Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

70th BIRTHDAY MESSAGE #1

On this minute that I turn 70, I want to thank the Civil Rights movement for teaching me more or less everything I know. I earned my chops in rebellion as a young teenager and have fought my way through these decades, only to have all our work reversed as I enter my dotage. I would be beyond discouraged if it weren’t for the activists young and old who are holding back this vile wave of horror. I’ve had four professions (martial arts master, managing a transnational volunteering program in Europe, work with elders, and of course writing) across three continents, always active, always angry, always dancing, and always looking for friends and comrades. You, my friends, have been my anchor and my inspiration. Thank you for holding it together in bitter times. Here is a photo of me taken by my long-time friend, the talented Donna Gottschalk, probably in 1971 or 72.

The Battle of the Sexes: Film Review

 

I am so sorry to report that I was disappointed in the film Battle of the Sexes, which I ran to see after so many FB friends raved about it. The Battle of the Sexes covers the historic 1973 match between a 55-year-old loud-mouthed hustler Bobby Riggs (Steve Carell) and the tennis champ Billie Jean King (Emma Stone). I was living in a feminist commune when this all came down and I remember 8 or 10 of us crowding on to the bed of the sister who had the TV in her room. Each volley, each point, each up and down elicited screams and cheers and curses from us. Life in those early days of women’s liberation was an intense and emotional time. Each “click” of consciousness about women as an oppressed group forced us to revise our individual histories (oh, so it wasn’t my fault I that the teacher groped me) and our view of the world. Sure the Battle was hyped. Sure it was a media event. But we longed for a victory, any victory, in those early days.

I am not one who subscribes to the Great (Wo)Man Theory. One woman did not change history. The social context was missing. The five-year-old women’s liberation movement and three-year-old lesbian liberation movement constituted the ground on which the women of tennis, led by Billie Jean King, could build their independent circuit and their struggle for equal purses. We’re in the ether of the film, but not quite in the film.

The young friend I saw the film with could hardly believe that Bobby Riggs really took such a carnival approach to life, but that was just as I remembered. Riggs was desperate for both money (he was a gambler) and attention, so he was always happy to get up in any bizarre costume for any sponsor that would pay him to do it. He was a walking circus and every event he touched – including this profound historic moment – was doused in his silliness.

Hindsight is all well and good, but the soft-focus delivery of King’s love affair with her hairdresser Marilyn Barnett (Andrea Riseborough) gave insufficient sense of how freaked out King was by her own sexuality, an agony for her over many years. Of course there’s no hint of how devastating the end of their relationship would be. In 1981 Marilyn sued in what was called a “palimony” case (pal as in chum as in friend as in there was no formal social recognition for same sex hookups), which outed Billie Jean King, causing her huge anxiety. We all desperately wanted her to come out much earlier, but tennis had to wait for Martina Navratilova to be out and proud in 1981.

King’s husband Larry King was played by Austin Stowell as a handsome, long-suffering, utterly supportive sweetie, despite being replaced in Billie Jean’s bed by her girlfriend. I don’t recall anything about their relationship, but wow he seemed too chill to be believed. Bobby Riggs’ posh wife Priscilla (Elisabeth Shue) dumped him over his gambling and foolery, but took him back, according to the film, once he was publicly humiliated by his loss to a woman. That seemed a bit odd as well.

Several bit roles are played by some fab actors. The entertaining Alan Cumming gets to camp it up in a decorative but small part, and Sarah Silverman does quite an interesting, believable job as a grown-up manager of the women’s tennis tour. I’m not generally a fan, but I loved her hair’s grey streaks and the solidity of her acting. With a straight face, Fred Armisen plays a crank healer shoveling herbs into Riggs. And Natalie Morales brings us Rosie Casals, who I remember with great affection as one of the earliest openly feminist sportswomen.

Friends posted that they cheered and wept, that it was just the film they hoped to see. I was generally unmoved – and this despite the intensity with which my collective and I experienced the match itself back in the day. What a high it was. What a victory. What a symbol. After all that belittling of women as athletes, it was orgasmic to watch Billie Jean thrash the professional chauvinist. Personally, I’m going to wait for some woman to make a documentary because this film was not strong enough to carry or deliver the impact of that momentous Battle. 

Here is the trailer:

 

Confronting a Bit of Smoke, Fire, and Rain in the Berkshires

SATURDAY Oct 7, 2017

We’re staying at an Airbnb “suite” – not a full apartment. This suite has a private bathroom down the hall and a small alcove (formerly a closet, maybe) off the bedroom where there’s a half fridge and a microwave and an electric kettle that sits on a small desk. Soon after we arrive, as I unpack some food from my freezer bag into the fridge, I complain to my bestie B that there is an acrid smoke smell. I set up my computer on that desk and then go into the bedroom to unpack my clothes.

The house was built in 1810 with an addition that was built much later – and the seam between the two is a rather awkward connection of uneven stairs and sudden low ceilings. We’re in the old part of the house. It’s tasteful, but there is the usual tangle of extension cords that ageing houses with one outlet per room sport.

Eventually I want a cup of tea and put some water in the kettle in the alcove. When I click on the kettle there is a startling huge burst of stinky dark smoke that envelopes the alcove and nearly overwhelms me. I yell for B who drops to his knees and starts pulling out all the plugs that are in the jumble of extension cords and multipliers under the desk. As he is down there, he sees that the extension cord with the smoking plastic power strip has ignited the carpet and the flames are trying to crawl up the wall.

I grab the kettle and dump water directly onto the flame and extinguish it. Later B says that it’s a good thing that my aim is so clean because if I had doused the power strip we would have had even more trouble. The host is not around and I leave him several messages. Soon he calls back and is freaked out, knowing that we’ve saved his massive 1810 home. He was very lucky that we were around. We were unlucky that no smoke alarm warned us.

