Book Review

Same Kind of Different as Me by Ron Hall and Denver Moore (with Lynn Vincent)

This 2006 book, a New York Times bestseller, is worth your time. It’s a solidly written “feel good” story that will appeal to many different readers, but especially to a Christian audience. The book documents the unlikely friendship that develops between an illiterate homeless black man in Texas and a white millionaire art dealer living the cosmopolitan life. The best part? It’s true.

The story opens with Denver describing the deprivation and virtual slavery he experienced as a plantation worker in Louisiana. And, no, this is not the 1800’s. In his own rhythmic and authentic style, he relates the horrific details of his childhood. As a boy, he watched his home burn to the ground, with his grandmother, the only person who really loved him, unable to escape the flames. As a teenager, he was viciously attacked by a group of young white men who, needless to say, went unpunished.  He summed up his life as an adult, imprisoned by poverty and prejudice, this way: “I worked them fields for nearly thirty years, like a slave, even though slavery had supposably ended when my grandma was just a little girl. I had a shack I didn’t own, two pairs of overalls I got on credit, a hog, and an outhouse. I worked them fields, plantin and plowin and pickin and givin all the cotton to the Man that owned the land, all without no paycheck. I didn’t even know what a paycheck was.” Denver’s stoic and poetic narration of his journey into crime and vagrancy is absolutely compelling in its naked truthfulness.

Ron Hall grows up in the south as well, a middle class white kid who climbs the ladder of prosperity and eventually achieves the American dream. He and his wife Deborah go through some tough times in their marriage, though. Ron has an affair with a young artist while he is on one of his art-dealing junkets, and he and Deborah struggle to hold their relationship together. A fierce Christian, Deborah commits to forgiveness and Ron re-commits to fidelity. They mature as a couple and grow in their Christian faith. Eventually they are led to volunteer at a Texas shelter for the homeless.

It’s here that they meet Denver, the hardened drifter, cemented in his own prejudices about white people. Deborah is determined that Ron befriend this proud and reserved old hobo, believing that God has a special purpose for him.

The friendship develops slowly. There are many layers of suspicion, doubt, and reluctance to peel away, but a grudging mutual respect emerges. Both men learn to set aside their differences. Deborah, the spark behind this unusual friendship, faces a different kind of challenge as she is diagnosed with cancer. Together the two men care for her until her death. As they say goodbye to this caring and selfless woman, they are no longer millionaire businessman and homeless street person, but brothers, bonded in their love for Deborah, for each other, and for the God they don’t always understand, but seek to serve.

Denver and Ron forge a unique partnership after Deborah’s passing – one that results in an expanded mission/shelter in Fort Worth and extended services for the street people of that city. Together they have become a force for social justice in Texas and a united voice of hope for the homeless throughout the nation. Their efforts have been lauded and supported by many, including the mayor of Fort Worth, the governor of Texas, and former First Lady Barbara Bush.

Even though he is now a senior citizen, Denver continues to unearth a multitude of abilities buried beneath his disadvantaged upbringing. He has become an artist, a public speaker, a writer, and a leader. In 2005, along with Ron Hall, he attended a presidential inaugural ball in Washington. That didn’t faze him, though. “I found out everybody’s different – the same kind of different as me. We’re all just regular folks walkin down the road God done set in front of us. The truth about it is, whether we is rich or poor or something in between, this earth ain’t no final restin place. So in a way, we is all homeless – just workin our way toward home.”

Book Review

The Way the Crow Flies by Ann-Marie MacDonald

 MacDonald, author of the New York Times bestseller, Fall on Your Knees, tackles some touchy subjects in her acclaimed novel, The Way the Crow Flies (2003). The novel was inspired, in part, by the dramatic true-life story of Stephen Truscott, the Canadian fourteen year old convicted in 1960 of murdering Lynn Harper. Truscott’s death sentence was later commuted to life imprisonment. Upon appeal to the Supreme Court of Canada, he was eventually released with a new identity in 1969. He steadfastly maintained his innocence and was finally acquitted. His conviction was deemed a “miscarriage of justice.”

 MacDonald’s novel, set in an Air Force base outside of Kitchener, Ontario, meshes the 1960’s fixation on the Cold War and the space race with the personal tragedy of a young girl’s sexual molestation by her teacher during the same time period. The two threads collide in the murder of a classmate and the arrest and conviction of a neighbourhood boy.

The novel opens so hopefully: “The sun came out after the war and our world went Technicolor. Everyone had the same idea. Let’s get married. Let’s have kids. Let’s be the ones who do it right.”  MacDonald’s ambitious premise stacks layers of global, communal, and individual loss of innocence onto the idyllic town of Centralia. The pretty decade of the fifties with its “many-splendored things (Chapter 1)” is crushed by the weight of this epidemic of violation. Madeleine loses her innocence at the hands of her abuser. Her father loses his innocence as he becomes ensnared in morally ambiguous political intrigue. Centralia loses its innocence as it unwittingly harbours a pedophile, while hurrying to condemn an innocent teen of a horrific crime. In a rush to excise the malignancies of WWII, the Western world loses its innocence profiting from Nazi science and technology.

