virtues. For one thing, its cast amounts to one of the best ever assembled; it includes Al Pacino, Jack Lemmon, Ed Harris, Kevin Spacey, Alan Arkin, Jonathan Price, and Alec Baldwin. Their performances, and in particular their ability to handle dialogue—especially dialogue at this level, where a single sentences demands a range of emotions—confirm, and in some cases even further, the legendary talents of these actors. By furthering I am thinking specifically of Jack Lemmon, who plays Shelley "The Machine" Levene. Roger Ebert has called his character as memorable as Willy Loman from Death of a Salesman, and rightly so. While each salesman in Glengarry has the capacity to shift from "chatting with the guys" to "working a client," no one executes this switch with more ease and sliminess than Lemmon. His voice alone has been museumed in my ear.

And then there is this dialogue, which is a virtue in itself. There is a repetitiveness to it, one that reinforces the catch-22 in which these men find themselves. Dave Moss, for example, who is played by Ed Harris, cannot break free from the leads. He simply goes on and on like this: "He's got the leads, he's got the good leads…We've got to go to them to get the leads…It's the leads, the whole thing is the leads."

At the end of the movie, topics discussed at the beginning return to conversation, turning this repetition into circularity. The effect brings hell to earth, an effect Mamet aims to achieve. As each character cusses the other into isolation, the irony is that all of them are just as deceived as their customers. The elusive promise of prosperity—it's in the titles given to their properties. Glengarry Glenross. Rancho Rio. Exoticness: tucked within the alliteration of these labels, it's the very vapor for which salesman and customer give away their lives.

Given the cause of the current economic crisis, this movie-play from the early '90s still has a pertinent warning to offer. We may think we're different than these money-grubbing salesmen, but we're just as vulnerable to the deceptive allure of prosperity.

An Author with a Soul: Marilynne Robinson and Home

"Weary or bitter or bewildered as we may be, God is faithful. He lets us wander so we will know what it means to come home."

For those of you who have sampled the field of contemporary literature, only to discover mouthful after mouthful of postmodern insincerity, or for those of you in search of a rewarding new read, permit me a moment to introduce you to Marilynne Robinson—particularly, to her latest novel, Home.

Home marks her third novel in a span of 27 years, a detail that could lead one to mistakenly describe her career as long on duration and short on return. The quality of that return, however, suggests something different. Her first novel, Housekeeping, which considers the relationships between mothers and daughters, appeared in 1980 and won the Pen/Hemingway award. Gilead, her second novel, arrived in 2004, over two decades later, but it soon proved worthy of the wait. For this novel, a meditation on the relationships between fathers and sons, Robinson earned the Pulitzer prize. Robinson may not publish often—her everyday occupation as a creative writing professor at the University of Iowa no doubt impedes her ability to—but when she does, it counts.

As her previous novels attest, Robinson has a preoccupation with the family, and her newest novel renews it. Home returns to terrain set forth in Gilead—as in Gilead, Iowa—which tells the story of John Ames, the town's Congregationalist minister, and his family line; in her newest tale, which is set in the same place and time, the 1950s, she presents an account about the family of Robert Boughton, the former Presbyterian minister and Ames' best friend.

Incidentally, her portrayal of these clergymen is anything but cynical. Robinson is a professing Christian, with a respect for mystery and theology uncommon to her profession. In The Death of Adam, an exceptional collection of essays she published in 1998, Robinson dares to unpack Darwin, defend Bonhoeffer, dignify Calvin, and extol the eighth Psalm. In Gilead and Home, she performs a similar act of ennoblement: she invests the man of God with a depth of dignity he has not received in serious literature for nearly a century and a half. Father Mapple, in an early chapter of Moby Dick, which was published in 1851, is a minister who comes to mind as one given a mostly serious representation. But as early as Middlemarch, which was published between 1871 and 1872, and which is far from, but not unaffected by, the pessimism that was about to follow in the wake of Darwin, a new kind of religious figure begins to emerge in the character of Mr. Farebrother. In contrast, with Ames and Boughton, Robinson has introduced men gifted with both a substantial doctrine and a gracious disposition. In light of these virtues, Farebrother comes up short; he is void the former principle, while Mr. Tyke, his antithesis, lacks the latter. And in spite of Robinson's admiration for them, she is not blind to their faults; by bringing them to light, she manages to show that a pastor may still be faithful in his fallenness.

