Where but in America could a rabbi's son remake himself into Harry Houdini?
During these last decades the interest in professional fasting has markedly diminished. . . . We live in a different world now.
—Franz Kafka, “A Hunger Artist”
A photograph of Harry Houdini in middle age. Handsome Houdini: the dignified nose, the shapely lips. His forehead is bold, his hair thinning, white at the temples, wizard-winged over the ears. Sternly he frowns at you, arms crossed, sleeves pushed back. Houdini rolled up his sleeves when he got down to work, to show he was hiding nothing there; but he’s not working now. He stands before bookshelves in frock coat and clerical collar, a watch on his vest, a pin in his lapel—emblem of one of his many fraternal organizations. He was a great civic booster, in the American way.
What kind of picture is this? Not Houdini the showman, the publicity-hound; it’s too intimate for that. This could be a self-portrait: citizen Houdini, preacher, professor, judge. Except for the hands: tough skin, prehensile thumbs, the wrists linked by a charm-bracelet padlock on a single chain.
Houdini was a founding member of the Rabbis’ Sons Theatrical Benevolent Association—singers, composers, comedians, movie moguls, from rabbinical families going back many generations. In America it took only one; the New World was not for the unworldly, and these rabbis’ sons had little learning. Here the fathers became the children and the children the fathers, the breadwinners. This was what Reb Yidel Pankower, the Hebrew teacher in Henry Roth’s classic Call It Sleep, lamented as the “sidewalk and gutter generation.” In later generations, parents might speak Yiddish as a private language, bittersweet. In immigrant families, the children possessed the sweet secret tongue—the language of the streets, but the words were magic: open Sesame. Here everyone was an upstart, starting from scratch. Jews did not have to be a people apart.
For some rabbis’ or cantors’ sons—the Gershwins, the Berlins, the Jolsons, the Zukors and Selznicks, the brothers Warner and Shubert—this released an explosion of energy. Houdini came before most of them—his family spoke German, not Yiddish—and he exhibited the energy in a literal, physical form. He could do what magicians do: pluck coins from thin air and rabbits from hats, swallow packets of sewing needles and spin them out neatly threaded. At a clap of his hands elephants disappeared; he walked through brick walls. A magic trick is a magic trick; an escape is a success story. Houdini made the Escape uniquely his own.
Any version of the story will likely commit errors of fact; so much is fable. That’s the way he wanted it. Houdini was his own biographer. Take the one about him as a messenger boy, coming home late one winter night. It’s Christmas eve, he’s covered with snow, the cupboard is bare. “Shake me,” he tells his mother. “Shake me, I’m magic.” He gives a shimmy, and coins—tips he’s collected all the long day—come clattering down from his cap and jacket, and roll, glittering, over the floor. Is it true? Did it happen, this first and best of all magic tricks? Trust the tale: Houdini made it come true.
During his lifetime, few knew the name he was born with—Erik Weisz/Erich Weiss—let alone where or when. For the record, it was Budapest, 1874. He was four when he came to America—his first escape. His father, a Reform rabbi, led a small new congregation in, of all places, Appleton, Wisconsin. The name is an idyll. Years later, Houdini would dream of seeing his parents as he’d seen them then, sitting and drinking coffee under a tree.
But Rabbi Weiss was not reformed enough for the Jews of leafy little Appleton. The family moved to Milwaukee, where they fared no better; the eldest son, a half-brother, died of TB. At eight, Houdini was peddling papers and shining shoes; at twelve, he hopped a freight car and lit out for Texas, hoping to send money home. He dropped his mother a postcard to let her know. For the rabbi’s son, not yet of bar-mitzvah age, this rite of passage was a private enterprise.
Things didn’t pan out, and the following year found him with his father in New York; the rabbi, as usual, was looking for work. If only the father could have had some of the son’s luck, but that’s how it was. The new exodus, the great wave from Eastern Europe, was well under way; the lifted lamp, the Golden Door. Hebrew teachers were a dime a dozen, and fewer and fewer rabbis seemed needed for more and more Jews. They’d landed in the New World at last, and Appleton was only a dream.
Between the two of them they managed to scrape up funds to send for the rest. It was 1888, the year of the Great Blizzard, snowdrifts taller than telegraph poles; by now there were six children, and things went from bad to worse. Houdini would never talk much about those hard times, “too painful to recall,” but this was when he began doing card tricks and sleight of hand, passing the hat for “throw” money.
Though his two older brothers must have contributed to the family larder, it was clear from the start which son was the one full of beans. He was eighteen when his father died—miserably, of tongue cancer—and soon afterward he left his job as a necktie-cutter and set out to make his name in magic, the name that would stand for the thing.
There is something you need to know about Houdini’s escapes: no one actually saw him do them. At least, not at first. These were deeds done in the dark. A committee from the audience might be summoned onstage to search him from head to toe—his wiry hair, the soles of his feet; poking in his ears, prying under his tongue. Not for nothing had Houdini learned to swallow needles. They inspected the props—handcuffs, legirons, padlocks, chains—and when they’d made sure all was kosher, Houdini would retire to a cabinet, his “ghost house”; a curtain was drawn around it, and the audience would wait. And wait. They sweated it out in their seats. Time passed, watches ticked away, and the band played on.
Audiences are so polite. They assume that a trick doesn’t begin until the preparations are through. But the preparation—the stage business—is the trick. By the time the boxes were locked, the cabinets closed, the curtains drawn, it was all over. Houdini could emerge at his leisure, shackles intact, his methods a mystery, leaving no clue.
Was this entertainment, or an ordeal? How to explain such emotion—cheers, standing ovations, tears of joy and relief, Houdini swept from the stage and borne through the streets? People aren’t dumb. Some must have suspected that inside his cabinet, behind his curtain, Houdini was getting a little assistance: tricks, gimmicks, lock-picks, keys. Feats even more difficult, performed in plain sight, would not catch on until a later phase of his career—and of his relation with his public. But Houdini was already standing magic on its head: for speed, struggle; for ease, anxiety; for mastery, risk and the possibility of failure. In the intimacy of the vaudeville stage, his audiences became his accomplices. He was doing things the hard way, and they were on his side.
And he had done things the hard way. The 1890’s were hard times—strikes, riots, deep economic depression; no time for a young green apprentice to break into show business. Teamed up with friends, then his brother, and at last his wife, Bess, Houdini took what he could get. Beer gardens, dime museums, traveling circuses, medicine shows, carnival midways; performing a dozen times a day—magic tricks, mind-reading acts, song and dance, Punch and Judy skits, comedy routines; sharing billing with fan dancers, sword swallowers, snake-oil salesmen, giants, midgets, tattooed men, bearded ladies. In a pinch he peddled miracle cures, tooted horns in parades, and carried on as the Wild Man in a Cage.
