So, Ya. Winter. A Blizzard. A Big One, Though.

     

     . . . .The title of this week's New Yorker Magazine cover is "Wooster Street."  Wooster Street it is too, looking north from a bit above Canal, all the way to where an NYU residence blocks the rest of the view, except for The Empire State Building striking above the NYU housing, still taller, though further north.  Wooster is just a couple blocks over so I do recognize one of 'my' streets, even though it's on the cover of a national magazine.

At 3 PM about 14" had accumulated so far, in Central Park.  Many more hours to go of this, many. 

Like everyone else we know caught up in this storm, so far today we've cooked up a storm <ah-hem< , and of course, zoomed, zoomed, zoomed.  This NYer cartoon kinda sums it up, ya?

Thumbs, Snow, Cuba and Turks

     . . . . A day that was essentially thumb twiddling.  Neither here nor there.  Trapped inside by the blizzard, er, excuse me, the bomb cyclone. 

Downloaded as e-books two works from the NYPL to the little computer. One of them is Jack E. Davis's, The Gulf: The Making of An American Sea, winner of the 2017 Kirkus Prize for Nonfiction.  One can hardly think of a better book to be reading in Cuba. 

The download is on my hard drive, not in the cloud, so I don't need wifi to access the content once downloaded. 

The download reading app from the NYP works very well and is easy on the eyes -- and, of course, one can change the size of the type. What is particularly nice is that all the front matter, toc, illustrations, citations and index are part of the download. Moreover, lighting for reading in the Cuban rooms is always inadequate, this should work out well. Not that there will be time to read, but it may well be I elect to stay in some nights while the others continue to yet more music events. And then the coming home will have a lot of down time. The little computer is much more wieldy for airports and plane seats than the big one. 

Washington Square Park. I didn't take this photo.

     . . . . As predicted, the snow stopped about 4 - 4:30 PM. Central Park reports a bit more than 7 inches. It looks about that much around here too. It was a comfy temperatures in here all day. But soon the temps are predicted to plunge -- down to 9°. That is what I'm to go out in at 5 AM to get to the airport tomorrow -- and not wearing my fur coat, etc. because I can't carry that thing around with me for days and days, and there's no room for it, of course, in the luggage. I will be wearing boots though, and had always planned to. 

For one thing, this huge a$$ snow storm and the freezing temperatures that have brought snow even to Florida is affecting the Atlantic side of Cuba too. It's cold in Havana now -- in the 60's, and getting into the 50's tonight. Tomorrow will be the same. Speaking from experience, 50's and 60's on the island when the sun is down is uncomfortably chilly and clammy. Sleeping can be downright difficult.

So the Qubes are in an end-of-the-world state. Nor do they have the wardrobe to counter it. Going to the airport I'm wearing a  cashmere sweater over a thermal shirt and t-shirt under my rain jacket, and taking the long and wide cashmere wrap - scarf. These all fold up small and comfortably go in the carry-on bag, with my umbrella and fans. (Prepared for chilly, and for rain, and for hot!) 

For the Travelers who did get out of the US and into Cuba today (the non-JFK fliers, even though R, coming out of New Orleans, was delayed because they had to de-ice the plane -- but everything was delayed anyway), will think it is lovely. Particularly L, who came from Bloomington, IN, where the temps are and have been in the range of 12°, and she's already gotten a lot of snow, with more predicted for the weekend. The planned events are going on without us. 

But tomorrow's got to be re-arranged, since it included a small official arts and education 'do' in recognition of the work the Postmambo seminars are accomplishing.  Without el V there, who is Postmambo Studies, there is no point.  We'll still be flying when it was scheduled.  Hopefully, we'll have gotten out and are flying then . . . .

     . . . . So now there's nothing to do except watch episode 9 of Resurrection: Ertugrul, and hope that before I leave him behind for Cuba, he'll get free of those eviLe orcs nazis Mongols, rejoin Halime, and defeat the treacherous shenanigans going on in the Dodurgas, the host tribe with whom his Kayis have taken refuge, because their Bey, Korkut, is Hayme Hatun's brother.  But his new, second wife, she feels only rivalry and resentment toward all the Kayis, and particularly the close relatives of her huband, Korkut Bey.

