Wormwood
I spent a good portion of New Year’s Day binge watching this haunting Netflix docudrama. Directed by Errol Morris of “Thin Blue Line” and “Fog of War” fame, “Wormwood” is a unique and truly frightening journey into post-WWII America in which maniacs at the CIA were busy developing what would eventually become MKUltra. What’s a little LSD between friends, right?
When Army scientist, Frank Olson, mysteriously flew out of his window at NY’s Statler Hotel in November of 1953, his death presented his young son, Eric, with a Quixotic life’s quest: to find out what really happened to his father.
The episodes cut between chilling and tragic interviews with Eric, and exceptionally atmospheric dramatic scenes as imagined by Morris. Peter Sarsgaard’s Frank Olson is a perfectly crafted cypher, challenging us to wonder if ANYONE actually knew this man, let alone his family. Also turning in wondrous performances are Tim Blake Nelson, Molly Parker, a totally sinister Jimmi Simpson and the much beloved Bob Balaban.
The documentary scenes are filled with heartache and the kind of despair that allows us to glimpse beyond a stranger’s event horizon to the black hole that has begun to devour them. If the story being told wasn’t so monumentally important, I doubt I could have finished watching.
Perhaps one of the most tantalizing scenes in the series was an interview between Errol Morris and American journalist legend, Seymour Hersh.
No longer the swaggering young hero who exposed the My Lai Massacre and nabbed the 1970 Pulitzer, Hersh has morphed into the Fourth Estate’s Jabba the Hut, not in size but in attitude. Puffed-up with comfort and hubris, Hersh dismissively stares down Morris and then smugly assures him that he knows exactly what happened to Frank Olson in 1953. Of course he can’t spill the beans because that would allegedly jeopardize his source. Hersh definitely believed that he was totally owning Morris, but he foolishly forgot that the cameras trained on him belonged solely to the filmmaker. Oops, Seymour! Your callous pomposity is now forever preserved in an age when we’ve come to treat journalists like snakes that we can’t immediately identify as being venomous.
If you’re turned on by riveting documentaries, moody murder mysteries, great performances, the Cold War, CIA skullduggery, MKUltra, and genuine human pathos – the kind that makes you question pretty much everything – then I highly recommend “Wormwood.”
It’s a slow burn, but once the fire finally catches, you simply can’t look away. And if you’re wondering about the title, check Revelation 8 verse 10.
Holy Crap, it’s 2018!
Was it my imagination, or was 2017 the longest year on record? Tweet after laborious Tweet, a never-ending avalanche of political imbroglios, mass shootings, terror attacks, repeated threats of the deployment of nuclear weapons, alternate facts, tiki torches… You know, Billy Joel should haul his ass out of his La-Z Boy and add about 10 more verses to “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”
Of course, keeping your eye trained on the rearview mirror won’t help much with navigation. That’s what our world needs: Navigators. Waters once relatively calm and free from hidden shoals have become storm-battled, treacherous maelstroms. Friendly harbors have become ideologically entrenched and unapproachable.
We need Navigators.
Twister champions, downhill skiers, World of Warcraft end-gamers, mountain climbers, people who read AND understand Proust, underwater cave explorers, people who instantly understood why the Elder Wand didn’t answer to Voldemort, crossword puzzle champs who complete the Sunday Times puzzle in under 6 minutes, Disney Park maintenance personnel, really good tap dancers, half-pipe champions, and Grand prix riders. These are the people we need.
We don’t need old men and women who behave like Jim Henson’s Skeksis from “The Dark Crystal.”
We desperately need our 40 and 50-somethings to rise. The world, and our ability to experience it resets itself by the nano-second. We need young navigators who have come of age in the time of rapidly changing technology to step up and take the helm. Of course, the incentive to do so is kinda lacking, except for the whole “let’s save the world before it’s too late.” Happily, that’s enough for many, but not nearly enough for most.
I think that’s our challenge for 2018. We’ve got to find our Navigators and get them woke and motivated. Our Voldemort is the rapidly encroaching blanket of Nihilism that’s spreading itself around the world, erupting in bouts of truly senseless violence. But we don’t need an Elder Wand because we ARE the Elders.
I wish you all a safe and prosperous 2018. Start keeping your eyes peeled for Navigators, and if you find one, don’t let go. Lindsey Graham, of all people – stated today that 2018 is going to be very “dangerous.” Today, and perhaps only today, I believe him. But it would be so sweet to prove him wrong.
The Legend of Spooky Mama
It seems appropriate to end the year with the dark and twisted origin tale of “Spooky Mama.”
Many years ago, my bff, Melette, knowing that Halloween is my favorite holiday, sent me a huge care package filled with a delightful assortment of All Hallow’s goodies. One item stood out, however. A pair of socks. Halloween socks. The kind of holiday-themed socks that you’d only wear with a holiday-themed sweater.
Black cats, full moons, witches, and ghosts cavorted with wanton abandon on these socks, mocking me with their diabolically cheerful expressions and vivid colors.
At the time, I was in the company of my other bff, Sean Bagley, to whom I held up the socks and said something much like, “What he fuck?” He slowly took in the socks, one eye twitching like a German sub commander in a WWII film who knows that he and his crew are headed straight for Davey Jones’ Locker, and then shrugged and said: “Melette must think you’re a spooky mama.”
In that instant, I became Spooky Mama to friends and family. It’s really appropriate in many ways, and as a nickname, I’ve come to own it.
I suspect that people (who know me) find me scary in general. Possibly because the governor in my brain was dismantled by the Warner Brothers’ Gremlin long ago, and I’m likely to say anything that I believe needs saying.
Another excellent friend, Mike Walsh, once referred to me as “Jozzgul” in an attempt to liken me to the Nazgul which have been terrifying readers of Tolkein since 1954. I immediately made that my Instagram account name.
Lord knows what other names float around out there to describe me, but know this: I AM the spookiest of Spooky Mamas.
Jocelyn Beard, Teller of Tales 