While the concept of the book is brilliant, I think its comprehensive scope ultimately detracts from its final achievement. The narrative is clogged by a sprawling ponderousness that generates detachment rather than involvement. It’s a very patient reader who will wade through the minutiae of colour commentary to follow the actual plot. Like a drippy Big Mac, the slogans, ads, songs, and catch phrases of the 60’s practically leak from the text. Soon the constant reminders spark frustration: “OK. I get it. You did your research. Tell the story already.”

The subject matter of sexual exploitation also makes the novel a tough read. The teacher’s predatory manipulation of the little girls in his class is skilfully depicted and not excessively graphic, but I kept finding reasons to avoid finishing the book. As a teacher myself, and mother and grandmother, I had to swallow my emotional bile to keep reading, but this “war” was wholly credible. Distasteful as it is, MacDonald’s reminder about the vulnerability of children continues to be timely.

MacDonald is not quite as convincing in her treatment of the Cold War. The ethical ambiguities that arise on the world stage after World War II trickle down into the personal lives of the citizens on the Air Base. A variety of characters grapple with the ramifications of collusion with the enemy as Nazi war criminals and scientists are spirited out of Europe to bolster American space programs. Perhaps I am too Canadian and ordinary to suspend my disbelief. An international spy ring operating in sleepy southwestern Ontario? Not really buying it.

A final word on the characters. Fearlessly honest and guilelessly dishonest, Madeleine the child is endearing. Her friend, prickly Colleen, the adopted Métis daughter of mysterious neighbours, is also memorable. She becomes Madeleine’s tutor in schoolyard nastiness and pranks. Their quirky classmates at school are similarly believable. MacDonald’s delineation of the childhood experience is flawless.

The adults in the novel, however, suffer from artifice. They are far less engaging than the children, particularly Madeleine’s parents, Jack, the career military man and Mimi, the perfect homemaker. Living in a “June and Ward Cleaver bubble,” they are one-dimensional characters, almost stylized. I didn’t really care about them until the end of the novel when the peeling blisters of their choices suddenly ooze fresh and raw, and they confront the truth of their lives. Interestingly, although the youthful Madeleine was impish and loveable, I cared less and less about her as she reached adulthood. She grew increasingly selfish, manic, and grotesque. The sympathetic bond I had with her at the outset of her story slipped away.

It occurs to me that perhaps that’s what MacDonald intended.

Review: Fiddler on the Roof

(Canon Theatre: Toronto, December 22, 2009)

Producing a well-loved musical like Fiddler on the Roof must be an intimidating gamble: yes, you are going to have big crowds and a full theatre, but you are also going to have big expectations to fulfill! This particular production at the Canon Theatre in Toronto was uneven – the coin toss wobbled.

The show was directed by Sammy Dallas Bayes and featured Harvey Fierstein as the inimitable milkman, Tevye. Fierstein has an enviable list of credits which include stage, film, and television. He had a role in Mrs. Doubtfire (as the hairdresser, I’m told) and was the voice of Homer Simpson’s executive secretary on The Simpsons. He has written and performed in many of his own plays and received a plethora of prestigious awards. The programme lists Fierstein as only the second person in history to win Tonys in four different categories.

The character of Tevye is defined, however, by the classic achievement of Topol in the movie version of Fiddler. Regardless of his reputation and experience, Fierstein’s portrayal did not even come close. His lack of physical stature was my first impression. The large traditional stage of the Canon Theatre dwarfed him. His smallish presence was exacerbated by the distinguished height of Lazar Wolf and also by the full-bodied figure of Golde. Unfortunately, his voice did not compensate. That, potentially, could have made the difference. In fact, Fierstein’s voice consistently rose to a high-pitched cartoonish caricature, and, although that worked for some of the comedic lines, it was not balanced with the full, rich, masculine tone required to lend pathos and dignity to Tevye’s character.  When he dug for a gruff lower pitch, it was muffled. On occasion, the orchestra overpowered his singing. His dancing lacked energy and conviction. I was disappointed.

On the other hand (sly grin, here), there were a few stellar moments. The anguished exchange between Tevye and Chava when she informs her father that she is in love with Fyedka produced palpable silence in the theatre. Later, as Tevye dares to complain to God, his defiance is punctuated with tightly-coiled physicality. Alone on stage, assuming a grounded, wide-legged stance, pushing out his chest and ample belly, arms akimbo and fists clenched, Tevye faces the audience, but looks up. He is simultaneously puny and heroic. The confrontation had a Job-like credibility.

David Brummel played Lazar Wolf in this production. Unlike Fierstein’s, his voice commanded attention. He has also played the role of Tevye in five different productions. I would have loved to see and hear his version of the iconic milkman. His vocals were powerful and soared effortlessly to the stratosphere.    