We go off to see the Shakespeare & Company’s season-closing play, God of Carnage, and it too is a disappointment. It is a rather dated play about two sets of parents who meet and argue over the fact that their young sons have been in a brawl. The gender roles are old-fashioned; fueled by alcohol, the disagreements too often get hysterical; but worst of all, at one point, out of the blue, with no context or reason, one mother screams at the other: Your son is a faggot! No, that’s not the worst. What bothers me most is that the audience laughs at this jarring slur. A lot.

We are starving after the play, having been unable to eat as planned when the fire intervened, so we stop at an open pizza joint and order. They’re closing so we can’t dine inside, but we find a picnic table in the rear and eat under the stunning autumn moon.

The Airbnb host is waiting up for us, having rushed home. He has removed the faulty power strip, but understands that we can’t sleep in that hideous smell. He offers us his own bedroom or a guest room, and we accept the latter. Unfortunately, it is tiny and airless, with no TV, no cotton sheets (I do hate those slippery microfibre sheets), no chairs and tables like the original room, and a couple of dangerous steps to access the bathroom. Our food is still in the fridge in the reeking alcove way down the hall. The host is generous about our using the rest of the house freely, but the rest of the house is down a rickety set of stairs and our stuff is increasingly scattered everywhere.

SUNDAY

The night is difficult as the tiny room has an exaggerated level of humidity and for some reason there are flies buzzing around. In the morning we must go up and down in order to eat at the host’s table. He has insisted that we can use any part of this not inconsiderable home, but we would’ve preferred to be self-contained, as we contracted for.

We take off for a drive to Bash Bish Falls which is set in an ice age gorge in the Taconic Mountains, the highest single-drop waterfall in Massachusetts. It sits on the border between New York and Massachusetts, with a hiking path from each state. We’ve been warned to take the New York path and avoid the treacherous, slippery one on the Massachusetts side. The day is incredibly warm and humid and the walk is about a mile on a muddy path – it had rained all morning – full of rocks and other obstacles. I’m not a walker, but this is just why one goes leafing: to be immersed in foliage. Once we arrive at the waterfall, we view the Falls from a platform before deciding to descend the irregular stone steps that bring one much closer to the gorgeous Falls. I sit my sweaty ass down on a big rock that has been generously placed there for me by a glacier and relax.We have dinner reservations at Chez Nous Bistro on Main St. in Lee. I like this restaurant because they offer half portions of their entrées, which not only makes them affordable, but suits tourists who really don’t want to deal with leftovers. I have the yummy lamb ribs. B has the sirloin, anointed with a flavorsome sauce.

MONDAY
It is going to pour all day, so we decide to pig out on breakfast and then beat the crowd on the way back to Boston after the long weekend. The Starving Artist Gallery and Café in Lee specializes in crepes, but I have an egg and bacon sandwich on a croissant. There is some wonderful art on display including a triple piece about the women’s march and the pussy hats. The elder using a walker on the left and the ecstatic little girl on the right are separated by kittens knitting the hats in the middle. I push my way into the image like this. [photo]

We stop on the way back to Boston at Tafts Farms in Great Barrington – we had already shopped there before going to our lodgings – in the hopes of finding their scrumptious biscuits, but they only bake them during high summer. Their scones are nothing to snort at, so I pick up a couple of those and somehow manage to resist their incomparable frozen mac & cheese. A mile down the road, my quick glance around the local Goodwill is a total disappointment – where are the discards of the fancy people?

In the end, our annual leafing trip has brought us lots of lovely yellows, but virtually no reds or deep oranges. The Berkshires, though, are exquisite all year round and we are satisfied with the foliage. We can’t help but notice a rash of homes on the market. I am struck by the waves of For Sale signs and wonder what the hell is going on.

Back in Boston we are in touch with the Airbnb host who is going to return our money. The missing smoke alarm turned up in a drawer in the guest room where we stayed and he explains that the previous guest had apparently taken it down to stop it from chirping. I turn on the TV back in town and am horrified by the news of the fires in California. We escaped unharmed from this individual spark, and I can only think what a nasty autumn so many around the world are having – the floods, fires, and machine guns. I’m so grateful to have had this time in beauty, but feel for the millions without such privilege.

Film Review: The Big Sick (perfect for a rainy day)

The Big Sick: Pakistani Muslim boy meets skinny white graduate student girl. Despite their original intentions, the quickie turns serious. The families have other plans. There is a coma, confrontations, and in the end there is a sunburst of happiness.

Based on his real life, Kumail Nanjiani (Uber driver by day; stand-up comedian by night) has created a sweet laugh-out-loud tear-jerker that is the perfect break from your daily routine. (Unless, that is, you are in a conflict with your immigrant parents.) Zoe Kazan plays Nanjiani’s actual wife Emily V. Gordon with just enough whimsy and sass. Ray Romano does a good job as Zoe’s slightly-awkward dad, but Holly Hunter is a bit weird and kinda mangles her lines as Zoe’s mother. Anupam Kher and Zenobia Shroff are perfect as Nanjiani’s parents, torn between tradition and the reality of living in the USA. The mother could have been from any ethnicity:

Mother: I was so worried. We saw on the news that a train derailed, and we thought that you were on the train, and you had died.
Kumail: Nobody died on that train, ma.
Mother: But did they look under the train?

The film’s Rotten Tomatometer score is a righteous 98%. It was the perfect film for a rainy Yom Kippur afternoon. I believe it is leaving the cinemas soon, but you can stream it and then thank me later.

Here is the trailer: