Under The Table

The following memory was first published in The Anderson Valley Advertiser. Many Thanks to Bruce Anderson for his continuing support of my writing.

 

 

Playing For Capra

Marcia and I recently watched a new Israeli movie entitled The Band’s Visit about an Egyptian police band spending the night in a godforsaken Israeli settlement. Seeing this remarkable film coincided with my struggle to write about the time I played piano for Frank Capra, the famous movie director.

Why the struggle? Because the story of playing piano for Capra is entwined with my dramatic rise and fall as a professional writer nearly thirty years ago, a larger story with far too many unhappy chapters. By the time I played piano for Capra in 1982, I had gone from living on pennies in the slums of Seattle to being the toast of New York and Hollywood, and back to barely scraping by in Sacramento, all in the course of a few dizzying years.

Capra, for all his many triumphs, was a Hollywood outsider. Having succeeded brilliantly under the protection of the powerful mogul Harry Cohn, Capra only made the movies he wanted to make, which were almost never what his overlords desired. In that regard, Capra was my hero. I had failed to build relationships with the powerful producers of American movies and books despite the many opportunities my success provided me. I was young and naïve, and I believed that great stories and great screenplays would sell themselves. To my dismay, I experienced over and over again that quality and originality meant less than nothing to those who control our cultural highways. But I didn’t want to believe that, and so burned a thousand bridges.

Capra knew all about what I was going through, for he and his movies, despite their popularity with moviegoers, often received muted support from the power brokers. Why? Because he, too, was unwilling to compromise the integrity of his visions. Indeed, he made movies about these very conflicts: integrity versus corruption, kindness versus cruelty, generosity versus greed, and originality versus imitation.

Capra’s autobiography, an incomparable history of Hollywood from the days of silent movies until the 1960’s, was one of my bibles. In recent years, a confederacy of academic dunces has tried to discredit Capra’s recollections, but their pathetic efforts only amplify Capra’s importance.

So there I was in 1982, hoping to resuscitate my collapsing career, when we heard Capra was going to speak at a showing of It’s A Wonderful Life in an old movie house in Nevada City.

In 1980 a movie had been made of my novel, Inside Moves. Directed by Richard Donner with a screenplay by Barry Levinson, the movie—a Capraesque dramatic comedy if there ever was one—starred John Savage and launched the careers of David Morse and Diana Scarwid, who received an Oscar nomination for her performance in the film. But just as Inside Moves was about to be released, the distribution company went broke and the film was never widely seen. I was then hired by Warner Brothers to write a screenplay for Laura Ziskin (Spiderman) based on my second novel Forgotten Impulses, which was hailed by The New York Times as one of the best novels of 1980, but then Simon & Schuster inexplicably withdrew all support for the book and the movie was never made.

Indeed, as I drove from Sacramento to Nevada City with my pals Bob and Patty, I was in a state of shock. My previously doting movie agents had just dropped me, Simon & Schuster had terminated the contract for my next novel, and I had no idea why any of this was happening. Yet I still believed (and believe to this day) that my stories would eventually transcend the various obstructions and be read with joy by thousands of people—a quintessential Capraesque vision of reality. And I was sure Capra would say something in Nevada City that would help me and give me hope.

We arrived in the quiet hamlet in time to have supper before the show. We chose a handsome restaurant that was empty save for a single diner. On a small dais in the center of the room was a shiny black grand piano. The owner of the restaurant greeted us gallantly, and to our query, “Where is everybody?” replied, “You got me. We were expecting a big crowd for Capra, but…” He shrugged. “That’s show biz.”

Our table gave us a view of the piano and our elderly fellow diner, who we soon realized was Capra himself. Waiting for no one, eating slowly, sipping his red wine, the old man seemed to lack only one thing to complete the perfection of his moment: someone to play a sweet and melancholy tune on that fabulous piano. And I was just the person to do it if only the owner would allow me the honor.

I made the request and it was granted. Frank was done with his supper by then and having coffee. I sat down at the piano and looked his way. He smiled and nodded, directing me, as it were, to play. We were still the only people there, the room awaiting my tune.

I played a waltz, a few minutes long, something I’d recently composed, a form upon which I improvised, hoping to capture the feeling of what was to me a sacred moment.

When I finished, Frank applauded.

I blushed. “Another?”

Frank nodded. “Can you play that one again?”

“Not exactly, but close.”

He winked. “Perfect.”

So I played the tune again, longer this time, and slower at the end. Frank smiled and tapped his coffee cup with his fork. I approached him and told him we’d come to watch his movie and hear him speak.

