Leo XIV recently marked one year as pope and yesterday the New York Knicks swept the Philadelphia 76ers in the eastern conference playoffs. And? Well, Pope Leo is a graduate of the same university as three of the starters for the Knicks: Villanova (which is also my alma mater; I was a senior when the pope, then Robert Prevost, was a freshman). ’Nova, as a friend mentioned to me this weekend, is having a moment – at least in the worlds of religion and sports. Now if only we could put an alumnus in the White House.
Interesting Op-Ed piece in this morning’s Herald arguing that Bad Bunny’s halftime show was a failure. The author, Orlando Alonso, a “Cuban-American pianist, conductor and cultural entrepreneur,” makes the case that the Puerto Rican’s performance did not adequately represent Latin music, which has a rich and exemplary history, and asks: “When did we stop evaluating art as art?”
My question would be: When did the Super Bowl halftime show – or any halftime show – have anything to do with art? It’s about entertainment – and not just any entertainment, but entertainment that will appeal to the masses, particularly those who love football. It’s not a place for Yo Yo Ma.
I suspect that Alonso regrets (resents?) Bad Bunny’s phenomenal popularity. But his success is more as an entertainer than as a musician. (Personally, I enjoyed the halftime show because I thought it was riveting theater.) The great Latin artists – as well as those of other ethnicities – continue to perform, albeit in smaller venues and for smaller audiences. What Alonso was getting at in his article, I think, is that the vast majority of Americans have lost their ability to identify and appreciate artistic expression in music. Though he doesn’t say it, this is in large part due to the defunding of arts programs in schools, an initiative that is usually part of the Republican agenda. It’s interesting, then, that Republicans seemed to be the most vocal in their denunciation of the halftime show.
The scenes from Minneapolis have been reminding me of the first weeks of martial law in Warsaw in December 1981: the snow, the cold, the armed militia, the bundled-up protesters. The difference is that Polish soldiers didn’t shoot their fellow citizens.
I had dinner last night with a conservative friend who admitted that the president he voted for was starting to lose it. Larry is an intelligent, highly cultured man – unlike many in MAGA – and the thing, he said, that really turned him against Trump was his renaming of the Kennedy Center. He also was in disbelief over the president’s designs on Greenland, noting that Denmark has been one of our staunchest allies.
The death of Rob Reiner touched me more deeply than most celebrity deaths, in large part because it's almost as if I know the family. My favorite TV show growing up was The Dick Van Dyke Show, which was created, and co-written, by Rob’s father Carl. (He also sometimes appeared in it, playing, apparently totally out of character, the draconian boss, Alan Brady.) And then, one decade later, I watched, with most of America, All in the Family, in which Rob played Archie Bunker’s liberal son-in-law.
A couple of years ago I watched Rob’s documentary about his longtime friend Albert Brooks, and heard them in interviews, talking about their days growing up in L.A. The day they met in high school, Brooks tried to impress Reiner by saying he knew Carl Reiner, to which Rob replied: “I do too. He’s my father.” My favorite story was the one Rob told of wanting, as a child, to change his name. He mentioned this to his mother, who understood that it must be difficult growing up in the shadow of such a famous man. She asked him what he wanted to change his name to. He said he wanted to change it to Carl.
Carl Reiner died five years ago at the age of 98. Dick Van Dyke just celebrated his 100th birthday. In a sane world, Rob Reiner would have many happy years ahead of him.
I recently had lunch with a friend at Coconuts. Sitting on the outside terrace, we talked about the current situation in the country. Greg asked me if it reminded me of Poland in 1982.
“No,” I said. “Then everyone was affected. And everyone – with a very few exceptions – was against martial law.”
I looked around at the people in T-shirts and shorts, the Arnold Palmers and Bloody Marys, the Intracoastal gleaming behind them. “And you didn’t have this,” I said.