Hayme Hatun

At least Ertugrul's mother, Hayme Hatun, is still living, though she isn't as strong as she was, after a life of long travails and ordeals, filled with many losses of lands, security, family and friends, most lately her beloved husband.  The actress who is filling this role is brilliant.  I've never seen anything like what she did when her character hear the news that her beloved son, Ertugrul, upon not only her personal hopes and dreams are pinned, but upon whom the entire fate of her husband's nomad tent, the Kayis' is built.  We watch her struggle against herself, to not allow herself to give into grief, fear and sorrow and wild weeping, and just giving up.  This is not an histrionic scene -- that's what makes it is so powerful.  She fights a battle as awful as any of the alps has ever fought, to not be histrionic, hysterical, to show a strong figure of calm leadership to the remnant of her husband's tribe in this terrible time of loss and grief. 

One cannot watch a great contrast in acting capacity than this actress and the one who plays her daughter-in-law, Halime Hatun, who has two expressions from which to choose for any emotion: blank or constipated.  She does have the ability to have a single tear roll fetchingly from one of her gazelle eyes and down her cheek.

Thank goodness, the actor who plays Ertugrul is good and has grown into his character as the series continues.

Hayem Ana Hatun's mausoleum.  Hayme Hatun, also known as Hayme Ana, was the grandmother of Osman I, founder of the Ottoman Empire and the mother of Ertuğrul Gazi, the leader of the Kayı clan of the Oghuz Turks.

Cancelled!

 . . . . About an hour ago el V says, "Let's go and go to Lupe's and have burritos. But first send me your itinerary so I can tell B when to pick you up at JFK on your return." 

I sit down at the computer where I have not been all day as I was out shopping for the Cubans and to get me supplies laid in for when I arrive, such as the box milk that can stay on the shelf, so I don't have to race out the night of the 14th or the morning of the 15th. And who knows what the weather will be? 

Inbox immediately gets New Mail, and it's JetBlue with a big CANCELED in the subject line. 

We are all packed. I did all the packing on Monday and Tuesday! I felt so free and pleased! And the idea of missing this weather mess thrilled me no end.

Now what? 

We've been on hold with JetBlue ever since the message arrived and the web site seems to have gone dysfunctional.

Ah, he just got picked up by a real person -- rebooking for Friday now.  O lordessa, this is taking forever as it is a lot of people he has to rebook.

O dear.  I will miss the La Tropical show and the viewing of Havana over a tropical drink while in the Hotel Nacional's garden -- one of my favorite places.

So, I am making burritos at home while el V wrangles all the east coast travelers' new bookings.

Also had to go out to get supplies, including milk for tomorrow, as we were leaving so early tomorrow, straight into the car service and planned to have breakfast at JFK. The stores are packed with people getting ready for the storm. I got some of the last milk -- certainly the last non-fat milk still on the shelf. Maybe they have more in the basement.

Ah -- the rice is cooked. The tortillas, which I had put in the freezer, naturally, are nearly unthawed.

UPDATES:  Indeed, rebooked, but -- rebooked all over the place. Some of us going straight from JFK to Jose Marti. Others to Fort Lauderdale first. But Ned's got their visas. 

One traveler isn't getting a flight until Saturday! We were supposed to be on the road by then, out of Havana.

Wind River (2017) + Longmire

     . . . . Wind River (2017) premiered at Sundance, as a Sundance Film Festival pick, where it achieved a theatrical release deal. Ironically, this from a Weinstein company, from which the film severed ties in October. It also picked up several awards and nominations, including for Canne Film Festival. 

     . . . . Death in winter, on a Wyoming res.  At the center, is a  professional hunter, employed by Fish and Wildlife, who is divorced from a native woman, evidently due to the mysterious death of their daughter, which has happened prior to the opening.  He finds another dead young woman while hunting a mother mountain lion and her young, who have taken to killing livestock.  Her death is the film’s opening, a prolonged death running barefoot in the snow, breathing freezing air. The examiner determines she has been been violently assaulted sexually and otherwise either multiple times or by multiple assailants. But the death cannot be listed as homicide since it was breathing freezing air that burst her lungs, and which ultimately killed her.