He said, “Thank you. I love your music.”

His anointment of my waltz would have been more than enough to fulfill my wish that he say something to help me and give me hope. But the best was yet to come.

Capra’s genius was comprehensive. His best films are not only beautifully written and acted, they are gorgeous to behold. It’s A Wonderful Life was made when the art of black and white cinematography was at its apex, and we may never again see such artistry now that digital technology has replaced film and the secrets of the black and white masters are largely lost to time.

We marveled and wept at Capra’s masterwork, and then a nervous moderator gave Capra a succinct introduction, and the old man took the stage. He thanked the crowd for coming and took questions—questions that made me despair for humanity.

The worst of the many terrible queries was, “Do you think you’re a better director than Steven Speilberg?”

“Different,” said Capra, pointing to another raised hand.

And then came the one meaningful question of the evening. “Your humor seems so different than the humor today. Why is that?”

“Humor today,” said Capra, “for the most part, is pretty mean-spirited. We used to call it put down humor, and we consciously avoided that. With Wonderful Life, you’re laughing with the characters because you identify with them, which is very different than laughing at someone.”

The inane questions resumed, and finally Capra couldn’t take it anymore. He waved his hands and said, “Look, if you want to make good movies, and God knows we need them, you have to have a good story. That’s the first thing. That’s the foundation. And what makes a good story? Believable, compelling characters in crisis. That’s true of comedy or drama. And the highest form in my opinion is the dramatic comedy, which has become something of a lost art in America. Then you need to translate that story into a great script. And I’m sorry to tell you, but only great writers can write great scripts. So start practicing now. And when you think you have that story and that script, then get somebody who knows how to shoot and edit film and make your movie. And when you finish, make another one. And if you have talent, and you persist despite everybody telling you to quit, you might make a good movie some day. Thank you very much.”

Which brings us back to The Band’s Visit. Capra would have loved these characters and their crises, and though he never in a million years would have made such a movie, his influence is unmistakable.

 

 

 

Dear Friend,

This is my first blog entry, which I think of as a letter to you, for though we may not know each other, I am grateful for your interest in what I may have to say.

I am fifty-eight. I came of age as a writer before the advent of computers. To this day, I compose by longhand the drafts of everything I write, including this blog entry. I am convinced that writing by hand is a beneficial practice for any writer. I am further convinced that the decline in the quality of our literature is directly attributable to the loss of the depths of expression that writing by hand may produce, but that typing on a computer keyboard rarely can. Why would this be?

My hypothesis is that typing on a keyboard while staring at a computer screen is a left-brained activity, mechanistic and analytical. If this is true, we might as well try to grow vegetables in cement as write creatively on a computer.

This hypothesis of mine tends to anger writers who compose their novels and stories and poems exclusively on their computers, and I certainly don’t wish to anger anyone, but to encourage writers to make writing by hand a part of their practice.

I have coached hundreds of writers, both amateurs and professionals, and when these writers agree to create their first drafts longhand for me, they all experience immediate improvements in the quality and clarity of their writing. But what is far more profound—and is experienced almost universally by those who have heretofore only composed on a keyboard—is the fantastic experience of writing down what flows from the unconscious, rather than writing down conscious thoughts based on what they think they should write.

“But writing by hand is too slow.”

“Too slow for what?”

“I might lose a thought if I don’t get all my thoughts down quickly.”

“I doubt you will lose any thought of value by writing longhand. What’s more, I know you’ll find that writing longhand will open up a veritable treasure trove of thoughts and feelings and images. Relax and take your time, and you will only gain by the process.”

These notions may seem antithetical to the ethos of the computer, but I beg to differ. I love my computer as a helpful adjunct to much of my creative life. I simply don’t make the computer the starting point, the final arbiter of style, or the center of my practice, but rather create my initial drafts and drawings and songs on a table void of electronica.

I append here a recently published article you may find entertaining, and two recent drawings.

Best to you,

Todd

 

Jewish Jokes

By Todd Walton

A press release for my new book was loosed upon the nation. A response came from a Jewish publication. “Is the author Jewish? If so, we would like a review copy.”

“Funny you should mention it,” is what popped into my head when I heard this question about my ethnicity.

Jewish jokes are funnier told than written because Jewish accents are often funnier than the jokes. Indeed, for non-Jews, Jewish jokes (as opposed to anti-Jewish jokes) aren’t particularly funny because they reference behavior most non-Jews know nothing about.

