Finch is still a hero

MARYVILLE, Tenn. -- Here it was, the perfect film ("To Kill A Mockingbird"), shown the perfect way (on the big screen), in a perfect venue (the historic Palace Theater). Perfect, right?

Well, almost.

I walked into the theater about 6:40 last night and started looking for the projection room. My heart fell a bit when I realized the film was going to be shown via digital projection. Movies on the big screen should ALWAYS be shown via a 35 millimeter print.

Prior to the picture, organizers felt the need to have a law professor from UT deliver a bit-too-long essay on the film and its themes. The movie was being shown as part of Blount County's Martin Luther King Jr. Week festivities.

Her talk ended up OK, but she brought up an infamous 2009 New Yorker article by UK-born Canadian writer Malcolm Gladwell that attacks the notion that the beloved Atticus Finch of the novel and film is a Civil Rights pioneer.

I read the piece when it was published and did so again this morning. What the writer does is one of the biggest sins of the politically-correct era -- he uses modern-day values to judge an earlier time. He also has no sense of historical perspective. He's also just plain wrong.

Gladwell says that Finch isn't a Civil Rights hero because he doesn't do enough to shake things up in Maycomb during and after Tom Robinson's trial. (For those unfamiliar with the novel and film, Robinson is falsely accused of raping a white woman; Finch is his lawyer.)

Well, let's think about it. The novel is set in 1932 Alabama. A prominent white lawyer vigorously defending a black man of such a crime at that time in that place would have been nothing short of bold and revolutionary. Period.

The writer also claims that Finch asks the jury to exchange one prejudice (about a black man) for another (about a poor white family). Wrong. What he does is ask the jury to believe the word of an honest man over the word of a liar.

Gladwell also unconvincingly compares Finch with populist Alabama Gov. James "Big Jim" Folsom. The problem with the comparison is that Finch as a character hails from the Depression-era South. Folsom was governor of Alabama following World War II.

After my blood pressure shot up thinking about this article, I calmed down and enjoyed the only movie I've ever seen that is just as good (if not better) than the fine novel on which it's based. Screenwriter Horton Foote deservedly won an Oscar for his excellent adaptation.

It's all here -- Gregory Peck's Academy Award-winning turn as Atticus, Elmer Bernstein's haunting musical score, Robert Duvall's screen debut as Boo Radley, Mary Badham's scene-stealing turn as the spunky Scout. It's a perfect picture, pure and simple.

"To Kill A Mockingbird," both Harper Lee's novel and the Robert Mulligan film, has done much to win over the hearts and minds of at least three generations of Americans -- and it's still doing so. Sheri Webber, one of my beloved high school English teachers, told me in 2007 that the novel continues to cause a vigorous debate in her 9th grade classroom over race relations and prejudice. And, yes, she says, the racism is still very much alive.

I don't know whether the New Yorker staff writer was trying to be cute, condescending or just plain controversial. Whatever the case, his thesis stinks, his piece smacks of shameless revisionism at best and regional prejudice at worst.

As for "To Kill A Mockingbird," it stands as an appeal to the better angels of our nature, a heartwarming tribute to the human spirit, a nod to the power of a young girl's honest innocence, a sober reminder of the danger of ignorance.

And, yes, my friends, Atticus Finch still stands too, as tall and heroic as he ever was.

Walk of life

Didn't make it up in time to work out this morning. Stayed up too late doing research for a column and watching reruns of "The Six Million Dollar Man." (Don't ask.)

So, about 6:30 tonight, I took a break from work and pointed the Xterra in the direction of the Halls Greenway. If you're looking for a place to walk -- and you live out here in God's country -- consider this trail. You can get to it at either the library, the Food City parking lot or the Halls Community Park.

It's a fun little jaunt. In the mornings I watch the sun come up over the horizon and look out for any critters that might be stirring early. Tonight I grin at all the girls and smile at the little kids practicing football in the park.

Most folks say hello; some smile or nod. I usually walk about 30 minutes at a brisk enough pace to break a good sweat. It beats plopping down in front of the TV like a beached whale.