Shows folded, troupes disbanded, managers absconded with funds, when funds there were. The Houdinis found themselves stranded in the small towns of America. They must both have looked like runaways, Houdini with peach-fuzz cheeks and elevator shoes, Bess shy-eyed and bow-lipped and too small to find costumes that fit. “What the hell d’ya think I’m running here,” a manager bawled—“a kindergarten?” When things got bad, Houdini sold his magic tricks, a practice he would continue in his days of fame and fortune; and when they got worse, he vowed to call it quits.
But the truth is, he’d found a home with this wandering tribe. He liked to say he’d made his debut in the circus, at the age of nine, in a school chum’s backyard in Milwaukee, swinging by his heels from a trapeze. Erie, he called himself, Prince of the Air. He was, he ever would be, the daring young man on the flying trapeze.
Bess told of an incident soon after their marriage. He was twenty, she was sixteen—or eighteen. She was a schoolgirl sheltered by a strict Catholic mother—or herself half of a singing duo. They met at a birthday party where she was a chaperoned guest and Houdini the paid entertainment—or on Coney Island, where both were playing, introduced by his brother, stage name Hardeen. It depends on whom you ask. She’d known him for two weeks. Late one night, after the show, Houdini invites his bride and his brother out for a stroll; they halt in the middle of a bridge. Swift dark water, church bells tolling the hour, clouds obscuring the moon. The stage is set. At the last stroke of midnight he raises their two hands in his. They must swear to be true to him; never to betray him; to pledge their loyalty to him unto death and carry his secrets with them to the grave.
Suspense. Sensation. Sentiment. The three S’s of melodrama, and the story of his life.
A break came with a substitution trick. One partner is tied in a sack and locked in a box; the other steps behind a screen. The next thing you know, lo and behold! the one in the box steps out from the screen and the other is discovered locked in the box. The Houdinis had it down to three seconds. The old switch got a fanciful new name, “Metamorphosis.” This may have suggested the idea of combining locks and boxes.
Houdini would say he could recall the works of every lock he ever picked, and that was probably no boast; he understood the yin/yang of locks and keys. He found in them a calling: studying, tinkering, acquiring whatever devices he could get his hands on. His competitiveness made him a cutthroat collector, and his accumulation of books, artifacts, memorabilia—on magic, theater, crime, and the occult—threatened finally to turn the Houdinis out of house and home. And home, by then, was a four-story mansion.
Magicians had done handcuff releases before; no one had tried to make them the main event. Houdini tried, and did not at first succeed. He was doing too many, too fast; he made it look easy—like magic. Escape wasn’t yet an act; Houdini wasn’t yet Houdini.
Meanwhile he courted police stations wherever he played, offering to test their wares. It was good publicity, and free. Stripped, searched, handcuffed, padlocked, chained to iron bars—often in “a nude condition”—as the stage bills read, NOTHING CAN HOLD HOUDINI. In time, notices for the lock-picker/safe-cracker/jail-breaker would include publicity puffs from official guardians of law and order around the country and across the sea: the Tombs, Scotland Yard, the famous prison-fortresses of Europe, cells of notorious criminals and notable assassins. Once, after freeing himself, and having a little time on his hands, he raced through a jail—this was Murderer’s Row—picking locks with the greatest of ease. So startled were the prisoners at this sudden apparition, a naked man turning them out of their cells, that they let him switch them around and lock them back up. It was “Metamorphosis” again.
THE CHALLENGE ACT
BRING YOUR OWN HANDCUFFS
The essence of showmanship is upping the ante. Houdini was offering a reward—fifty bucks, no small potatoes in those days—to anyone who could produce a lock that would stump him. This too wasn’t exactly new, but when Houdini said challenge, he meant challenge: contest, conquest, was his life’s blood. He was discovering himself, the Houdini in him—the dare, double-dare, and double-double-dare.
Publicity shots of the time show a compact, muscle-bound young man, in little more than a loincloth, strung like a Christmas tree with the hardware of his trade. Chains hang from his neck, wind around his arms, twist through his legs, anchored here and there by heavy-duty padlocks and iron weights, the more the merrier. Hands manacled in front of him, he crouches like a diver, ready to spring. (The shackles were mostly ornaments, and the crouching diving stance afforded enough slack to start his escape.)
For all the decorations, Houdini’s trademark was his hair. Kinky Jewish hair, erupting from his head sidewise, off-center, in two uneven humps, almost horns. Cartoonists loved it: the sign of the sorcerer, his electric-charged energies. Not all of his escapes would be Challenge Acts, but from now on they would always be challenges.
At the turn of the century, the Houdinis embarked for England and the Old World, without bookings, without blessings. As an “escapologist” and a one-man show, he’d worked his way up from the bottom of the bill to a headliner on the vaudeville circuit, making as much as $400 a week. But this was not his idea of success—success beyond his wildest dreams. The wind was in his sails. He was twenty-six years old, and half his life was over.
It didn’t take long before Houdini was packing them in, a blockbuster, sold-out houses, engagements extended wherever he played: England, the continent, the crowned heads and capitals of Europe. Managers fought over him. In Germany the Polizei stood by, watching a publicity stunt in a park, then arrested him for walking on the grass. How could he not succeed? These were places where they took their locks and boxes seriously. The tour would last five years.
Houdini impersonators popped up. Haudyni, Nordini, Mourdini—even a Miss Undina, with veils, and a modest Miss Lincoln in knickers, middy blouse, and sober black stockings, wary of adding cheesecake to chains. Leave it to Houdini to pluck his own rival out of his hat. He cabled his brother, the magician Hardeen: “Come over, the apples are ripe.” Here was the Houdini imitator to end all Houdini imitators; not only was he equipped with Houdini’s set-ups, and in on Houdini’s secrets, he was Houdini’s own flesh and blood. All his rivals were second-hand. His feats might be duplicated, might even be surpassed; they could never be equaled. Only Houdini could be a Houdini.
He was the New World’s new man: the little guy, the challenger, an American jack-in-the-box wild and woolly as his hair. There was a strange symmetry here: an immigrant Jew exported to the Old World as the spirit of the new. Once again, he’d lit out for the territory.