For instance: A teacher asks her second graders to tell about their summers. A boy stands and says, “I’m Mike Jones. I went scuba diving and found a bird’s nest.” A girl stands and says, “I’m Fiona Parker. We went to Yosemite and I saw a bear.” Another boy stands and says, “My name is Jaime Goldberg. I pledge ten dollars.”

When my mother’s mother told this joke, she began to laugh midway through, yet never disrupted the narrative flow. No easy feat.

So…over drinks two Jewish guys reveal they gave their sons the same graduation present—a trip to Israel to find their Jewish roots. Lo and behold, while traveling in Israel, both sons became Christians. Outraged, the guys rush to the synagogue and demand an explanation from God. Thunder rumbles and God’s voice intones, “Funny you should mention it.”

My grandmother Goody was born in the Detroit ghetto, the Jewish one, in 1900. Her father, a cantor, earned a pittance preparing boys for bar mitzvah. Her mother kept a grocery store and was the family breadwinner. Goody was formally known as Gertrude, an anglicized Golda.

My Jewish grandfather was known by his nickname Casey, and more formally Myron. Whenever I pressed him to tell me his Jewish name, he would rattle off Yiddish that sent Goody into gales of laughter.

Until I was twelve, I didn’t know Goody and Casey were Jewish. I thought my mother was a Winton who married a Walton, only to find out that Goody and Casey changed their name from Weinstein to Winton during the Depression so, as Casey put it, “Someone would give me work so we could eat.”

Twice in her childhood in Los Angeles, my mother was stoned by other children when they discovered she was Jewish. Thereafter, she hid all traces of her Jewishness, married a non-Jew, and became overtly anti-Semitic, an ironic disguise, since my father’s parents disowned him for marrying a Jew.

So…I’m twelve years old at a party at Goody and Casey’s. Goody deposits me beside a Jewish matron and says, “My grandson Todd,” and hurries away.

The matron pinches my cheek. “What a good looking Jewish boy.”

“Only I’m not Jewish. I’m Unitarian.”

“You’re Avis’s boy. You’re Jewish.”

I shake my head. “Not Jewish.”

To which she replies, “They would have burned you.”

Baffled, I ask my father for an explanation. “In Hitler’s Germany, and according to Jewish law, anyone with a Jewish mother was Jewish. So you would have been a Jew in Nazi Germany, sent to a concentration camp, and probably killed.”

“Mom is Jewish?” I ask, stunned.

“No,” says my father. “She is of Jewish origin. There’s a difference.”

For the next twenty-eight years, when asked if I was Jewish (and I was often asked) I replied, “I am of Jewish origin on my mother’s side.”

So…there’s this priest in the booth, a slow day in the confession business, when in comes an old guy who kneels at the little window and says, “Bless me father for I have sinned. I’m eighty years old. I’ve been married for sixty years and never once cheated on my wife. Yesterday I met a gorgeous woman. We went to her apartment and had fantastic sex all day long.”

The priest considers this sin and asks, “How long since your last confession?”

“Oh, I’ve never confessed.”

“You’re a Catholic and you’ve never confessed?”

“I’m not Catholic. I’m Jewish.”

“You’re Jewish? Why are you telling me?”

“Telling you? I’m telling everybody.”

But seriously, folks, when I was forty, my life in ruins, I entered therapy. Four months into the process, I’m face down on the floor of the consulting room, shaking uncontrollably. I have no conscious understanding of why I’m so terrified, but I’m absolutely scared to death. My therapist touches the center of my back and says, “Right there. What’s that?”

And I shout, “I’m Jewish!”

And I know with every fiber of my being that storm troopers are going to kick down the door and drag me to my death. I don’t imagine this. I don’t think it. I know they will kill me because I violated the great taboo and revealed that I am Jewish. This taboo was implanted in me in my mother’s womb and amplified every day of my childhood, though it was unknown to my conscious mind.

To further conceal this terrible truth, I was commanded (through emotional osmosis) to never stand out and never succeed in a big way, lest my origins be discovered and death would quickly follow. This was the programming of my psyche—hardwired.

“Is the author Jewish. If so, we would like a review copy.”

Now for a mohel (pronounced moil) joke.

A mohel performs the circumcisions that Jewish boys undergo eight days after birth. Imagine my tiny grandmother laughing until she cries as she tells this joke.

So…in the front window of the mohel’s shop is a grandfather clock. A guy from out of town sees the grandfather clock, enters the shop, and says, “I vant you should fix my vatch.”

“I don’t fix vatches,” says the mohel. “I’m a mohel.”

“You’re a mohel? So vuts vid the clock in the front vindow?”

The mohel shrugs. “If you vas a mohel, vut would you have in the front vindow?”