That's the whole story, which is provided to the viewer in the first 5 minutes, followed by some soft-focus, lingering and detailed scenes that are pure gun and ammo porn.  However we know what's his name -- people's names in this film do not matter -- is the good guy because he gives his kid a gun safety lesson, and makes his own ammo.

All that's left for the rest of the film to occupy itself is who done the rape - murder.  The surface is a more than satisfying viewing experience, but there's little beneath, and what is, does come through as glib, to put it kindly. However, one does feel that the production, writing and filming honchos are so familiar and at ease with the locations and the matters of these places and their residents that they didn't realize that this is how it would come across to other viewers. It might be intentional though, as so many think its this is best thing they've watched all year.

It’s shot with that signature graceful, authoritive surface that tells the audience  they are about to experience a solid entertainment, in the old-school sense of that word applied to Hollywood films. Nothing that will truly disturb them will be on offer, either in action, character or story. Whether or not there is violence, all will end as it should, and the viewer is going to enjoy going on the ride.  Which itself some viewers may well find disturbing as at the end, with two fathers, one native, one white, sitting together grieving the loss of their native daughters, exchanging wise-cracks, a title card states that “missing persons statistics are kept for every demographic except Native American women, whose numbers remain unknown.”

Wind River projects the same quiet confidence and authority that is the signature of the on-screen presence these days of Robert Redford and Jane Fonda, and which no one possessed so completely as Paul Newman, from whom, presumably Redford learned a great deal. Newman could say more by standing, sitting or watching than most actors could in 20 minutes of on screen action.

As well, Redford has had much experience shooting in snow-covered mountains in his own star turns in movies such as Downhill Racer, Jeremiah Johnson, The Electric Horseman and The Horse Whisperer among others in his long, distinguished career as actor, director, producer.  These snow-covered mountains are virtually the backyard of Sundance, Utah’s first citizen, Robert Redford -- which is where Wind River premiered and was picked up by Weinstein productions, if I understand the film's history correctly.

BTW, the lovely Longmire television series, its final season up on netflix today. It's set in a fictional Wyoming that is really New Mexico; one of its chief recurring character's actor is also in Wind River. Longmire is possessed of the same gloss and authority, but less confidence, stumbles sometimes, and frequently is disturbing in terms of character, action and story line, i.e. a less comfy viewing.

After Christmas, Prior to Cuba and the New Year

Christmas Day's pork roast turned out very well, according to those who ate it and, I confess, to my own judgment as well. The roast is almost entirely about the stock elements around it, which were in the freezer as leftovers from previous pork entrees, and about timing, ensuring it is well cooked, but not even a little bit dry.  So it's paying attention more than physical work.

Trust me: peeling a butternut squash is hard work!

The parsnip and squash soup was more complicated and difficult for me to pull together. Unlike the roast, the soup is a lot of steps from cutting open, peeling, chopping and pre-roasting both parsnips and squash just a little bit before starting the ingredients in the stove top soup kettle. Then  must be paid a lot of attention, to keep from scorching.

Perhaps a meal of left-overs, just enough for el V and me.  :)

This paying attention part -- I'm rather astonished I pulled that off, considering the consequences of Christmas Eve included not getting home and into bed until nearly 5 AM.

Christmas Eve dinner was outstanding. It included venison and wild boar sausages and duck breasts, both grilled outside. That's what many on our coast have done this year because it's been so unseasonably warm. With no need or desire to further heat up the house, many traditional winter foods were jettisoned for the feast and instead of baking a ham, grilling out in the garden is the thing. K & C's courtyard / patio was just lovely. Except we were certain that mosquitoes were about . . . .

Among the terrific company was this year's winner of the Man Booker Award for Fiction,  He managed to get a flight in from Minneapolis. In fact we first met years ago at another holiday dinner, Thanksgiving, also hosted by K & C -- the n'er to be forgotten Thanksgiving when the dining room table's additional leaves parted company with each other, and everything on the table slow-moed into the ever-widening, snowy-lined table cloth crevasse. And, then the disaster after that, while K was fare welling the guests on the long steep brownstone steps, he slipped on a bit of ice that hadn't gotten the salt, fell and broke his ankle. This was back when the huge economic depression was just starting, and when people like us, artists, freelancers etc., were hit, and hit very hard, almost a year before there was official recognition that the economy, thanks to the banks, was crashing and burning.