It is worth noting that, until this tour, he had never run into anti-Semitism, not in America—though he would. He was unprepared for its pervasiveness in Europe, so casual, so virulent. And then there was Russia, in a class by itself. It was 1903, the year of the Kishinev pogrom, when, in the words of Hayyim Nahman Bialik’s great poem, “the slaughter came with the spring.” So this was the Old Country. Feted by royalty, showered with gifts, the rabbi’s son left Russia with a sense of escape even he had never felt, and he never went back there again.
Houdini had left home a minor music-hall entertainer; he returned a figure of fame—a Name, with the New World still to conquer. Until the Great War, this would be the pattern. He preferred touring abroad, where bookings were longer and the accommodations better; but he had to set foot on native ground or, he said, his work would suffer. It sounds hifalutin, but it was fact. He needed the competition. He was setting up a rivalry between his two worlds—a rivalry, ever escalating, with himself. Who else was there?
Houdini’s story was a melodrama in three acts, and the second was about to begin.
Packing crates, steamer trunks, bank vaults, beer barrels; steel boilers riveted shut; the carcass of a “sea monster” washed ashore (who thought that one up?); a gigantic football trotted up the aisle by husky linemen; a barred and metal-plated carette, a jail cell on wheels, transporting the luckless and the desperate to Siberia. A street rhyme summed it up: “The great handcuff king/Who wriggles to freedom/From any old thing.” Where the emphasis before had been on suspense, now it was sensation. Each return engagement had to knock ’em dead, with contraptions more elaborate and far-fetched. The apparatus for his celebrated Water Torture Cell required a freight car. The new note was in the new vocabulary:
HOUDINI’S DEATH-DEFYING MYSTERY
FAILURE MEANS A DROWNING DEATH
If upping the ante is the essence of showmanship, it’s also the imperative. Houdini was tiring of locks and boxes. Now he was performing on stage in full view, without cabinets and curtains, without picks and gimmicks. These were real restraints, real punishments, real tortures—some of them devised for real people. With a magic trick you know you’re being fooled, you just can’t see how it’s done. Now audiences saw how it was done—at length, and in excruciating detail.
The theater itself was too confining, just another box. He wanted more room, greater challenges, bigger crowds. Crowds especially. In publicity stunts, all the world was his stage prop. The Upside Down Straitjacket Escape: Houdini, arms strapped across his chest, dangling head first from the roofs of tall buildings. The Manacled Bridge Jump: Houdini handcuffed and chained, like the Dying Slave, hurtling himself into murky waters. His expanded bare chest, stubborn stocky bowlegs (both helped with the slack), goofy untamed hair: Houdini returning to his circus roots—acrobat, contortionist, high-wire act, and, it must be said, something of the sideshow freak. There are no escape clauses in escape acts; now the risk was the act.
And they came; by the thousands, the tens of thousands. Bridges and riverbanks stampeded with spectators; traffic marooned in streets paved with hats. They weren’t the raucous roaring crowds of the circus, or fans rooting for their champion on the vaudeville stage. They were mobs, there to see Houdini dead or alive—and either way it was a winning situation.
Houdini’s career by this point recalls Kafka’s tale, “A Hunger Artist.” The Hunger Artist lives in a zoo. Fasting is his art. Once upon a time he was a star attraction, touring the world with his act. In town after town everyone turned out to marvel at his feats and cheer him on. His contract limited the length of his fasts, and a chalkboard tracked the days. As the end approached, they came from near and far to keep silent vigil at his cage. (Sound absurd? How about sitting and staring at a curtain for however long it took? Audiences in the Midwest were said to be the most patient.)
But crowds are fickle; overnight they lose interest. What did they care about fasting? the Hunger Artist asks. Now, ignored by crowds and keepers alike, he can fast to his heart’s content. Because he has to fast, because he can’t help it; he had never found the food he liked. At last the Hunger Artist achieves perfection: he dies. Even as he’s swept up, straw and all, a new star is taking his place: a young panther whose “noble body seemed to carry freedom around with it, too.”
Of all of Kafka’s Jewish parables, “A Hunger Artist” might be the most Kafkaesque, expressing the longing for health, simple pleasures, and a normal life. Not the panther is the rival here, but the crowds. Everyone knows feeding time is the biggest sensation at the zoo. This could also be a fable of failing celebrity.
The war cut Houdini off from half his public and his revenues; in Germany alone he had been booked five years in advance. He was still one of the most famous men in the world, the highest paid performer in vaudeville, a household word. His name appeared in advertising endorsements, popular sheet music, children’s ditties, and, eventually, the dictionary: “Houdinize: To release or extricate oneself (from confinement, bonds, or the like).”
Turned down by the draft—he was in his forties—Houdini went all out for the war effort, organizing another charitable brotherhood, becoming a top fund-raiser at Liberty Bond rallies, entertaining the troops with patriotic extravaganzas featuring live eagles flapping out of hats, five-dollar gold pieces flung to the doughboys. All this on his own dime. It was inevitable that he should take a flier in Hollywood, venue of the rabbis’ sons and their wildest dreams. What were The Perils of Pauline but Houdinizing?
Immigrant Jews, who had seen the possibilities of mass production for mass markets in the garment industry, had been no less quick to see the future in mass entertainment. They were the masses. From serials to feature films, to his own production company, starring in his own scripts (he kept a sweatshop of writers busy with his ideas), to investing in the latest technology, to planning a chain of movie houses, soon Houdini was dreaming of empire.
What went wrong? He might have been the greatest mogul of them all, but there was only one role for him. Putting on weight, losing his hair, as poker-faced in the clinches as in feats of derring-do, he was no matinee idol. But that wasn’t the trouble. The movies, which suspended reality, made moot the suspension of disbelief. The medium was the magic. Not everyone could be a Valentino, but anyone could be a Houdini.
There remained one more act, another metamorphosis—the trick the rabbi’s son always had up his sleeve.
A MAGICIAN AMONG THE SPIRITS
Houdini was a street kid. His formal schooling probably stopped when he hopped that freight car. It took years to get rid of his sidewalk-and-gutter speech, and he may never have rid himself of a sense of contradiction as a not quite literate Jew. But few men have had his guts and his smarts and fewer still his acquaintance with the run of human types, from crooks and con men to kings and queens. He learned the most at the bottom.
The hustlers he’d known took advantage of human nature—greed. The spirit mediums were taking advantage of grief.
Tables tipping, chairs thumping, banjos and tambourines floating in air, gauzy ghosts, mediums drooling messy ectoplasm (known in the trade as “geek effects”) and chatting up the dead—the spirits were nothing if not practical jokers. No one could fall for such slapstick and fakery and things that go bump in the night. No one but the bereaved, longing to hear again from their loved ones, to be told they weren’t lost and gone for good, only waiting on the Other Side. The war had decimated a generation of the young; a worldwide flu epidemic, following hard after, killed many times more. The apples were ripe. Never was there an audience more willing to suspend disbelief.