The young people did very well. Tzeitel, Hodel, Chava, Perchik and Motel the Tailor performed admirably, particularly Motel, who was winsome as the shy and nervous suitor “sans matchmaker”. His Miracle of Miracles solo balanced a lovable geekiness with new-found virility in a very natural and unaffected way.  Golde and Yente, alas, were predictable and a lack of chemistry kept their dialogue stilted and the humour forced. And the fiddler on the roof himself?  Just right, a nimble and engaging jester.

The staging of the play, like the acting, was uneven. A couple of scenes reached the zenith and others fell flat. The best scene was the Sabbath Prayer. Twilight falls. Tevye and Golde and their family and guests light the menorah and start to sing the blessing. Darkness envelops the stage until you see only their faces in the halo of candlelight. Then, on various levels, with just the hint of roofs and chimneys hanging in the air, the homes of other Jewish families are slowly revealed.

Successively, the faithful also light their candles and join in the singing. The close-knit community of Anatevka is tenderly evoked in the flickering flames that illuminate each family at prayer. It was mesmerizing, like walking up a mountain road at night and peering into all the glowing windows to witness the same holy scene over and over. As perfect a moment as any I have experienced in a staged performance.

I thought of this masterful scene later when Tevye and his Jewish family and friends are evicted from Anatevka. Only five cast members sing Anatevka, the plaintive and haunting lament about the loss of one’s homeplace … Tevye, Golde, Yente, and two others. It felt utterly wrong. Here was the perfect moment to showcase that whole community again, to highlight the depth of the injustice, not to just a few individuals, but to an entire village. I expected to hear many voices gathered in mourning, a swelling of grief. Instead, the potential of this scene to parallel the Sabbath Prayer scene was ignored.  Stripped of communal significance, both the scene and the song fizzled.

 The community does receive a nod at the conclusion of the play as the villagers gather for a trek around the stage on their way to their new homes. No doubt the symbolic trundling around the bare stage was intended to be melancholy, but it was a bare-bones scene that lacked sympathetic cohesiveness. The opportunity in the previous scene to remind the audience of the deep connectedness of these friends and neighbours has been wasted.  The villagers wander in single file, isolated not only from one another, but also from the audience. Had they held hands, or embraced and clung to one another, reluctant to part, there would have been more emotional depth to the circling. As it was, it was a strangely detached denouement. The scene was saved, in the end, only by the fiddler, who added a note of grace with his stylized prancing behind the caravan, playing familiar strains to bless the disparate journeys of these refugees.

Not only the fiddler’s lively mincing, but all of the choreography and dancing in the play deserves praise. It was top-notch, entertaining when it needed to be, but thoughtful, too. In the bar scene, as Tevye and Lazar Wolf and their friends celebrate the “match” with a traditional Jewish dance, they are soon joined by the Russian soldiers who ply their Cossack acrobatics in and around and through the Jewish dancers. What starts off as  seriously competitive male strutting evolves into a dizzying whirl of high energy dance cooperation. The heady melding of the two dance styles brings smiles to the faces of the participants, both Jewish and Russian. A dynamic harmony is achieved on stage for a brief moment. This dazzling dance sequence manages to portray the relative stability of Anatevka before the imminent pogrom and also offers an exuberantly hopeful vignette, suggesting that perhaps someday, somewhere, this joyous plaiting of differences might indeed be a reality and not just a temporary playful accident.

The dancing at the wedding of Tzeitel and Motel was equally compelling. The bottle dancers were the best I have ever seen. With their long-tailed jackets and tall top hats accentuating every linear movement, the dancers achieved balletic precision – symmetrical, fluid and stunningly elegant.

The unevenness of the production shows up again, though, in the fight scene during the wedding reception. A few Russians run onstage, presumably to wreak havoc, but there are altogether too few of them, they are not easily identifiable by uniform or costume, and the action is skimpy and poorly executed. A couple of tables are overturned, Perchik is scarcely roughed up, and, in a few seconds, it is all over. What? A politically correct skirmish – no violence, no harm, no foul? This trifling scuffle diminished the play’s historicity. I expected a far more brutal and believable attack. It should have been a shocker, the thin-skinned status quo of Anatevka ripped away in an instant, its racist loathsome underbelly exposed to all. But it was barely a barroom brawl.

The story of Tevye, the Everyman believer, is one that resonates deeply with people of faith. And the story of Tevye, the little guy, downtrodden, but not defeated, still speaks to the lowly.  I will gladly take any opportunity to re-live his narrative, to hear his music, to marvel at his dancing, and witness the vibrancy of his faith and life. The standing ovation goes to the original author, Sholem Aleichem, who gave Tevye (and us) a voice for all time. 

So, those are some of my reactions, for what they are worth… a ruble, a shekel, a wooden nickel.  You decide.

 To Mr. Feirstein, probably not worth a fig.   🙂