BTW,Booker winner plans, he says, some big Fantasy fiction set in a fantasy Africa, drawing on African myths and history.  El V and I just happen to have some fairly serious knowledge of these matters . . . and as well there are two big West African projects he's doing himself in 2017, which will involve going back to the African Atlantic coastal countries for some serious time.

It was a terrific Christmas Eve.  We had no idea it was so late because the time just whizzed by in great conversation, food, drink and friends. At midnight I looked out of the great bay window of K's second floor study The perfectly round winter moon was nested in a web of bare black tree branches, wreathed with bits of fog. If this had been a film and I looking out that great bay window at midnight, I would have exclaimed, "Oooooo, look everyone!  It's snowing!" And have seen Santa's sleigh and reindeer gliding through the fog above Madame Jumel's mansion.

But it did not snow and  I did not see a sleigh and reindeer crossing the moon.

Instead, we embarked on a dancing salsathon to K's magnificent vinyl record collection of Puerto Rican and Cuban salsa stars.

Today's much colder than the previous days of this week.  But it's still grey -- can't remember the last time there was a sunny day.  Rain is to begin, yet again, and keep up until Tuesday.  This is going to interfere with the getting of these things one must have before flying to Havana.  Among them disposable champagne glasses* for 30 +, to drink to 2015 at our last U.S. meal before taking off for Cuba.

--------------------------------

*

My special gift this year: a set of indescribably beautiful -- and fragile -- champagne flutes.  They are staying home.  But we used them last night, specifically, to drink a toast to the confounding of rethuggianism, those who made so much money out of our economic miseries.

Among other things though, I received Mary Beard's SPQR!  And the print version of Isabella: Warrior Queen, which is one of my year's best / most important reading round-up -- but I actually listened to an audio download.  Now I have the author's footnotes and bibliography, thank goodness.

Damp and Grey Solstice Day

Here in NYC it's much warmer than yesterday.  By Christmas Eve it will be 70º.

Looks as though we'll have some 90º days in Cuba in the first two weeks of January.  That's warmer than usual for Cuba in January, at least in the west.

Locally Today Is Not the Best Day for Birthdays

It's Washington's birthday.  It's also another Fashion Week in NYC.

The record low for this date in New York City has been broken, which has been held since 1888 -- when North Dakota wasn't yet state!

Hudson River From Above - U.S. Coast Guard

Manhattan shore of the East River, Monday, February 16, 2015

Hudson-Athens Lighthouse, Hudson River.

Washington's first inauguration, April, 1789

I imagine George Washington in Manhattan on his birthday during his first administration. He'd have had his first birthday as President in 1790. It was probably even colder than today, as the northern hemisphere was still in the throes of the Little Ice Age in 1790. *

Presumably however cold it was on his birthday in 1790 Washington's circumstances were a deal more comfortable than on the night of December 25–26, 1776.

Mr. Washington, hasn't fared well on his birthday NYC today either. See today's NY Times's "George Washington, Slave Catcher."  In truth, this column rather depressed me, as if waking up in frigid temperatures on my birthday after a night of waking el V four times with my nightmares wasn't depressing enough.

------------------------------------

*   1790 - 1820 was a period of particularly extreme weather anomalies -- which were significant factors in the French Revolution's momentum, which had already started (1789), as there had been so many failed crops = famine.

Weather Mess + Solving Writerly Mess + Harlot's Ghost + Novelists

At least here it's rain and not snow. We're in that narrow band running north that is "mix" -- but the rest of the state is in the broadest band, which is "snow."

However, we are promised more extreme cold once the rain quits. 

I'm more than ready for winter to be over already. 

On a brighter note: it never fails to amaze me that a writerly problem at which one picks at for several hours, until too tired and, as was certainly the case for me yesterday, to sore, to keep at it, gets solved when relaxed in bed. 

At some point, while falling asleep, or waking in the night, or upon waking in the morning, the problem almost always reveals itself to be structural and organizational. Often the fix is a simple tweak of rearrangement, and from that rearrangement the text begins to flow. This happens to me so often, yet it always surprises me. 