Houdini had been a medium and mind-reader himself, quitting when he realized that people actually believed he could do what the spirit mediums said they did. He knew their tricks—they were his own; it was all a lot of Houdinizing. He was king of handcuffs, master of manacles, monarch of leg shackles, the greatest escape artist of all time; Houdinizing was his game. And as for supernatural powers, though there were those who swore he had them, Houdini was not one to settle for second billing.
Testifying at legislative hearings, lecturing at universities, investigating on scientific panels (“It takes a flim-flammer to catch a flim-flammer”), exposing spirit techniques in his own stage routines—no one ever said Houdini wasn’t competitive. The Lord had delivered them into his hands. But there was more to it than that. More than a mockery of magic, the spirit act was a mockery of mourning, a mockery of the dead. And grief was sacrosanct to Houdini.
When his mother was alive, he would lay his ear to her comfortable bosom and listen to her heart; when she died, he visited Machpelah Cemetery, New York’s necropolis, every chance he got and knelt to lay his ear to her grave. Granted, sentimentality is a form of exhibitionism, and there was a staginess in all his relations, as if they were publicity stunts. And he was always attracted to places of confinement. In his mind-reading days he had done his legwork checking out inscriptions on local tombstones; in his travels he made a point of visiting the final resting places of once-famous magicians and—usually with a photographer handy—planting wreaths on graves. Solemn-faced, he posed against these maudlin backdrops, all in black, his hat over his heart.
But this is when it all came out. For taking on the spirit mediums, Houdini was called a Red, an agent of the Pope, a kike, a sheeny, “a low-minded Jew,” and received many threats. America was in a fervor of nativism. The golden door was shut. There were quotas on immigrants, quotas on rabbis’ sons. The spirits will get after you.
Maybe you know the end of the story. It was the fall of 1926 and the tour was off to a bad start. In Providence, Bess came down with ptomaine poisoning; in Albany, Houdini fractured an ankle being lowered into the Water Torture Cell. Resting backstage in Montreal, he received a couple of students from McGill, where he’d lectured on superstition. Enter another student, nervously talkative. Was it true that Houdini’s cast-iron belly could withstand any blow? Would he mind giving a demonstration? Houdini had never made any such claim, but neither did he ignore a challenge. As he began to rise, the young man—much younger, and much bigger—came out swinging, blows so deliberate, so vengeful, the other two barely managed to drag him away.
Houdini gave his performance in pain and passed a terrible night on the train to Detroit. The doctor summoned by Bess insisted that he be hospitalized. But the house was sold out, a crowd would be waiting, and crowds were fickle. The show must go on. Questions about his death may never be laid to rest, but this much is known: Houdini gave his last act in a high fever, with a broken ankle and a burst appendix.
“Houdini’s secret,” Bess would say, “was Houdini.”
What was the food Houdini craved?
Ascetic Houdini, who neither smoked nor drank, who slept no more than four or five hours a night, was always in training, testing his body, torturing it, he said. Swallowing and regurgitating billiard balls to strengthen his throat muscles; submerged in coffins underwater to study slowing his heartbeat and holding his breath; immersed in bathtubs of ice to inure himself to cold. It takes a lot of practice to make a little magic. Prince of the Air, Wild Man in a Cage, Daredevil Houdini, whose noble body carried its freedom around with it: he could be the Hunger Artist and the panther both.
The escape act is also a disappearing act. How did he get away with it? This suggests what, now, can no more than be suggested: the force of his personality.
Many photos, a few film clips, a rare recording of his voice—but where’s the magic without the magician? We live in a different world now. There have been some interesting books about Houdini; it would be hard to write a dull one. The earlier tend to hagiography, those more recent to psychological speculation about the Dark Side of Houdini. What was he escaping from? His dream of seeing his parents under the tree becomes Houdini witnessing the primal scene, and the escape is Houdini acting out his fear of death. True, the wags on the vaudeville circuit long before were touting his act as “The Death and Resurrection Show.” But that was an in-joke, the shoptalk of show biz. The larger truth is that Houdini took the escape act as far as he could go without becoming the Hunger Artist.
Besides, who needs unconscious motivations? Houdini was all up front. He was an expression—a phenomenon—of his times, the extreme that raises the particular to the level of the general. The very peculiarity of his act tells us that. And he was an American phenomenon. How would he have fared as a German Self-Liberator? Or a Russian? On his Russian tour, an officer in full regalia stomped onstage and stopped the show. The audience sat in stony silence, the manager made himself scarce. The officer was a blueblood—and who was this little Jew? The magician knew the spell to make this joker disappear. “I’m a millionaire,” he said. America was the challenge act—and the magic charm.
As between failure and death, the operative word for Houdini had to be failure. Failure was poverty, failure was hunger, failure was humiliation. The rabbis’ sons knew it well: failure in America was real failure. He presented, as Jews often do, a test case: the mandate of the melting pot. His life was a spectacularly successful solution to the immigrant dilemma, the tragedy of the fathers, the liberty of the sons.
And that dream, that tree? Who can fail to sense the longing for the days of his dead parents’ happiness; for the only piece of childhood he ever had; for the cost, the loss, the garden of Appleton? Not as a collector, but as a son, fulfilling a pledge, Houdini tried to buy back the sacred books his father had sold off in those bitter last years. And wherever he found himself on the anniversary of his father’s death, in whatever farflung place, he sought out a synagogue where, wrapped in a prayer shawl, he could recite the mourner’s kaddish. Metamorphosis comes at a price.
He died on Halloween. He had promised—circumstances permitting—to return, or send some message from the Other Side. And if Houdini couldn’t do it, who could? For ten years Bess kept the vigil, seated in a circle, holdings hands tightly grasping hers—like a medium in one of those séances Houdini had so zealously denounced. But there would be no return engagement; there would be no more magic.
And yet in one of his last photographs something of the sort seems to have happened. There is aging Houdini, in greasepaint, eyebrows stenciled, lips rouged, his arms bared above the elbow, his bald forehead gleaming. He stands inside a hoop slung across his shoulder, its paper cover a shattered sunburst. His hand extends in a practiced flourish. The spangle of the Big Top. Someone, something, has just jumped through. But who? Where? No one’s there. Only Houdini, the ringmaster, presenting Houdini.
