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In the musical “Hamilton,” Alexander Hamilton sings about writing his way out — of the tragic storm on his childhood home of Nevis, an act that would set him on a course for New York and destiny, and later out of scandal.
That’s the good thing about being a writer — maybe the bad thing, too — you can write your way out of almost anything but especially tumult as you try to make sense of the irrational.
This week, I was verbally attacked by two people.
Last night, I saw “A Complete Unknown,” based on Elijah Wald’s book “Dylan Goes Electric!: Newport, Seeger, Dylan and the Night That Split the Sixties,” and I found myself haunted not just by the music and the excellent evocation of Bob Dylan —from his 1961 arrival in Greenwich Village as a gifted but vulnerable folk music newbie to his imposition of rock’n’roll on the 1965 Newport Folk Festival as its legendary, disruptive closing act. — but by an idea.
And that idea, beautifully embodied in the film by Timothée Chalamet, is this: Why Dylan? Why not somebody else, or, for that matter, anybody else?
As I’ve written many times on this blog — too many times but it bares repeating — there is much discussion of various “isms” when it comes to President Donald J. Trump, from communism to socialism, racism and sexism. But the only “ism” that matters is narcissism, and the failure to understand this prevents us from having any hope to dealing with him effectively.
These are not the best of times to be a woman, to say nothing of any minority. The rise of bro culture and misogynistic incel culture, which helped propel President Donald J. Trump back into the White House; the demise of Diversity, Equity and Inclusion (DEI) in government and much of the workplace; and the curtailing of reproductive rights are among the challenges that have led women to consider the backlash to their hard-won gains.
Perhaps that’s why I found the marvelously mocking Broadway musical “Six” so moving. It’s the story of a sextet of queen consorts who for most of their history were famous, even infamous, for their marriages to an orange, scowling, bloated, diseased malignant narcissist — Henry VIII. As “Six” explores with delicious irony, Henry — no Alexander the Great in the leadership department — is today mostly famous for having been married to them.