I was in such bad shape when I quit last night I couldn't bend in order to remove jeans and sox. I started to and screamed in back pain, startling both el V and myself silly. El V had to help me get undressed and re-dressed for bed.

I guess I stayed in 'writing' position way too many hours and got thoroughly chilled, which I didn't notice during the process. So I didn't take the usual steps. I was drinking hot chocolate and herbal teas though, and was warm enough, I thought. Until that hour or so before the heat kicks in at the end of the afternoon -- early evening. My hands were so cold, it was hard to type. But I wasn't noticing, engaged as I was, so I didn't put on the fingerless mitts.



So, I was a mess last night, good for nothing after 9:30 PM except to read Norman Mailer's massive tome, Harlot's Ghost (1991), his novel about the CIA.  A couple of days ago I realized that Harlot's Ghost, with the many east coast aristos among its cast of characters is also Norman's way of getting even with Gore Vidal. Not only is Norman showing what a bunch of effed up, crazy criminals make up the CIA, the worst ones in the bunch are of the sorts of blue blood families that make up Vidal's background.  He's also showing he can write Washington political fiction with as more punch than that pansy, Vidal (Norman's terms -- both pansy and punch -- I'm as much on Team Gore as I'm on Team Mailer; I admire them both and dislike intensely aspects of both). 

Norman never got over that dust-up between himself and Gore on the Dick Cavett show way back in 1971.  Norman was drunk and rope-a-doped himself.  He even got Cavett po-ed at him.  The humiliation of the amor propre of a personage such as Mailer regarded himself could not be erased or forgotten.  So, part -- though only a part -- of his impulse for Harlot's Ghost was to exorcise the humiliation.

As said, exorcising humiliation was only a part of the drive to create this massive novel.  Norman was also a conspiracy-spotter and believer extraordinaire.  His even more extraordinary energy allowed him to pour all of that into researching and writing a novel of the sort almost every other writer wouldn't touch -- except Pynchon, but Pynchon is cool, while Mailer's always a writer of heat, red and burning white.  The novel begins right after WWII, when the Company's taking shape, and concludes in the later 1980's.

Part of Norman's extraordinary writerly energy allows him also to have writerly fun of all kinds in course of the novel. Jokes, for instance, for the reader to share -- he describes the besmer process and in the following paragraph something steely is inserted.  His writerly fun helps keep his imagery on track, which helps him accomplish the nearly impossible feat of keeping this huge number of words tightly wound and on track.  I, at least, must admire this.

But alas, the biggest joke is Harlot's Ghost concludes, not with the End, but To Be Continued. It shall never be continued, as Norman (died, 2007), like all his rivals, including Gore, has gone into that inevitable ancient night. It's seldom one will ever see such a furious expression of the denial of the inevitable as Ancient Evenings.

I could do without so much obsession with scatologic matters that are part of his philosophizing platform that connects the lowest and most filthy with the godhead that he fell deeply into at least by Ancient Evenings (1983), his novel of ancient Egypt, in which the narrator gives conception to himself by effing his own grandfather -- or was it his father? -- and gender switches -- woo!  It's been a while since I steeled myself to read Ancient Evenings, another massive tome, that followed a different sort of massive tome, the 1979 Executioner's Song, the non-fiction ballad of killer Gary Gilmore, who demanded execution from the state of Utah.  How can one not admire the sheer scope of a writer like this?OTOH, readers and reviewers become wearied -- I know this, being one of those who hasn't been able to read Harlot's Ghost until now! -- facing yet another massive tome. I think about that a lot in connection with The American Slave Coast.  So many extremely good histories dealing with slavery, all of them big books in every way, were published just in 2014. Who will want to face yet another great big one, even if there is content that is not in the previous ones?

In the meantime, Harlot's Ghost, is not easy to find, in the way that many of the books by and about our great writers, such as Faulkner, not out of copyright, who established their careers after WWI and WWII are mostly unavailable now from public libraries and even bookstores. As used copies, these books are now quite expensive, as all of them were big business for those who invested in rare and valuable books.