Epilogue: “I was there to pick up his props.” In her juggling act as Houdini’s wife and widow, Bess is the unsung heroine of this story. She died in a railway compartment, just as, along with ships’ cabins and hotel rooms, she had spent so much of her life with Houdini. She was buried in a Catholic cemetery, taking no chances with the next world. Her gravesite alongside his remains empty. In 1973, the bust of Houdini on the monument over the Weiss family plot at Machpelah was smashed by vandals. It was restored by the Society of American Magicians, of which he’d been so staunch and contentious a member. In 1995, part of his irreplaceable collection was lost in a fire at the Houdini Museum in Appleton. Police determined that the cause was arson and investigated the case, still unsolved, as a hate crime.
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The Escape Artist
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Justice both delayed and denied.
According to Senate Judiciary Committee Democrat Chris Coons, Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, the woman who has accused Judge Brett Kavanaugh of sexually assaulting her when she was a minor, did not want to come forward. In an eerie echo of Anita Hill’s public ordeal, her accusations were “leaked to the media.” With her confidentiality violated, Ford had no choice but to go public. Coons could not say where that leak came from, but he did confess that “people on committee staff” had access to the letter in which Ford made her allegations. Draw your own conclusions.
Though many observers insist that what we have witnessed since Ford’s allegations were made public is about justice, it’s hard to see any rectitude in this process. Ford has been transformed into a public figure apparently against her wishes. The details of the attack that Ford alleges are deeply disturbing, but they are not prosecutable. Ford’s recollection of the events 36 years ago is understandably hazy, but what she alleges to have occurred is too vague to establish with much accuracy. She cannot recall the precise date or location in which she was supposedly attacked. Contrary to the protestations of Senate Democrats like Kamala Harris, the FBI cannot get involved in a matter that is not within the federal government’s jurisdiction. And even if local authorities were inclined to involve themselves, the statute of limitations long ago elapsed.
With precious few facts available to congressional investigators and without the sobriety that public scrutiny in the age of social media abhors, the spectacle to which the nation is about to be privy is undoubtedly going to make things worse. A public hearing featuring both Ford and Kavanaugh will be a performative and political display, if it happens at all. It will be adorned with the trappings of courtroom proceedings but with none of the associated protections afforded accused and accuser alike. It will further polarize the nation such that, whether Kavanaugh is confirmed or not, public confidence in Congress and the Supreme Court will be severely damaged. And no matter what is said in that hearing, it is unlikely to change many minds.
Given the dearth of hard evidence, it is understandable that observers have begun to look to their own experiences to evaluate the veracity of Ford’s allegations. The Atlantic contributor Caitlin Flanagan is the author of a powerful and compelling example of this kind of work. Her essay, entitled “I Believe Her,” is important for a variety of reasons. Maybe foremost among them is how she all but invalidates defenses of Kavanaugh that are based on the positive character references he’s assembled from former female acquaintances and ex-girlfriends. Flanagan was assaulted as a young woman, and her abuser—a man she says drove her to a suicidal depression similar to what Ford has described to her therapist—was not interested in a romantic relationship. CNN political commenter Symone Sanders, too, confessed that “there is no debate” in her mind as to Kavanaugh’s guilt, in part, because she was the victim of a sexual assault in college. The similarities between what she endured and what Ford says occurred are too hard for her to ignore.
These are harrowing stories, but they also reveal how little any of this has to do with Brett Kavanaugh anymore. For some, this has become a proxy battle in the broader cultural reckoning that began with the #MeToo moment. Quite unlike the many abusive men who were outed by this movement, though, the evidentiary standard being applied to Kavanaugh’s case is remarkably low. His innocence has not been presumed, and a preponderance of evidence has not been marshaled against him. It is not even clear as of this writing that Kavanaugh will be allowed to confront his accuser. At a certain point, honest observers must concede that getting to the truth has not been a defining feature of this process.
In the face of this adversity, there are some Republicans who are willing to sacrifice Kavanaugh’s nomination. Some appear to think that Kavanaugh’s troubles present them with an opportunity to advance their own political prospects and to promote a replacement nominee with whom they feel a closer ideological affinity. Others simply don’t want to risk standing by a tainted nominee. The stakes associated with a lifetime appointment to the Supreme Court are too high to confirm a justice with an asterisk next to his name—a justice who may tarnish future rulings on sensitive cases by association. Those Republicans are either capitulatory or craven.
Based on what we know now, Kavanaugh does not deserve an asterisk. Maybe he will tomorrow, but he doesn’t today. Those who would allow what is by almost all accounts an exemplary legal career to be destroyed by unconfirmable accusations or outright innuendo will not get a better deal down the line. Some Republicans are agnostic about Kavanaugh’s fate and believe that his being stopped will make room for a more doctrinaire conservative like Amy Coney Barrett. But they will not get their ideologically simpatico justice if they allow the defiling of the process by which she could be confirmed.
The experiences that Dr. Ford described are appalling. Even for those who are inclined to believe her account and think that she is due some restitution, no true justice can be meted out that doesn’t infringe on the rights of the accused. Those in the commentary class who would use Kavanaugh as a stand-in for every abuser who got away, every preppy white boy who benefited from unearned privilege, every hypocritical conservative moralizer to exact some karmic vengeance are not interested in justice. They want a political victory, even at the expense of the integrity of the American ideal. If there is a fight worth having, it’s the fight against that.
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Terror is a choice.
Ari Fuld described himself on Twitter as a marketer and social media consultant “when not defending Israel by exposing the lies and strengthening the truth.” On Sunday, a Palestinian terrorist stabbed Fuld at a shopping mall in Gush Etzion, a settlement south of Jerusalem. The Queens-born father of four died from his wounds, but not before he chased down his assailant and neutralized the threat to other civilians. Fuld thus gave the full measure of devotion to the Jewish people he loved. He was 45.
The episode is a grim reminder of the wisdom and essential justice of the Trump administration’s tough stance on the Palestinians.
Start with the Taylor Force Act. The act, named for another U.S. citizen felled by Palestinian terror, stanched the flow of American taxpayer fund to the Palestinian Authority’s civilian programs. Though it is small consolation to Fuld’s family, Americans can breathe a sigh of relief that they are no longer underwriting the PA slush fund used to pay stipends to the family members of dead, imprisoned, or injured terrorists, like the one who murdered Ari Fuld.
No principle of justice or sound statesmanship requires Washington to spend $200 million—the amount of PA aid funding slashed by the Trump administration last month—on an agency that financially induces the Palestinian people to commit acts of terror. The PA’s terrorism-incentive budget—“pay-to-slay,” as Douglas Feith called it—ranges from $50 million to $350 million annually. Footing even a fraction of that bill is tantamount to the American government subsidizing terrorism against its citizens.
