Another Week: Number 120

Back in the mid-1980s, when Amy and I were hanging out with her sister Donna a lot, the three of us drove out to their childhood home, East Troy, Wisconsin, one Fourth of July. There, we ate corn dogs, walked the midway, and went for a ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl that I’ll never forget.

The carny running the ride had a bit of a Charlie Manson vibe — long hair, a devilish beard, and dark, fixed eyes. Before long, we noticed that he was working the controls very capriciously. We’d speed up, stop, and reverse directions way more intensely than was normal.

The three of us — the only passengers on the ride — eventually tried to shout over the Creedence Clearwater Revival music blasting from the ride’s speakers, but our operator paid no attention. The ordeal went on for a good 25 minutes before he finally brought it to a stop, turning his back as we exited.

None of us puked — but we were all sick for the next two days with a queasy loss of equilibrium and a leaden, post-traumatic dread.

These days, the whole world is experiencing similar symptoms as Donald J. Trump plays with the levers of power. Twelve weeks into his 208-week stint, our country’s government and the world’s economy are being whirled and shaken to pieces for no good reason.

Trump’s minions and supporters all insist he has a plan, and they invariably reference The Art of the Deal as if it were some sacred oracle. Never mind that the book’s author and publisher both attest that Trump had no role in its writing.

Meanwhile, our local weather remains partly bleak and mostly drab. The mourning doves seem especially numerous this year. A slight temperature rise at the end of the week prompted several people to don shorts — but at 49 degrees, that just makes you look gullible.

I walked 6.57 miles this week.

UConn, Bucks bring basketball joy

I have watched a lot of basketball games over the past year — Indiana Fever games, Unrivaled games, women’s NCAA games, and the Milwaukee Bucks.

They have not all been electrifying. While it was interesting to watch a new league try to get off the ground, I don’t see myself in front of the TV for a second season of Unrivaled. There have been extended stretches this year when the Milwaukee Bucks didn’t appear to have the necessary energy or telepathy.

But UConn’s championship win on Sunday night and the Bucks’ jaw-dropping comeback against the Timberwolves on Tuesday were two very satisfying payoffs.

Jazz on a Summer’s Day (1959)

I had two dinner-and-a-movie nights with my mom this week. On Thursday, I showed her Jazz on a Summer’s Day, a favorite that I had taped from PBS back in the 90s and replayed whenever a cool, relaxing atmosphere was desired. This time, we rented it via Prime Video.

The film is a concert documentary of the 1958 Newport Jazz Festival at Newport, Rhode Island. It intercuts performance footage with ambient shots — people in the audience, nearby house parties, action from the 1958 America’s Cup yacht races taking place just offshore, and a Yale student band playing Dixieland all over town in a convertible jalopy.

Most of the performers are legendary: Thelonious Monk, George Shearing, Dinah Washington, Gerry Mulligan, and Chuck Berry, among others.

But the magic of the moment does not only happen onstage — it’s also in the crowd, it’s onboard the yachts, it’s in the hallways, and on the rooftops, and on the faces of children at play. There is a graceful, sophisticated ease on display here, a point in time approaching the peak of America’s culture and reaching maximum relaxation with zero turmoil. The races enjoy each other. Fashion is self-assured. Ears are open. The fulcrum is precisely between Eisenhower and the 1960s.

Anita O’Day is an icon in her breathtaking hat and white gloves, as she drills “Sweet Georgia Brown” and “Tea for Two” up and down her vocal staircase. Louis Armstrong‘s stage patter, singing, and trumpet breaks all delight the fans as he riffs with Jack Teagarden. Mahalia Jackson raises goosebumps with her vibrato during “The Lord’s Prayer.”

My only complaints are that some of the onstage camerawork is too tight, cropping out the interplay between musicians, and that the movie should be twice as long as its fleeting 85 minutes.

LIZA: A Truly Terrific Absolutely True Story (2024)

Also on Thursday, we watched a documentary on Liza Minnelli from last year that recently aired on PBS via American Masters.

Liza: A Truly Terrific Absolutely True Story was fun to watch — and enlightening. I grew up seeing Liza on TV and came to regard her as more of an SCTV-style show business caricature than a real artist, despite her brilliant performance in Cabaret. Her persona was scatterbrained, her shtick was loud and strong, and her personal life fueled gossip magazines. She married some guy from Kenosha.

Watching this well-constructed film, though, I came to appreciate how much she overcame and accomplished in building her career piece by piece. Each step of the way, she has mentors and helpers who guide her.

The account presented here deliberately omits most of Liza’s childhood with her mother Judy Garland. Instead, it begins with Garland’s death, when godmother Kay Thompson swoops in to take charge of the funeral — as well as 23-year-old Liza’s life and career. Soon Charles Aznavour, the “French Frank Sinatra,” teaches Liza how to “act” her songs. Bob Fosse refines her dancing, which she painstakingly perfects despite scoliosis. Kander and Ebb collaborate with her, and Fred Ebb writes and produces her Emmy-winning “filmed concert on television,” Liza with a Z, shaping her skills for the small screen.

This documentary has an agenda, which it achieves admirably: Showcase Minnelli’s many talents and highlight her adorable warmth and openness, which have fostered a bunch of deep and lasting friendships. Among her friends appearing here are Michael Feinstein, who does an excellent job as the principal storyteller, and Mia Farrow, who has known Liza since childhood.

It’s a captivating tale, smartly told. My mom and I both enjoyed it.