University libraries still have these sorts of books, but how long before enterprising thieves fix that?  OTOH, in this age of all digital libraries, many of these volumes have been moved off-site.  No young person can serendipitously run into them.  They need to be requested from off-site, by those who know of their existence in the first place.

One day perhaps, literature will matter again, and the significance of their stature and scope will again be recognized. In the meantime the novel, at least in English, written by white males, is dominated by pygmies.

It's time, Norman, for you to pull that godly switcheroo and get yourself reborn, babee!  

We Keep Talking About How Cold It Is And What We're Doing + White Collar

For example, today, in Another Place, a small gathering of disparate friends learned we all had made a fine dinner last night that featured beef.  None of us eat much beef as a matter of course.  We exchanged how we'd fixed it: two of us with a London Broil, done differently, and another with standing pot roast, and so on.

This particular group has been exchanging how we cope with weather in general, our meals and so on for years by now. But when winter comes it's more so than usual, and when the winter's exhibiting itself extremely even more so. We talk about what we wear as much as what we eat, as much as we talk about the snow, ice and getting rid of them.

I don't know, of course, but the last couple of days I've begun wondering why we exchange how we cope, handle and even, in some ways enjoy or appreciate such cold spells pretty consistently, and probably with other friends in other contexts.

First, having grown up in a community where such weather is why we have summer -- to get ready for it -- it seems that people have always done this.  At least the people who are fortunate enough to be able to prepare and take steps to stay adequately warm, clothed, fed and sheltered in such weather.

Is this a form of expressing recognition of our good fortune, to express our gratitude to wherever we feel gratitude is due, that we have all this?

Because, the longer the extreme cold lasts, the more aware we are of how many don't have the wherewithal to be adequately warm, clothed, fed and sheltered against it, much less have intervals of enjoyment too.

As the week of extreme cold here has rolled along, this weekend I started seeing people on the street who don't have any of these -- not even the companionship we all have too. I am guessing that these people have turned up on the street cold and desperate again these last two days, is that they've been evicted from whatever shelter they'd found while it was snowing and sleeting as well as cold.  Today is very cold, but bright blue and sunny . . . .

Any of us could so easily join their ranks, if one or two things only go wrong. . . .  The other day I was trying to figure out what I could do about this, for the people who aren't as lucky as I am.  I have a very hard time coming up with anything.  What I came up with, I dunno.  But today I got $50 changed into $5 bills.  The first ten people I saw who were in the street circumstance of desperation I gave $5.  $5 because you can't get a GDDmned cup of coffee any more for less than that hardly anywhere.  You can hardly get a beer.  And if, as Some will chide me for, the people to whom I gave that $5 put it toward liquor or whatever, what the hell.  Why are people who are poor not allowed to have their escape chemicals like the rest of us?  Sheesh, they need them even more than we more fortunate do. I think this approach comes from the influence of Louisa May Alcott's March family, with whom I've lived all my life.

It's not a joke, how cold it is. I came in about 1:30 PM from a run for supplies. I had another run to do. I hadn't realized how reluctant I was to go out there again, despite having been comfortable enough, in appropriate gear, and because I was moving so briskly for an extended period. But once I got back inside -- well, I had to kick my backside to go out again. It took me two hours to do that.

In that two hours, the temps had started dropping again, from the day's high which was when I first went out.

And then, I had the privilege, in my Irish merinos and my shelter, while making a very nice dinner, to drink red wine and go slack, watching season 5 of White Collar, which is entertainment, front and back.

How more privileged than this can one be?

Cold! Very COLD!

Good grief, woman, it's JANUARY in WINTER.  What does whiny me expect, hunh?

Hudson River, over which blusters the western wind 

The Polish Trilogy - Henryk Sienkiewicz & Jerzy Hoffman.- Winter Solstice Is Coming!

Henryk Sienkiewicz won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1905 "because of his outstanding merits as an epic writer".

His epic was addressed the wars and political events the resulted in the first dismemberment of Poland, that led inexorably to dissolution as a state. At the time the author received the Nobel Poland, as a nation, no longer existed.  Certainly, contributing to his selection, was the passion and devotion with which the author worked to keep the world's mind upon the issue of the plight of the Polish people and Poland's dissolution.  The reestablishment of the nation-state of Poland didn't happen until after the end of WWI -- the Second Polish Republic, or, the Second Commonwealth of Poland.