If we don’t pay the Palestinians, the main line of reasoning runs, frustration will lead them to commit still more and bloodier acts of terror. But U.S. assistance to the PA dates to the PA’s founding in the Oslo Accords, and Palestinian terrorists have shed American and Israeli blood through all the years since then. What does it say about Palestinian leaders that they would unleash more terror unless we cross their palms with silver?
President Trump likewise deserves praise for booting Palestinian diplomats from U.S. soil. This past weekend, the State Department revoked a visa for Husam Zomlot, the highest-ranking Palestinian official in Washington. The State Department cited the Palestinians’ years-long refusal to sit down for peace talks with Israel. The better reason for expelling them is that the label “envoy” sits uneasily next to the names of Palestinian officials, given the links between the Palestine Liberation Organization, President Mahmoud Abbas’s Fatah faction, and various armed terrorist groups.
Fatah, for example, praised the Fuld murder. As the Jerusalem Post reported, the “al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigades, the military wing of Fatah . . . welcomed the attack, stressing the necessity of resistance ‘against settlements, Judaization of the land, and occupation crimes.’” It is up to Palestinian leaders to decide whether they want to be terrorists or statesmen. Pretending that they can be both at once was the height of Western folly, as Ari Fuld no doubt recognized.
May his memory be a blessing.
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The end of the water's edge.
It was the blatant subversion of the president’s sole authority to conduct American foreign policy, and the political class received it with fury. It was called “mutinous,” and the conspirators were deemed “traitors” to the Republic. Those who thought “sedition” went too far were still incensed over the breach of protocol and the reckless way in which the president’s mandate was undermined. Yes, times have certainly changed since 2015, when a series of Republican senators signed a letter warning Iran’s theocratic government that the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (aka, the Iran nuclear deal) was built on a foundation of sand.
The outrage that was heaped upon Senate Republicans for freelancing on foreign policy in the final years of Barack Obama’s administration has not been visited upon former Secretary of State John Kerry, though he arguably deserves it. In the publicity tour for his recently published memoir, Kerry confessed to conducting meetings with Iranian Foreign Minister Javad Zarif “three or four times” as a private citizen. When asked by Fox News Channel’s Dana Perino if Kerry had advised his Iranian interlocutor to “wait out” the Trump administration to get a better set of terms from the president’s successor, Kerry did not deny the charge. “I think everybody in the world is sitting around talking about waiting out President Trump,” he said.
Think about that. This is a former secretary of state who all but confirmed that he is actively conducting what the Boston Globe described in May as “shadow diplomacy” designed to preserve not just the Iran deal but all the associated economic relief and security guarantees it provided Tehran. The abrogation of that deal has put new pressure on the Iranians to liberalize domestically, withdraw their support for terrorism, and abandon their provocative weapons development programs—pressures that the deal’s proponents once supported.
“We’ve got Iran on the ropes now,” said former Democratic Sen. Joe Lieberman, “and a meeting between John Kerry and the Iranian foreign minister really sends a message to them that somebody in America who’s important may be trying to revive them and let them wait and be stronger against what the administration is trying to do.” This is absolutely correct because the threat Iran poses to American national security and geopolitical stability is not limited to its nuclear program. The Iranian threat will not be neutralized until it abandons its support for terror and the repression of its people, and that will not end until the Iranian regime is no more.
While Kerry’s decision to hold a variety of meetings with a representative of a nation hostile to U.S. interests is surely careless and unhelpful, it is not uncommon. During his 1984 campaign for the presidency, Jesse Jackson visited the Soviet Union and Cuba to raise his own public profile and lend credence to Democratic claims that Ronald Reagan’s confrontational foreign policy was unproductive. House Speaker Jim Wright’s trip to Nicaragua to meet with the Sandinista government was a direct repudiation of the Reagan administration’s support for the country’s anti-Communist rebels. In 2007, as Bashar al-Assad’s government was providing material support for the insurgency in Iraq, House Speaker Nancy Pelosi sojourned to Damascus to shower the genocidal dictator in good publicity. “The road to Damascus is a road to peace,” Pelosi insisted. “Unfortunately,” replied George W. Bush’s national security council spokesman, “that road is lined with the victims of Hamas and Hezbollah, the victims of terrorists who cross from Syria into Iraq.”
Honest observers must reluctantly conclude that the adage is wrong. American politics does not, in fact, stop at the water’s edge. It never has, and maybe it shouldn’t. Though it may be commonplace, American political actors who contradict the president in the conduct of their own foreign policy should be judged on the policies they are advocating. In the case of Iran, those who seek to convince the mullahs and their representatives that repressive theocracy and a terroristic foreign policy are dead-ends are advancing the interests not just of the United States but all mankind. Those who provide this hopelessly backward autocracy with the hope that America’s resolve is fleeting are, as John Kerry might say, on “the wrong side of history.”
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Michael Wolff is its Marquis de Sade. Released on January 5, 2018, Wolff’s Fire and Fury became a template for authors eager to satiate the growing demand for unverified stories of Trump at his worst. Wolff filled his pages with tales of the president’s ignorant rants, his raging emotions, his television addiction, his fast-food diet, his unfamiliarity with and contempt for Beltway conventions and manners. Wolff made shocking insinuations about Trump’s mental state, not to mention his relationship with UN ambassador Nikki Haley. Wolff’s Trump is nothing more than a knave, dunce, and commedia dell’arte villain. The hero of his saga is, bizarrely, Steve Bannon, who in Wolff’s telling recognized Trump’s inadequacies, manipulated him to advance a nationalist-populist agenda, and tried to block his worst impulses.
Wolff’s sources are anonymous. That did not slow down the press from calling his accusations “mind-blowing” (Mashable.com), “wild” (Variety), and “bizarre” (Entertainment Weekly). Unlike most pornographers, he had a lesson in mind. He wanted to demonstrate Trump’s unfitness for office. “The story that I’ve told seems to present this presidency in such a way that it says that he can’t do this job, the emperor has no clothes,” Wolff told the BBC. “And suddenly everywhere people are going, ‘Oh, my God, it’s true—he has no clothes.’ That’s the background to the perception and the understanding that will finally end this, that will end this presidency.”
