Yours truly is rarely to be found at the multiplex, but I guess it was spiritually impossible for me not to go see the new Reagan film, given that Bob Dylan recorded a special tune for it (Cole Porter’s “Don’t Fence Me In”). It’s conceivable I would have gone out to see it anyway, but more likely would have waited to check it out some time in the future in the quiet and comfort of home.
All in all, I’m very glad I went. The film is somewhat unconventional and hard to define, but one thing it offers is a review of a key thread of 20th century history that Ronald Reagan was at the center of, however unlikely that might have seemed to many at the time (and to some even now). I think many viewers will also find it to be a reminder, like any such review, of the ways in which history repeats itself, and is in many ways repeating itself right now in America. The underlying and opposing currents remain much the same, though the leading protagonists change. The triumph of one current of history over another at any given juncture is very much linked to the strength of those protagonists. Certainly, this film unabashedly makes the case that Ronald Reagan was an essential man of his era.
The film seats its portrayal of Reagan on four legs: his quiet but profound religious faith; his love of America and its freedom; his remarkably clear-eyed and unwavering view of the danger of communism; and lastly, the very deep and special love between him and Nancy Davis.
Biographers and commentators have long been frustrated by their inability to uncover any deeply hidden thoughts and motivations in Ronald Reagan. He was always, it seems, a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy: his beliefs were right there on the surface, and he really believed them. For many, this merely added to the reasons to despise him; for others, Reagan’s straightforwardness, clarity and relative lack of guile were together seen as virtue and thus a cause for admiration. It should not be forgotten (and the relevant scenes in this movie remind us) that it was this same directness and dearth of guile on Reagan’s part that led to the breakthroughs with the Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev. In their personal meetings, Gorbachev simply couldn’t doubt that Reagan meant what he said, both in terms of his willingness to outspend and overmatch the Soviets militarily, and (conversely) in terms of his openness to peace and nuclear arms reduction.
To my eyes at least, Dennis Quaid looks rather weird in whatever make-up and such was applied to help him resemble Reagan. This can be somewhat shrugged off given that Reagan himself had a funny kind of semi-artificial look to him; he always looked very Hollywood, unsurprisingly enough. But I do think Quaid succeeds in getting under Reagan’s skin and evoking, albeit subtly, the waters beneath that carried him through life.
The movie is extremely ambitious in that it tries to tell—at least glancingly—Reagan’s whole life story, including childhood, young adulthood, movie career, leadership in the Screen Actors’ Guild, early political life, governorship of California, and then presidential candidacy and presidency. This entails a lot of cut-up chronology and flashbacks, and also involves real historical footage spliced in (sometimes in the same frame as the actors). Does it all succeed? Well, I think purely as a film it’s unwieldy and imperfect, but to an audience open to the story, it brings it all home in the end. Indeed, in the theater where I watched, people applauded not once but twice: first, at the end of the movie proper, and then again after the last notes of Bob Dylan’s “Don’t Fence Me In” faded away, along with the slideshow of actual photos of Ronnie and such that make up the long outro.
Whatever its flaws, I found myself unexpectedly a bit choked up on a number of occasions, and delivering real tears at the end (which I won’t spoil by describing here).
I have to admit that I am myself, to some extent, still trying to understand why this onscreen review of Reagan’s life and associated history had that kind of effect on me. When Reagan was in office in the 1980s, I was just a kid and then a teenager, living on the other side of the Atlantic in dear old Ireland. I’m aware, of-course, that Reagan was despised and mocked in the U.S. in the usual quarters (i.e. by everyone but the voters), but, the way I recollect it, it had to have been worse in the European milieu. The first strike against him, after all, was simply that he was an American. And he was so shamelessly American that the obvious thing was to caricature him as an uncultured, unnuanced, simple-minded wannabe cowboy who was going to start World War III. Being an ignorant young idiot reflexively adhering to many of the fashionable leftist poisons of the time, I happily went along with the mockery. Even when the Berlin wall came down ten months after he left the White House, followed shortly by the whole “evil empire” that Reagan had dedicated himself to defeating, I didn’t directly link it to Reagan’s stances and actions in office. It took growing up a little bit more, seeing how the world really worked, and beginning to count through the lies and unlearn some of the comfortable garbage I’d taken for truth.
So I think the source of the tears for me (and I would speculate for others in the audience) was the very best source you can have: that is, gratitude. I’m grateful that Ron stood up on all those occasions when it mattered, in his early life and finally in the Oval Office, when some of us lacked either the insight or the spine or both. I’m grateful he took the slings and arrows from both the malignant and those (like me) too dumb to know better, and that he stayed true. He did not create Heaven on Earth with his presidency (nor ever will anyone) but through his clarity and courage he destroyed one particular kind of Hell on Earth, breaking the Iron Curtain, and enabling at least a chance at freedom for hundreds of millions of people. He lifted America and the world out of the rut of the Cold War which had lasted for over four decades, and which some entrenched interests would no doubt have been happy to see continue (just as some have been happy to help revive it).
He pulled this off with his intelligence, his charm and, in the end, his straight-shooting. Like all the greatest cowboys.
