Just Deserts

Today’s Gospel passage at Mass is one of the most well-known stories in the Bible: the parable of the prodigal son. A son demands his inheritance from his father, goes off and squanders it, and returns home desperate, only to find that his father welcomes him with open arms. At various points in my life, I have related to different characters in the story. When I was younger, I thought about the two sons and their feelings and actions. After I became a parent, I identified with the feelings of the father. And while I have learned more about the theological significance of the parable over the years, I usually can’t help but identify with the older brother’s righteous anger. After all, as he angrily tells his father, he was the good son, the one who faithfully stayed and did everything his father asked of him. Yet the father kills the fatted calf and makes a celebration for the wastrel who spent so much of his father’s hard-earned wealth.

As human beings, we want to see people receive their just deserts. We talk about karma and hope it exists to balance the scales of justice in human endeavors. Just think back to your own childhood. If you have siblings, you constantly jostled for material goods, attention, your fair share. I remember my mother pouring out glasses of the rare treat of pop, as we call it in the Midwest, so that each of her children got exactly the same amount. I’m sure she tried her best not to play favorites, but inevitably, one of us would feel slighted by some perceived imbalance in her treatment of us. We would wail, “It’s not fair!” To which my mother would counter, “Life’s not fair.” That simple truth is hard to swallow whether we are children or adults. We long for fairness. And to be sure, we should strive for such an ideal. But the concept that we always get what we deserve is antithetical to reality.

In the story of the prodigal son, the father tries to coax his older son. “‘My son, you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’” (Luke 15:31-32) The father’s forgiveness and deep love for his children is at the heart of the story. It may feel wrong or even impossible to practice this radical forgiveness. We want people to pay for their misdeeds. That’s only human. Forgiveness springs from a love that transcends the pettier emotions of human beings. And forgiveness ultimately affects the one who forgives even more than the forgiven. Forgiveness, more than revenge or righteous anger, frees us to love and be loved. That is one of the beautiful messages of the parable of the prodigal son.

Let us remember that in matters of human behavior, “To err is human, to forgive divine.” (Alexander Pope)

Licorice Twists

Licorice Pizza tastes as terrible as it sounds. After suffering through the latest film by acclaimed director Paul Thomas Anderson, I want those 2 hours and 13 minutes of my life back.

From the very opening scene, Licorice Pizza delivers a nonsensical and off-putting experience. A precocious fifteen-year-old high school student flirts with the adult photographer’s assistant who is corralling students for their yearbook pictures. And she flirts back. This minor flirtation turns into a quasi-friendship/business partnership, always with a subtext of romance. If the genders had been reversed, and a twenty-something-year-old man was hanging around a 15-year-old girl, the film would have garnered way more criticism than it apparently has.

These cringe-worthy moments continue throughout the film and include casual sexism (The photographer slaps his assistant on the ass) and racism. In more than one scene we are subjected to an older white man speaking to his Japanese wife in English but with a horrible fake Japanese accent. Presumably these moments are meant to be funny. But they just go along with the whole tone-deaf attitude of a film supposedly steeped in Seventies nostalgia.

And that’s another curious thing. The so-called nostalgia is bizarre given that Anderson was born in 1970 and was a preschooler at the time of the events in the film. The movie is purportedly based upon the memories of Anderson’s friend Gary Goetzman. As such, it is more a string of incidents experienced by Gary and less a coming-of-age story – or any kind of story at all. Gary and Alana, the teen and the 25-year-old, go through a series of strange and sometimes inexplicable adventures. At one point Gary is briefly arrested for murder, and the reasons are never given.

There’s also no clear focus or protagonist. Sometimes the main character seems to be Gary. At other times it seems to be Alana. Having the events of the film be seen through one lens would have helped it have more cohesion and meaning. As it is, the movie is just a heap of disparate events with some of the same characters in them. And some of the extraneous characters, such as an actor based upon William Holden and Bradley Cooper as the real Hollywood producer Jon Peters, add little to the story. Once again, an older actor hitting on a young woman and a sex-obsessed jerk who threatens teenagers are played for laughs. But they’re just not funny.