Nothing excites the Resistance more than the prospect of Trump leaving office before the end of his term. Hence the most stirring examples of Resistance Porn take the president’s all-too-real weaknesses and eccentricities and imbue them with apocalyptic significance. In what would become the standard response to accusations of Trumpian perfidy, reviewers of Fire and Fury were less interested in the truth of Wolff’s assertions than in the fact that his argument confirmed their preexisting biases.
Saying he agreed with President Trump that the book is “fiction,” the Guardian’s critic didn’t “doubt its overall veracity.” It was, he said, “what Mailer and Capote once called a nonfiction novel.” Writing in the Atlantic, Adam Kirsch asked: “No wonder, then, Wolff has written a self-conscious, untrustworthy, postmodern White House book. How else, he might argue, can you write about a group as self-conscious, untrustworthy, and postmodern as this crew?” Complaining in the New Yorker, Masha Gessen said Wolff broke no new ground: “Everybody” knew that the “president of the United States is a deranged liar who surrounded himself with sycophants. He is also functionally illiterate and intellectually unsound.” Remind me never to get on Gessen’s bad side.
What Fire and Fury lacked in journalistic ethics, it made up in receipts. By the third week of its release, Wolff’s book had sold more than 1.7 million copies. His talent for spinning second- and third-hand accounts of the president’s oddity and depravity into bestselling prose was unmistakable. Imitators were sure to follow, especially after Wolff alienated himself from the mainstream media by defending his innuendos about Haley.
It was during the first week of September that Resistance Porn became a competitive industry. On the afternoon of September 4, the first tidbits from Bob Woodward’s Fear appeared in the Washington Post, along with a recording of an 11-minute phone call between Trump and the white knight of Watergate. The opposition began panting soon after. Woodward, who like Wolff relies on anonymous sources, “paints a harrowing portrait” of the Trump White House, reported the Post.
No one looks good in Woodward’s telling other than former economics adviser Gary Cohn and—again bizarrely—the former White House staff secretary who was forced to resign after his two ex-wives accused him of domestic violence. The depiction of chaos, backstabbing, and mutual contempt between the president and high-level advisers who don’t much care for either his agenda or his personality was not so different from Wolff’s. What gave it added heft was Woodward’s status, his inviolable reputation.
“Nothing in Bob Woodward’s sober and grainy new book…is especially surprising,” wrote Dwight Garner at the New York Times. That was the point. The audience for Wolff and Woodward does not want to be surprised. Fear is not a book that will change minds. Nor is it intended to be. “Bob Woodward’s peek behind the Trump curtain is 100 percent as terrifying as we feared,” read a CNN headline. “President Trump is unfit for office. Bob Woodward’s ‘Fear’ confirms it,” read an op-ed headline in the Post. “There’s Always a New Low for the Trump White House,” said the Atlantic. “Amazingly,” wrote Susan Glasser in the New Yorker, “it is no longer big news when the occupant of the Oval Office is shown to be callous, ignorant, nasty, and untruthful.” How could it be, when the press has emphasized nothing but these aspects of Trump for the last three years?
The popular fixation with Trump the man, and with the turbulence, mania, frenzy, confusion, silliness, and unpredictability that have surrounded him for decades, serves two functions. It inoculates the press from having to engage in serious research into the causes of Trump’s success in business, entertainment, and politics, and into the crises of borders, opioids, stagnation, and conformity of opinion that occasioned his rise. Resistance Porn also endows Trump’s critics, both external and internal, with world-historical importance. No longer are they merely journalists, wonks, pundits, and activists sniping at a most unlikely president. They are politically correct versions of Charles Martel, the last line of defense preventing Trump the barbarian from enacting the policies on which he campaigned and was elected.
How closely their sensational claims and inflated self-conceptions track with reality is largely beside the point. When the New York Times published the op-ed “I am Part of the Resistance Inside the Trump Administration,” by an anonymous “senior official” on September 5, few readers bothered to care that the piece contained no original material. The author turned policy disagreements over trade and national security into a psychiatric diagnosis. In what can only be described as a journalistic innovation, the author dispensed with middlemen such as Wolff and Woodward, providing the Times the longest background quote in American history. That the author’s identity remains a secret only adds to its prurient appeal.
“The bigger concern,” the author wrote, “is not what Mr. Trump has done to the presidency but what we as a nation have allowed him to do to us.” Speak for yourself, bud. What President Trump has done to the Resistance is driven it batty. He’s made an untold number of people willing to entertain conspiracy theories, and to believe rumor is fact, hyperbole is truth, self-interested portrayals are incontrovertible evidence, credulity is virtue, and betrayal is fidelity—so long as all of this is done to stop that man in the White House.
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Review of 'Stanley Kubrick' By Nathan Abrams
Except for Stanley Donen, every director I have worked with has been prone to the idea, first propounded in the 1950s by François Truffaut and his tendentious chums in Cahiers du Cinéma, that directors alone are authors, screenwriters merely contingent. In singular cases—Orson Welles, Michelangelo Antonioni, Woody Allen, Kubrick himself—the claim can be valid, though all of them had recourse, regular or occasional, to helping hands to spice their confections.
Kubrick’s variety of topics, themes, and periods testifies both to his curiosity and to his determination to “make it new.” Because his grades were not high enough (except in physics), this son of a Bronx doctor could not get into colleges crammed with returning GIs. The nearest he came to higher education was when he slipped into accessible lectures at Columbia. He told me, when discussing the possibility of a movie about Julius Caesar, that the great classicist Moses Hadas made a particularly strong impression.
While others were studying for degrees, solitary Stanley was out shooting photographs (sometimes with a hidden camera) for Look magazine. As a movie director, he often insisted on take after take. This gave him choices of the kind available on the still photographer’s contact sheets. Only Peter Sellers and Jack Nicholson had the nerve, and irreplaceable talent, to tell him, ahead of shooting, that they could not do a particular scene more than two or three times. The energy to electrify “Mein Führer, I can walk” and “Here’s Johnny!” could not recur indefinitely. For everyone else, “Can you do it again?” was the exhausting demand, and it could come close to being sadistic.
The same method could be applied to writers. Kubrick might recognize what he wanted when it was served up to him, but he could never articulate, ahead of time, even roughly what it was. Picking and choosing was very much his style. Cogitation and opportunism went together: The story goes that he attached Strauss’s Blue Danube to the opening sequence of 2001 because it happened to be playing in the sound studio when he came to dub the music. Genius puts chance to work.