Known in Poland as "The Trilogy", the volumes are:

1884 - With Fire and Sword (Polish: Ogniem i mieczem); set in the period of the Cossack uprising against the Polish Nobility in what we know as Ukraine.

1886 - The Deluge (Polish: Potop); set during the Polish-Swedish war.

1888 - Fire in the Steppe (originally published under the Polish title Pan Wołodyjowski, which translates to Colonel Wolodyjowski); set during the Turkish invasion of Poland's eastern frontier.

These books have been turned into very fine epic, historic films, that contain everything anyone can want from such fare: swashing, battles, sieges, duels ( cannon  pushed and dragged through the snow), stunning location scenery, romance, intrique and betrayal, love and romance, ballrooms and love, and at least in one of them, strands of magic and sorcery.

The last of Jerzy Hoffman's Sienkiewicz adaptations was With Fire and Sword, Released in 1999, it was the most expensive Polish film ever made at that time -- the year the Polish Film Festival began, as well as the year Poland joined NATO. It was something that could now happen since their independence from the USSR, as the Third Polish Republic in 1991.

Its New York opening was somewhat of a sensation. It was lauded with much more respectful enthusiasm than the local cinestes usually accord historic, period films. As well as recognition of the film's high cinematic values, the enthusiasm perhaps reflected the respect felt for Poland's long struggle for independence from the USSR -- solidarity! That said, the film is splendid in every aspect.

Husaria! My favorite!

Previously Hoffman had filmed The Deluge (1974), which may be my favorite of the three. A nominee for Oscar's Best Foreign Film, it lost to Amacord.  The first of the films Hoffman produced was Colonel Wolodyjowski (1969).

As we see, while the 16th century is viewed as Poland's gold age, the 17th century was one of struggle and hardship for Poland*, which only got worse as the great powers of Prussia, Russia and Austria vied to slice off her parts for themselves. Despite the hope and faith of the Polish nobility (one of whom even bore Napoleón a son), Napoleón not only did not reestablish Polish independence, he betrayed them, even while keeping the Polish beauty as his mistress and bringing her to Paris.

Nor did the Congress of Vienna reunite Poland's parts nor recognize it as a state.

More here concerning the Sienkiewicz novels, the Hoffman films, and ... Tolkien.

This trilogy of films is a perfect viewing experience for the short, dark days of the winter solstice.
-------------

*  Recall, this is the era of Dumas's The Three Musketeers.

Beat the Polar Vortex Assimilation With East Texas Woolly Bully!

G-D it's cold!  I haven't experienced cold like this since leaving North Dakota winters behind.  North Dakota winters were an excellent reason for leaving North Dakota behind.

It's only going to get worse They Say here and other places.

So pull up that Woolly Bully San Antonio heat with Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs:

Can you call this Gulf music?  San Antonio isn't that far from the Gulf. I swear I hear some New Orleans influence in this Chicano hit from the 60's.

Nothing Good To Say

I went down with some germ or virus on Wednesday, and it's only gotten worse.  The temperatures hang in the low 20's plus strong wind off the Hawk, as the Hudson is known in these climes, in these winter times,   I'm missing all the parties, which means missing seeing and hanging out with all these people I love.  I feel like, well, you can imagine, when you can't breathe, everything hurts including your throat which is on fire. Tomorrow a gimongous storm blows up from Florida all the way to New England, suffocating the Atlantic side of things with snow and / or rain.  It's expected to storm through much of Sunday, and will likely to leave behind that most hideous of substances, substantial snow.  At least two feet, They Say.

I barely crawled out of bed at noon today.  There wasn't any reason to do so that I could see.  Still I think of all the years I crawled out of bed at the crack of dawn feeling like this to work all day.  For days at a time. At least I can stay home in bed this time around. Though I'm not making any $$$$$$.

Shyte.

At least I have the 1972 BBC War and Peace to watch -- though at first things are rather jarring, since the actors do not feel or look in the least bit Russian.  I also have to read the first two 44 Scotland Street novels by Alexander McCall Smith, and Wind in the Willows.  I haven't re-read WITW in many years, and being sick and it being the season, it feels rightly seasonal.