Neither a Fanatic Nor a Dreamer...

Just finished Spike Lee’s 1992 biopic, Malcolm X--I’d added it to my Netflix queue and then forgot about it.  I ended up loving it--Spike’s fantastic direction* [God, that opening crane shot of Roxbury!] and Denzel's performance helped me get over the fact that holy crap two full disks with a running time of 3+ hours.

I didn’t know much about Malcolm X other than his reputation as a black separatist and kind of a firebrand. [I had heard about the red hair though! Frustratingly nearly all the pictures I can dig up are in black and white—Denzel publicity stills will have to do for now.] 

Check out that awesome Art Deco jewelry store sign font in the background--
I know they filmed in NYC but I can't seem to track down that particular location.

The movie takes a pretty candid, unbiased look at his life—his whole life, not just his career after prison [and Malcolm had a pret-ty colorful life before he went to prison].  But my favorite section was the closing sequence, when Malcolm arrives back in the States after making his hajj to Mecca. At this point he has left the Nation of Islam on very poor terms--having firebombed his house, someone is now planning his murder. The explosive pop of the flashbulbs at the press conference, the constant ringing of the telephone in the Shabazz household and in his hotel room, daring Malcolm or his wife to risk hearing another hissed threat, another promise of death--it is genuinely nerve-wracking. 

Then the murderers show up at the Audubon Ballroom the day before to case the joint, lurking in stairwells and checking out exits as a room full of black teenagers do the Jerk and the Monkey to the exuberant, relentless “Shotgun” by Junior Walker and the All-Stars—and the camera does a dizzying, tight 360 turn on Malcolm’s face as he is forced to acknowledge what is closing in on him. 

I said shotgun!

Shoot 'im 'fore he run now...

     Do the jerk, baby

     Do the jerk now

Put on your red dress and then you go down yonder...

I said buy yourself a shotgun now, we're gonna break it down baby now

We're gonna load it up baby now

And then you shoot 'im 'fore he run now...

And over all this is the shrill sound of the telephone, constantly ringing. It's a brilliant scene.  It’s unbearably claustrophobic--it's hard to breathe.

This picture is frequently used to illustrate the idea that Malcolm was trying to start a race war against Whitey (often with the caption "By any means necessary!")--but this was actually taken after the Shabazz household started receiving threats.  Malcolm is on the defensive here, not the offensive.

And then Lee brings us to tears with a marvelous sequence of Malcolm on his way to the Ballroom and knowing, somehow, that today is the day.  He's in his car at first, hunched over the wheel of his car wondering whence his fate will come. That car next to me? Those men driving behind me? Who's pulling up next to me? And then we see him walking his last few steps, his final march, toward the Audubon. It's a dolly shot [the camera and the actor are wheeled along a track] and it gives Malcolm's last march an incredible grace, an elegaic dignity, as Sam Cooke's "A Change is Gonna Come" floats overhead.

One of the saddest** things about Malcolm’s murder—besides, of course, that three men pumped numerous rounds into him knowing his four little girls were watching—was how...pointless it was, how unnecessary. Unlike, say, Martin Luther King Jr. or Abraham Lincoln, Malcolm wasn’t murdered because of his principles. The killers were angry because of Malcolm’s break with the NOI, and his growing stature--in other words, it came down to junior high school drama. Certainly Malcolm X has a complicated legacy and among Americans in general nowhere near the saintlike status of Martin Luther King [but then I suspect he would not have wanted that kind of approval]. But it cannot be denied that he was gifted and intelligent, a thinker and speaker who never stopped challenging himself and evolving, who went to prison and became a better man, who traveled across the world on his pilgrimage and came back a better man. A man with that kind of promise, those gifts to offer--not just his community but all of us--was gunned down...because of drama. [It’s nearly as depressing as John Lennon’s murder—that voice, that talent, snuffed out because some useless tub of butter wanted to be famous.]


We have to keep in mind at all times that we are not fighting for integration, nor are we fighting for separation. We are fighting for recognition...for the right to live as free humans in this society.