Until academics intruded lofty criteria into cinema/film, the better to dignify their speciality, Alfred Hitchcock’s attitude covered most cases: When Ingrid Bergman asked for her motivation in walking to the window, Hitch replied, fatly, “Your salary.” On another occasion, told that some scene was not plausible, Hitch said, “It’s only a movie.” He did not take himself seriously until the Cahiers du Cinéma crowd elected to make him iconic. At dinner, I once asked Marcello Mastroianni why he was so willing to play losers or clowns. Marcello said, “Beh, cinema non e gran’ cosa” (cinema is no big deal). Orson Welles called movie-making the ultimate model-train set.
That was then; now we have “film studies.” After they moved in, academics were determined that their subject be a very big deal indeed. Comedy became no laughing matter. In his monotonous new book, the film scholar Nathan Abrams would have it that Stanley Kubrick was, in essence, a “New York Jewish intellectual.” Abrams affects to unlock what Stanley was “really” dealing with, in all his movies, never mind their apparent diversity. It is declared to be, yes, Yiddishkeit, and in particular, the Holocaust. This ground has been tilled before by Geoffrey Cocks, when he argued that the room numbers in the empty Overlook Hotel in The Shining encrypted references to the Final Solution. Abrams would have it that even Barry Lyndon is really all about the outsider seeking, and failing, to make his awkward way in (Gentile) Society. On this reading, Ryan O’Neal is seen as Hannah Arendt’s pariah in 18th-century drag. The movie’s other characters are all engaged in the enjoyment of “goyim-naches,” an expression—like menschlichkayit—he repeats ad nauseam, lest we fail to get the stretched point.
Theory is all when it comes to the apotheosis of our Jew-ridden Übermensch. So what if, in order to make a topic his own, Kubrick found it useful to translate its logic into terms familiar to him from his New York youth? In Abrams’s scheme, other mundane biographical facts count for little. No mention is made of Stanley’s displeasure when his 14-year-old daughter took a fancy to O’Neal. The latter was punished, some sources say, by having Barry’s voiceover converted from first person so that Michael Hordern would displace the star as narrator. By lending dispassionate irony to the narrative, it proved a pettish fluke of genius.
While conning Abrams’s volume, I discovered, not greatly to my chagrin, that I am the sole villain of the piece. Abrams calls me “self-serving” and “unreliable” in my accounts of my working and personal relationship with Stanley. He insinuates that I had less to do with Eyes Wide Shut than I pretend and that Stanley regretted my involvement. It is hard for him to deny (but convenient to omit) that, after trying for some 30 years to get a succession of writers to “crack” how to do Schnitzler’s Traumnovelle, Kubrick greeted my first draft with “I’m absolutely thrilled.” A source whose anonymity I respect told me that he had never seen Stanley so happy since the day he received his first royalty check (for $5 million) for 2001. No matter.
Were Abrams (the author also of a book as hostile to Commentary as this one is to me) able to put aside his waxed wrath, he might have quoted what I reported in my memoir Eyes Wide Open to support his Jewish-intellectual thesis. One day, Stanley asked me what a couple of hospital doctors, walking away with their backs to the camera, would be talking about. We were never going to hear or care what it was, but Stanley—at that early stage of development—said he wanted to know everything. I said, “Women, golf, the stock market, you know…”
“Couple of Gentiles, right?”
“That’s what you said you wanted them to be.”
“Those people, how do we ever know what they’re talking about when they’re alone together?”
“Come on, Stanley, haven’t you overheard them in trains and planes and places?”
Kubrick said, “Sure, but…they always know you’re there.”
If he was even halfway serious, Abrams’s banal thesis that, despite decades of living in England, Stanley never escaped the Old Country, might have been given some ballast.
Now, as for Stanley Kubrick’s being an “intellectual.” If this implies membership in some literary or quasi-philosophical elite, there’s a Jewish joke to dispense with it. It’s the one about the man who makes a fortune, buys himself a fancy yacht, and invites his mother to come and see it. He greets her on the gangway in full nautical rig. She says, “What’s with the gold braid already?”
“Mama, you have to realize, I’m a captain now.”
She says, “By you, you’re a captain, by me, you’re a captain, but by a captain, are you a captain?”
As New York intellectuals all used to know, Karl Popper’s definition of bad science, and bad faith, involves positing a theory and then selecting only whatever data help to furnish its validity. The honest scholar makes it a matter of principle to seek out elements that might render his thesis questionable.
Abrams seeks to enroll Lolita in his obsessive Jewish-intellectual scheme by referring to Peter Arno, a New Yorker cartoonist whom Kubrick photographed in 1949. The caption attached to Kubrick’s photograph in Look asserted that Arno liked to date “fresh, unspoiled girls,” and Abrams says this “hint[s] at Humbert Humbert in Lolita.” Ah, but Lolita was published, in Paris, in 1955, six years later. And how likely is it, in any case, that Kubrick wrote the caption?
The film of Lolita is unusual for its garrulity. Abrams’s insistence on the sinister Semitic aspect of both Clare Quilty and Humbert Humbert supposedly drawing Kubrick like moth to flame is a ridiculous camouflage of the commercial opportunism that led Stanley to seek to film the most notorious novel of the day, while fudging its scandalous eroticism.
That said, in my view, The Killing, Paths of Glory, Barry Lyndon, and Clockwork Orange were and are sans pareil. The great French poet Paul Valéry wrote of “the profundity of the surface” of a work of art. Add D.H. Lawrence’s “never trust the teller, trust the tale,” and you have two authoritative reasons for looking at or reading original works of art yourself and not relying on academic exegetes—especially when they write in the solemn, sometimes ungrammatical style of Professor Abrams, who takes time out to tell those of us at the back of his class that padre “is derived from the Latin pater.”
Abrams writes that I “claim” that I was told to exclude all overt reference to Jews in my Eyes Wide Shut screenplay, with the fatuous implication that I am lying. I am again accused of “claiming” to have given the name Ziegler to the character played by Sidney Pollack, because I once had a (quite famous) Hollywood agent called Evarts Ziegler. So I did. The principal reason for Abrams to doubt my veracity is that my having chosen the name renders irrelevant his subsequent fanciful digression on the deep, deep meanings of the name Ziegler in Jewish lore; hence he wishes to assign the naming to Kubrick. Pop goes another wished-for proof of Stanley’s deep and scholarly obsession with Yiddishkeit.
Abrams would be a more formidable enemy if he could turn a single witty phrase or even abstain from what Karl Kraus called mauscheln, the giveaway jargon of Jewish journalists straining to pass for sophisticates at home in Gentile circles. If you choose, you can apply, on line, for screenwriting lessons from Nathan Abrams, who does not have a single cinematic credit to his name. It would be cheaper, and wiser, to look again, and then again, at Kubrick’s masterpieces.