The worst thing about Licorice Pizza is its length. It’s a true sign of directorly self-indulgence to make such a long and pointless homage to one’s own skills as an auteur. Every scene seemed to scream, “Look at me and what I can do with a camera!”

Other than Boogie Nights, I’ve never seen a film by Paul Thomas Anderson. And after digesting Licorice Pizza, I’m not planning to.

Underdogs

It’s that time of year again – March Madness. As college basketball teams complete their seasons and compete in conference championships, each team is fighting for a coveted seed in the NCAA Tournament – or an appearance in the tournament at all. For once, the Fighting Illini from my alma mater are at the top of the Big Ten and show promise to go the distance.

Still, I wasn’t all that sad yesterday when Illinois lost a close game against the Indiana Hoosiers, a team that has struggled in recent years. I’m also happy for their first-year coach, Mike Woodson, a former IU player himself. For the first time in many years, Indiana advanced to a second game in the Big Ten Tournament. I guess I’m a sucker for the underdog.

For whatever reason, it seems like human nature to root for the underdog. Earlier this year, the Cincinnati Bengals made an unlikely journey all the way to the Super Bowl, and they very nearly captured the championship title in a battle against the L.A. Rams. If I hadn’t had a personal connection to a player on the Rams, I would definitely having been rooting for the underdog.

I think we cheer for the underdog because all of us at times feel embattled or inferior in some area of our lives. We want the girl to go for the nerdy underachiever as opposed to the hunky investment banker or frat boy. We want the powerless to prevail over the powerful. At the risk of trivializing a devastating war in Ukraine, I think one of the things that gives us heart is the ferocity and fighting spirit of this underdog nation and the people’s refusal to cave to the neighborhood bully, Vladimir Putin.

Let’s face it. When the Duke Blue Devils or any football team with Tom Brady as its quarterback wins, we yawn. But when the Loyola Ramblers basketball team makes it to the Final Four, we cheer ecstatically along with its diminutive super fan, Sister Jean. We are suckers for the underdog. So as the tournament looms this March, let’s hear it for the underdogs (unless they’re facing the Fighting Illini)!

Give a Little Whistle

The other day I was in my yard when I heard someone whistling as they walked by. It was a pleasant little tune and an unexpected joy in my day. And I envied the individual their ability to, in the immortal words of Lauren Bacall to Humphrey Bogart, “just put your lips together and blow.”

My dad was big on whistling. He’d whistle while completing a chore or strolling around the backyard inspecting his garden. Sometimes it would be a recognizable tune, but often it was an aimless ditty that accompanied his activities. So when I hear a person whistling, I often smile and think about my father.

Whistling has often been used in movies and television to evoke certain emotions. The whistled themes in some Clint Eastwood westerns set a lonely, melancholy tone while the jolly whistling in The Andy Griffith Show theme song creates a friendly vibe. The bracing military march in The Bridge on the River Kwai bespeaks the bravery of the fighting forces. And numerous thrillers use a whistling motif for their killers, turning a high-pitched, friendly sound into an ominous warning.

There are even songs about the act of whistling itself. In Disney’s Pinocchio, Jimmy Cricket encourages the wooden boy to “give a little whistle” whenever he is tempted to do something wrong. As Pinocchio’s conscience, Jiminy is ever at the ready to come to his aid in deciding right from wrong. In the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical The King and I, Anna teaches one of the king young sons to use whistling as an antidote to fear: “Whenever I feel afraid, I hold my head erect, and whistle a happy tune, so no one will suspect I’m afraid.”

At various times in my life, I’ve tried learning to whistle. Notwithstanding Bacall’s sassy recommendation to Bogey, it’s not so easy to learn the art of whistling. Most of the time my attempts at whistling resemble hyperventilating with a hint of sound. Alas, I don’t think I’ll ever achieve my dad’s effortless tunefulness. And that’s a shame. Whistling usually evokes a relaxed and optimistic feeling, something we could definitely use in a dark and ominous time.

So if you’re able, why not spread a little joy. Just put your lips together and blow!