God.  That pride.  That fierce pride.

*I’m a biiiig fan of Spike Lee’s work--the man just loves making movies and it shows in his work. Started with the fantastic Summer of Sam [about 1977, a seminal year in NYC history what with the Blackout, the Yankees and Mr. October and…oh, yeah, the Son of Sam], then went on to the awesome School Daze [raise your hand if you have “Good and Bad Hair” as one of your YouTube favorites--oh, I see you in the back row, hellz yeah!] and his wonderful documentaries, the heartbreaking Four Little Girls in particular.

**I find it indescribably sad that this past week, as I was writing this, Malcolm's grandson and namesake was found dead in Mexico City, beaten to death over a bar bill.  Malcolm Shabazz had a terribly troubled past and was in fact responsible at the age of 12 for the death of his grandmother, Betty Shabazz, Malcom X's widow.  Going back further, Malcolm X's mother was committed for mental illness after her husband, Malcolm's father, was murdered by white racists, so there may have been a genetic component there.  So much sadness for one family.  May those six little girls [twins were born after Malcolm was assassinated] find some peace.

Habemus Papam!

So, as the pithy Latin saying goes, we have a Pope!



As both a medievalist and a feminist I have mixed feelings about this. The latter part of me wants to wave my hands impatiently because I find it difficult to get excited about an institution that privileges straight men quite as sanctimoniously as the Roman Catholic Church does. Pope Joan would NOT approve (nor, for that matter, Mary Magdelene, the Virgin Mary or St. Bridget). This argument that the Big Guy Himself didn't have disciples does not hold water with me--any way you read the Gospels, Mary Magdelene was a privileged follower of Christ [and in fact was the first one to see the risen Christ on Easter. She also stayed at the Cross when pretty much all the rest of the dudebros had bailed. Take THAT, St. Peter!]. Another strong feminine presence in the early church was St. Bridget who was either officially ordained as a bishop or did an awfully good imitation of one, running what was essentially a co-ed monastery and bossing all the monks around. Gotta love those headstrong Celtic women during the Dark Ages!


On the other hand...as an historian, I find the whole business FASCINATING--papal history is chock FULL of piping hot dish. I've talked before about the skanktastically dysfunctional Borgias but they are just one episode in what needs to be a trashy reality show on the History Channel: The Real Vicars of Christ [or as post-1534 Henry VIII might call it, The Real Bishops of Rome. Oooh, SNAP, Henry]. One of the most awesomely gruesome chapters in papal history has to be the Shake 'n' Bake Papal Viewing of Pius XII in 1958. Pius had a couple of questionable characters in his household: a VERY devoted housekeeper known as La Popessa who ruffled bishopric feathers by controlling who got to speak with Pius, as well as an outright quack who had a great idea after the Pope's death--let's preserve the earthly body of the Holy Father with this newfangled spray-on embalming process! We'll put him in a plastic bag with herbs and oils and spices--that sounds perfectly legitimate and not sketchy at all. Only he forgot about Rome's heat--the corpse turned black and literally cooked in the coffin, which resulted in the bier's actually CRACKING OPEN from...gasses. The Swiss Guard had to be spelled every few minutes as they were fainting from the stench, and Pius's nose fell off.

But even that shitshow has to pale next to the Cadaver Synod, aka Zombies on Trial. I'll leave that for another post, along with the Pornocracy--yes, there really was a period in papal history called the Pornocracy, the Rule of Whores. [I like to imagine Mary Magdalene up in heaven, hiding a giggle behind her hand after so many centuries of being trashed as a prostitute. The Da Vinci Code's history was, uh, creative at best but it was certainly right about that slander.] And if the new Pope seems a bit uptight compared to his colorful predecessors, let us imagine Alexander Borgia slapping a goblet of wine into his hands and saying impatiently

The Story of One Holy Episcopal and Apostolic Church

Cliopolitan blogs from the road!