Seems like since I started walking again I have more energy than Mary Lou Horner. (OK, not quite that much.)

Tonight after work I plan to spend a couple of hours with the 1950s version of "A Farewell to Arms." I ordered it from Netflix.

I hope I'm not as disappointed with this one like I was after screening the melodramatic Gary Cooper/Helen Hayes original. This is one of my favorite novels; it deserves a better film treatment.

Still, I know it isn't going to be half as good as the Horton Foote-scripted 1962 film adaptation of "To Kill A Mockingbird," which I've been reading this week as part of the Library's "Big Read."

Sigh. I may just watch that one instead.

Big night at the Bijou Bistro

Found a new (to me) restaurant last night. I'll definitely be back, I can promise you.

Fountain City guy and renowned historian Dr. Jim Tumblin met me downtown after work last night. We were headed to the history center to hear a lecture by Charles Shields, author of the first biography on "To Kill A Mockingbird" author Harper Lee. The night was part of the month-long Big Read, sponsored by the Knox County Public Library and the YWCA.

Jim suggested we meet at the Bijou Bistro, a charming little spot beside Knoxville's famous old theater on Gay Street. I had seen the place before on my way to a KSO Chamber Orchestra concert last spring. But I had no idea what a treat I was in for.

It took us awhile to get served -- the hard-workin' server was covering a lot of territory -- but it was well worth the wait. The salads are out of this world. I don't know what they make the crutons out of, but I've been craving them for half a day now, trying to think of an excuse to go back for more.

When the server came back, I said between bites, "This is the best salad I've ever had in my life."

Laughing, she said, "Well, I'm glad you're enjoying it."

Couldn't reply. Too busy eating.

Jim ordered the mahi-mahi. I had pork cooked in dijonnaise mustard with rice and veggies. Delicious just isn't the word.

I washed my dinner down with water and a Sierra Nevada. Jim did the same, only his beer (I didn't catch the name) came in a goblet.

No time for dessert; we had to hoof it down to the history center in time for the lecture, which was a treat, by the way. Shields held our attention for more than an hour. We learned that, yes, Nelle Harper Lee (she dropped the first name because people began mispronouncing it) did in fact write "To Kill A Mockingbird," and, no, her famous friend Truman Capote did not help.

(But he did apparently steal phrases from Nelle Harper's notes when writing his 1965 masterpiece "In Cold Blood." Nelle, who served as a research assistant, apparently had more to do with Truman's successful "nonfiction novel" than was previously known.)

I slipped into the Knoxville night with a full belly and literary nuggets dancing in my head. As usual, I hated to see the sun set on the big night.

Next time you find yourself downtown at lunch or supper (or Sunday brunch), duck into the Bijou Bistro. Ten bucks and a copy of "To Kill A Mockingbird" says you won't be disappointed.

The South as a character...

It's hot.

No, really. It's hot.

Standing outside the newly-built St. Mary's Hospital North for the hospital's dedication this afternoon, I felt like I'd stepped back into some old black and white movie, maybe "To Kill A Mockingbird," always set in the South, and always hot.

The heat was oppressive. Hot. Smothering. I've never been more thankful for air conditioning in my life.

Told somebody the other day I think I may write a novel sometime about the South as a character. Throw in its faults and its charms, its quirks and its eccentricities, its uniqueness and its uniformity, and use that heat as part of the plot.

Aah, Faulkner's done it already. Williams. Even Harper Lee in her one beautiful book. But it's a thought.

Tonight I want to park myself in front of the fan and refuse to move. It's getting worse later this week. I dread those afternoons in my toaster oven office.

Tried to watch "Key Largo" tonight. Fell asleep. Couldn't bring myself to screen "Mr. Smith" again. Swallow too much Capracorn and you turn into syrup.

I may tackle more McCarthy before bed. A friend says reading prose like that takes time. Indeed. You don't curl up with Cormac, that's for sure.

Why not just turn on the radio? Something calm and cool. I'm thinking Ellington, or pre-fusion Miles ("Kind of Blue"). Maybe even a little Buffett.

Whatever it is, that will be me, the guy staying cool by the fan.