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WHAT REALLY MATTERS?

What do you do when you’ve been housebound for three months, and, suddenly, you’re not? I did what anyone would  — I went outside.  And there, in front of my building, was a tall, exceptionally beautiful woman of color, standing next to a cherry-red Triumph motorcycle. She was chatting with a man. They kissed. He walked away.

I said, “That bike is almost too beautiful to ride.”

She said, “Buying it was the second-best decision I ever made.”

“What was the first?”

“Marrying that man.”

With that, joy filled my heart, because in a contest between the most important news and what happens in your personal life, the news doesn’t matter. But then, I’ve been wearing a boot up to my knee 24/7 for the last three months in order to accelerate the healing of a fractured ankle — my judgment may be off.

WEEKEND READING FOR ADULTS: A TEEN BOOK

It takes no great insight to predict this movie will be a monster hit, and that some parents will be taking their daughters to see it. Suggestion: read the book first. To buy the paperback  from Amazon, click here. For the Kindle edition, click here.

A CAUTIONARY TALE: PUTTING CAMERA-READY CRIMINALS ON TV MAKES US WANT TO WATCH… MORE CRIMINALS

For perhaps the first time in history, a trial was being recorded, not as in the style of a newsreel, with its neutrally positioned single camera, but more like a feature film, with concealed cameras placed to cover several points of view — the witnesses’, the judges’, the attorneys’, the public’s, and of course, Eichmann’s. These were cut, one against the other, often in close-up, so that the drama became vastly more personal. The style of my father’s work would come to define this trial, and its place in historical memory, even more than Eichmann’s confession.

It was terrific TV. But it didn’t do what his father intended:

Without meaning to, my father helped to reinforce the emotional aspect of the trial and in so doing weaken its political implications. Though his previous films included a fuller view of the crimes and victims of Nazism, the way he shot the trial did the opposite: His brilliant coverage individualized Eichmann and steered viewers away from a more historical view. The work of studying fascism could not compete with the satisfaction of blaming a villain and imagining that the problems could be solved with his sentencing.

My father helped to make this Nazi into a character in a drama of cinematic confrontation, not of real understanding. It was now the Jewish state against the murderer of Jews. Crimes against other groups were not germane to the purpose to which the State of Israel and its head prosecutor, Gideon Hausner, sought to turn the trial.

The question of how fascism gains power is no less urgent today. As nationalisms multiply around the globe, lies gain supremacy as political weapons and scapegoating minorities proves itself a powerful mobilizing force, danger is burgeoning, here and in Israel itself. What I witnessed as a 14-year-old in that control room, I am witnessing again. The fascination with individual people’s guilt or innocence is obscuring the society-wide re-emergence of fascism. And we appear to be no more interested in viewing the full picture.

Takeaway: Yes, we’re outraged by Clarence Thomas. A better focus might be the ultra-conservative groups that channeled money to him and his wife. Can you name them?

There’s a crowd-pleaser of a film out now (only in theaters) about Nike’s campaign  to sign Michael Jordan. It starts Ben Affleck, Matt Damon, and Viola Davis. “Air” looks suitable for kids. Watch the trailer. 

The film reminds me that I wrote a book about Michael Jordan in 1993— for 9 to 12-year-old kids. It is rich with quotes from Jordan, who I interviewed in a year when he was pissed off and avoiding interviewers. That included me. He’d show up late, sit back, and say, “Looks like we’re not going to get it done.” I said, “We’ll get it done, but we have no time for me to kiss your ass. First question…” And guess what: My attitude earned his respect, and I got great stuff. To buy the paperback from Amazon, click here.

THE WEEKEND RECIPE

Roast Tarragon-Cognac Chicken

Serve it with mashed potatoes or polenta, a soft bed to absorb all the heady, buttery juices. And if you’re not a tarragon fan, fresh thyme makes an excellent, milder substitute.

Yield: 4 servings

1(4-pound) whole chicken

2 teaspoons coarse gray sea salt or 2½ teaspoons kosher salt (such as Diamond Crystal)

6 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

1 bunch fresh tarragon, leaves and tender stems coarsely chopped (about ¾ cup)

2 tablespoons Cognac

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Pat the chicken dry and salt the bird inside and out. Transfer to a plate or baking dish, preferably on a rack, and refrigerate uncovered for at least 1 hour or overnight.

When ready to cook the chicken, heat the oven to 400 degrees.

In a small bowl, combine butter, tarragon, 1 tablespoon Cognac and the pepper. Rub mixture inside the chicken cavity and over and under the chicken skin.

Place chicken on a rimmed sheet pan or in a large, ovenproof skillet. Roast, breast side up, until the skin is golden and crisp, and the juices run clear when you insert a fork in the thickest part of the thigh (165 degrees), about 1 hour.

Turn off the oven — don’t skip this step, or the Cognac may overheat and catch fire — and transfer the pan with the chicken to the stovetop. Pour the remaining 1 tablespoon Cognac over the bird and baste with some of the buttery pan juices. Immediately return the chicken to the turned-off oven and let rest there for 10 minutes before carving and serving.

WEEKEND POEM

“Hoodie,” by January Gill O’Neil

I see the partial eclipse of his face
as his head sinks into the half-dark

and shades his eyes. Even in our
quiet suburb with its unlocked doors,

I fear for his safety—the darkest child
on our street in the empire of blocks.

Sometimes I don’t know who he is anymore
traveling the back roads between boy and man.

He strides a deep stride, pounds a basketball
into wet pavement. Will he take his shot

or is he waiting for the open-mouthed
orange rim to take a chance on him? I sing

his name to the night, ask for safe passage
from this borrowed body into the next

and wonder who could mistake him
for anything but good.