This past week I was home for the holidays, coming back to the Motherland, the Cradle of Presidents, Virginia. As it turns out I crossed the path of the most eminent of the 8 Presidents who were born in the Old Dominion--George Washington himself! The Sunday before Christmas I attended the Lessons and Carols service at The Falls Church, a very old, historic parish in my hometown--ol' GW [in between stints of fighting the French and Indian War, establishing a new Republic, posing for statues as he's just getting out of the shower and generally serving as the Father of Our Country] was actually a vestryman there!

The church dates back to the early 1700s, although its current building is not the original structure as you can tell from its coolly elegant Georgian exterior.

Note the door in the middle and the row of windows above--hallmarks of the Georgian/Federalist style.

My OCD-self has a special fondness for Georgian architecture--the buildings are so structured and pared-down and symmetrical! [What can I say--I'm a Virginian!] Early on in The Falls Church's history, George Washington, who lived near [-ish] by in Mount Vernon, was a church warden--and according to the Church's official literature, 

During the Revolutionary War, the building was a recruiting station for the Fairfax militia, and tradition holds that the Declaration of Independence was read to local citizens from the steps of the south doors.

...And now I'm thinking someone needs to write a Young Adult novel with this delicious history, a kind of southern fried-Johnny Tremain. Instead of a silversmith's apprentice who gets injured, the main character could be an acolyte or a parson's daughter who realizes that No Man Is An Island and dedicates her- or himself to the Revolutionary cause. Hijinks would include rafting down the Falls, trolling the dens of iniquity across the river in that Gomorrah across the Potomac [aka Georgetown--this would be before the District of Columbia was even conceived, much less designed and laid out--the only two cities around were Georgetown and Alexandria] and palling around with George Washington and George Fairfax. I smell another Newbery Award winner!

"Mr. Washington and Mr. Mason are SO MUCH COOLER than that crazy Mr. Otis.  I think it's the climate.  And the food."

The Church's history gets even better--I spoke with one of the parishioners that morning who told me that during the War Between the States, the church was actually used as a stable! Look, I'm an equestrian myself [what can I say--I'm a Virginian!], I appreciate that you want to bed your horses down in good quarters but in the sanctuary?! What do you think this is, the Inn at Bethlehem [or the Limelight, God forbid--literally!]?  Understandably, once the Falls Church parishioners Took Back the Night, they reconsecrated the sanctuary.  Although one wonders how long it took to get the smell out...

A few good "bells and smells" Episcopal services, and I bet that l'odeur du cheval was out in no time!

As I said, the building currently standing is not the original 1734 structure--in fact this was built in 1769 and was designed by James Wren, who also designed the Fairfax County Courthouse. [Weirdly, as far as I can find out, James Wren, Architect of English descent is no relation to Sir Christopher Wren, English Architect.] 


We do not presume to come to this thy Table, O merciful Lord, trusting in our own righteousness, 
but in thy manifold and great mercies. 
We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy Table.
But thou art the same Lord, whose property is always to have mercy...

In the Anglican/Episcopalian mass, there is a palpable sense of historical continuity, as well as an amazing comfort and feeling of community.  It's kind of incredible to know you are one of millions to join in these lyrical prayers, going back for hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of years--back to the Tudors! [it helps knowing that Thomas Cranmer wrote much of the liturgy] --and even more so when you stand in that 200+ year-old sanctuary, intoning those ancient phrases, and realize that George freakin' WASHINGTON also stood here, saying those same words.  A communion of saints indeed, now and forever...


*As opposed to the town of Falls Church, whose settlement predates the church but which was named after the church. I know--it's confusing. To muddy matters further, both are named after the Falls of the Potomac.

**George was an extremely popular name in the Colonies and after the Revolutionary War. Pre-1776, Georges were usually named after George III [and his Hanoverian predecessors, Georges I and II], the "tyrant" who sparked the Revolution and whose hapless reign eventually devolved into insanity [and the reign of whose son inspired a whole genre of romantic novels!]. Post-1776, Washington himself was the namesake. Other famous contemporary Georges include George Mason [also a Falls Church vestryman!--and the namesake for the high school in Falls Church which I attended GO MUSTANGS], George Calvert and...well...Georgia.