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The recording Bob Dylan made for the movie did not disappoint. His take on “Don’t Fence Me In” is simultaneously light and poignant, stirred by that special alchemy Bob provides. Add it to the long list of tunes from the Great American Songbook that Dylan has covered (and uncovered) during these golden years of his career.
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PS: Just found this in the archives. The hat makes the man!
The other day we did 
I’m not a heavy user of portable music players. I like to listen to music the old-fashioned way: at home, in front of the speakers of my stereo system, not only hearing the music but feeling its vibrations through the floor and the air. Short of hearing it live, this seems like the most natural way of listening to music. However, when traveling or when out and about for long periods, it is certainly nice to be able to bring along some music to make the time go more pleasantly. Until recently, this occasional need was satisfied by an old Creative Zen V Plus 2GB MP3 player. It accompanied my wife and me on various trips for years, but lately has been erratically refusing to play when called upon to do so. It was time to send it to the farm where they keep the old carriage horses and those turkeys spared by presidents through the ages.
for $34.95, and perhaps even less elsewhere.
It’s just possible that I have recently stumbled upon the explanation for the age-old mystery of “spontaneous combustion.” That’s the alleged phenomenon whereby a living thing—including most notably a human being—suddenly bursts into flames for no apparent reason. I was in bed, and our small dog was lying near the bottom of the bed, atop the bedspread, as is her wont. Her precise position was less than ideal in relation to my feet and she needed to be shifted a little bit. I have become adept at sliding her over a few inches without unduly disturbing her; or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that she has become adept at ignoring the fact that she is being slid over, thus allowing me to do it. It was completely dark in the room. I placed my hands on either side of her curled up body and gently began shifting her over. It was then that I noticed distinct if small flashes of light emanating from her body. It took me a few moments to take in what I was witnessing and to arrive at a conclusion as to what was taking place. I realized that these flashes of light could only be sparks, caused by static electricity. The heat had been on steadily in our apartment for some weeks, and I had already noticed that everything seemed pretty dried out. I’d gotten some static electric shocks myself, and the dry air was affecting my nasal passages and such. Still, this was another level of seriousness, surely; that is, the possibility that my dog might burst into flames upon my bed. 
“Revisionist Art: Thirty Works by Bob Dylan” is on show at New York City’s 
The two images being used to promote the show—”BabyTalk” and “Playboy”—are quite typical of what you’ll see if you visit. Is it high art, or is it just humor somewhere on the level of “MAD” magazine? (That’s one magazine cover which is not featured, by the way.) I would say more the latter than the former, but I have neither the credentials nor the motivation to make a definite determination. One thing did occur to me: Whatever these things look like now, they will be quite a bit more interesting if they are exhibited one or two hundred years from now, as a visual commentary of sorts on America from about 1960 to 2012 by the late, great figure of that time, Bob Dylan. (Though that still doesn’t mean they are necessarily great art.)
notebook computer.
I like to tell myself that I make my computers earn their purchase price, and then some. My chief working computer for nearly the past six years has been a Dell Vostro laptop. When I bought it (if I’m not mistaken) George W. Bush was in the White House and Dennis Hastert was still Speaker of the House. (“You don’t say, Grandpa! And the wolves in Wales?”) I never upgraded the operating system from XP or even boosted the 1 GB RAM with which it came. The machine served me very well, frankly. Any significant problems I had while using it were always software-based. Until, that is, the most recent problem, when it abruptly shut off while I was doing nothing in particular. It just went “pfft,” like an old TV set being turned off. It wouldn’t go back on, then, but it did some hours later, as if nothing had happened. Still, I had to believe that the old boy was telling me to prepare for the day when he just wouldn’t be able to spin that hard disk anymore. It was clearly time. 
, around age 16) or if I’d be just as fascinated with that period had I gotten into Dylan in the 1990s or later. I suppose I can understand why people who got into Bob during the 1960s and 1970s might think there’s too much directionless meandering in Dylan’s 1980s’ work, and not think it worthy of a great deal of consideration. However, whether due to personal blinkers or laser-sharp perception, I will say this: I disagree. 1980s’ Dylan is da bomb! From his incredible and courageous gospel material in the early part of the decade, to the intensely lucid and densely-written 
, and even the weird and at times absurd hodge-podges that are 
and 
, I just can’t get enough of the stuff. His 1989 album 
needs no defence from the likes of me, as it was one of those that was hailed as “best since 
” by the usual critics.
seems tailor-made for someone of my ilk.
) share their memories of how that unique and great-sounding album came to be (including Plotkin’s recollection of being literally trapped on his knees beside Dylan at the piano, holding a microphone near Bob’s mouth to try and capture an impromptu performance of Every Grain Of Sand that Plotkin feared might be the only one he’d get). Bassist Robbie Shakespeare and drummer Sly Dunbar recall playing with Dylan on 
It’s a dog’s life. That expression was originally coined and used to characterize a life of misery (where you might be treated like a dog, get sick as a dog, and die like a dog). In more contemporary times it’s often heard and used in exactly the opposite sense, that of a dog’s life as one of carefree laziness, with every want fulfilled. Since dogs have, in many societies, gone from working beasts thrown scraps to pampered pets who shop at canine boutiques, it’s not hard to understand how the expression has garnered its new meaning.