Home, then, tells the story of Boughton's lone reprobate son who, after an absence of 20 years, comes home. That man is Jack Boughton, the proverbial "black sheep" of his family. Jack spent his childhood getting into trouble, trouble that grew in severity as he grew in age. His private misdemeanors have grown into public ones: stealing a beloved baseball glove from Ames turned into stealing the hunting rifle of the mayor's son. And his personal foibles have spawned civic affronts: his propensity for alcohol led to the impregnation of a local high-schooler; on top of that, the baby girl that follows died during his 20-year disappearance.

The life he has lived prior to his return has exhausted, but not quite defeated, the ability of his family to forgive. Glory, the youngest Boughton, who has come home to care for their father, describes its effect on him: "She had heard her father say, in the depths of his grief, 'Some things are indefensible.' And it was as if he thought a great gulf had opened, Jack on the far side of it, beyond rescue or comfort. She felt that she could not allow that to be true, especially since it was her father who seemed to be in hell. He had come to the last inch of his power to forgive, and there was Jack, still far beyond his reach. So he stood at the verge of despair ... despite every prayer and text old Ames could muster." Loving Jack bears a resemblance to loving the Israel of the Old Testament: little but pain ever comes in return. And, unlike Israel's Father, Old Boughton is only human.

In his own homecoming, Jack is no "prodigal." Though financial and emotional destitution have led him home, like they do the young man in the gospel parable, Jack has yet to experience a bankruptcy of intellect. As Old Boughton puts it, Jack has never "felt at home in the house where he was born," an alienation which includes the faith of his father. Making this outsiderness more specific, Jack says, "It is possible to know the great truths without feeling the truth of them. That's where the problem lies. In my case." But his problem grows out of soil far deeper than the emotions. Though when he speaks with Ames and his father he tends to toy with the idea, making his seriousness about it seem flippant, Jack seems to believe himself "an instance of predestination." As he describes it in one of his more serious moments, "Somehow I have never felt that grace was intended for me, particularly" (271). Jack believes himself consigned to his carnal nature. In Home, and especially in the character of Jack Boughton, Robinson seems to be asking one of the fundamental questions about human nature—namely, can people change?

Her answer—which I will not spoil for you—is both complex and hopeful. Home is a quiet novel, one that proceeds through an abundance of conversation. It is full of thoughtful meditations, on the home, on the family, on prayer, on the soul. I recommend all the books mentioned previously, but this one in particular, because it shows a family trying to love its own, when loving them is anything but easy. I leave you with one of my favorite reflections in it, one on prayer: "Prayer is a discipline in truthfulness, in honesty … you open up your thoughts, and then you can get a clear look at them. No point trying to hide anything."

Being the Best and Being a Team

Last night, something happened on the court of the NBA Finals that defied my expectations: the Celtics won. Not only did they win, the Celtics beat the Lakers after trailing by 21 after the first quarter and by 18 at halftime. More astonishing than what, however, is the question of why. With a lead that exceeded 20 points and the MVP of the NBA on their side, why did the Lakers lose? As great as the Celtic defense proved to be, the Lakers lost because of Kobe Bryant.

Though Bryant is the best player in the NBA, when games enter crunch time and victory hangs in uncertainty, his downside manifests in his teammates. In such moments, the Lakers enter Kobe Mode, where Bryant assumes the role of the classic hero and bends the fate of the game to his will. When Kobe takes over, he resembles the closest thing to Jordan since Jordan. But as dominant as these moments can make Bryant look, they also reveal his great flaw: the rest of the Lakers fear their leader.

Kobe Mode destroys the Lakers' confidence and camaraderie for these two reasons: victory must occur through him, and he seems unwilling to trust his teammates. In the first instance, Kobe treats each game as if it is his to win, which makes his supporting cast passive; in the second, when Kobe must rely on his teammates, they fear to fail him.

This truth about Bryant only comes out in defeat of course. When Sasha Vujacic received Bryant's pass and nailed a three to seal game three, Kobe patted him on the head. But in game four, after Vujacic let Ray Allen slip past him to score a game-clinching basket, Kobe shirked his teammate. Vujacic slammed his despairing first into a bench chair, and Kobe let him suffer the blame. Jordan would have rescued his teammate. Consequently, the Lakers lack the sense of shared identity and shared fate that defines a team, and Kobe prevents them from becoming one.

Notice how the Celtics displayed the opposite in game four. In the first half, Eddie House missed all of his wide-open jump shots, but Paul Pierce—who is becoming their own leader—continued to give him looks in the second half, and House produced 11 points. The Celtics put the same exact faith in James Posey, who produced 18 points off the bench.

More importantly, these were not bench performances that brought random victory; rather, the Celtics clinched a win through the leadership of their stars. In the third quarter, Pierce confronted the impossible with defense—he blocked a jump shot by Kobe Bryant. The play led to the Celtics rally that won the game. Then on the most important possession of the game—the one that would put the Lakers away or give them a new opening—Pierce did not demand the ball. Instead, he trusted it to Ray Allen, who also displayed fearlessness.

An important victory requires two things: a leader who can confront the impossible and a team who believes in itself. Pierce displayed both traits last night, and the Celtics overcame a deficit of over 20 points to earn a commanding 3-1 lead in the series.

Kobe may be the best player on the Finals court, but he has yet to learn what six seasons of mediocrity taught Jordan: a superstar cannot win a championship single-handedly. Unfortunately for the rest of the Lakers, this last component will only come if their leader is willing to change, to listen. As simple as such a demand sounds, it could keep Kobe from ever winning another title.

An Oscar-Winner about Fathers and Sons

Character, winner of the Academy Award for Best Foreign Film in 1997, tells the story of a boy who grows up without his father, discovers him in his juvenile years, and wants to kill him by the time he becomes a man. In spite of the misery that father and son manufacture, their mutual will to win produces something greater than a soap opera scuffle—it shows the human spirit capable of honor in the midst of desperate searching and profound suffering.

The story transpires through the framework of a murder investigation. Witnesses see a bloodied young man emerge from a building where police find a dead man. Moments later, police arrest the young man, and two officers begin his cross-examination: the victim is Dreverhaven, the powerful town bailiff, and the suspect is Katadreuffe, his son.

As Katadreuffe reports his story, the film jumps to flashbacks. His mother Joba worked as housekeeper for Dreverhaven. She performed her tasks efficiently and inconspicuously, without ever speaking to the man. One day he notices her, however, and they mate off screen. Weeks later she announces her pregnancy and resignation in the same sentence. After she leaves him, he bombards her new residence with marriage proposals, but she refuses each one. Throughout his life, Dreverhaven continues to desire Joba, but she always remains outside his reach.

She gives birth to Katadreuffe, who as a schoolboy receives notes that say the same single word: bastard. The film occurs in the Rotterdam of the post-WWI 1900s, when communism carried underground popularity and single-mother families carried public disgrace. Despite this written ridicule, which also comes in physical and verbal forms, Katadreuffe hears nothing of his father. His relationship with his mother exists in silence. Despite her efforts, a nagging, almost instinctive curiosity leads the boy to discover the father he has never seen. Once they meet, the film attends to the story of their peculiar relationship, which becomes one of constant obsession, despite their infrequent interaction. Katadreuffe attempts to defeat his father by overcoming poverty; Dreverhaven opposes his son by making his every endeavor more difficult.

Though he seems to lack mercy, Dreverhaven is not a heartless man. When he enters a city battle zone to perform an eviction, a young boy fires a pistol at him, and one of the bullets grazes his face. Dreverhaven responds by trying to prevent officers from gunning down the boy. However infrequent it emerges, goodwill lies buried deep within him.

Normally Dreverhaven acts with harshness. In a latter episode, he tells the tenants of an apartment building he owns that they have three days to evacuate the premises. In a dream that anticipates making this announcement, he appears naked before his tenants, and they beat him to death. When the actual moment comes, even with the premonition of this dream, he still passes through the audience and mounts the podium to proclaim the three-day notice. For Dreverhaven, moments of peril amount to tests of his will: something inside him must confront its every obstacle in order to assert its nature—whether it's a war zone or the stage of his death. Though this sense of conduct overrules his sense of compassion, he bears his tenants no malice. His occupation makes him an instrument of the law, and his personal code resembles a virtuous legality. This is the very code that he aims to impart to his son, whether it kills him or not.

Consequently, when Dreverhaven's name comes up at the law firm where Katadreuffe works, employees debate whether his modus operandi is a virtue or vice, courage or recklessness. Even with these aforementioned traits, much mystery shrouds Dreverhaven. The film never enters his past to explain who he really is. In addition, it's never clear to Katadreuffe why his father treats him so: is he being punished because he represents the fruit of his father's one failure, or is he being taught a way of overcoming the world?

Though these lawyers remain divided on Dreverhaven, the ending addresses the remaining uncertainty. After the interrogation, there is no marriage to save the day—and there could have been a happy one. Instead, the end depicts a moment of recognition that amounts to so much more, to the very thing that Katadreuffe has been striving for, the thing that only a father can provide: identity.