Columbine

In this 432 page exploration of the Columbine High School massacre, journalist Dave Cullen examines the tragedy from multiple angles. The book includes profiles of perpetrators Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, an examination of life at Columbine before and after the attack, the perspectives of victims and their parents, and a debunking of several of the myths perpetuated by the media and law enforcement.

I was wrong. So were you. And so, it would seem, was everyone else. That’s the central premise behind Cullen’s Columbine. Released almost exactly a decade after the notorious attack, the book shines ample light on the killers’ motivations. Some of its revelations are old hat: the erroneous assumptions that video games/Marilyn Manson made them do it or that Harris and Klebold acted on behalf of the “Trench Coat Maffia” were debunked long ago. But the counter narrative – that the pair were outcasts driven to extremes by bullying – doesn’t hold up either. Using expert profiles and the killers’ own words (they kept journals and recorded videos well in advance of the attack), Cullen reveals Harris to be a psychopathic master manipulator and Klebold his depressive sidekick. If the two looked like outcasts, it was an image they cultivated for themselves. In other words, they weren’t “pushed” by anything, be it video games, music, jocks, parents, gun culture, or who knows what else.

But Cullen’s revelations don’t end there. In his chilling recreation of the events of April 20, 1999, he shows how much worse things could have been. Fun Fact 1: the then-worst school shooting in American history was conceived as a school bombing. Harris and Klebold resorted to opening fire after their propane bombs didn’t go off. Fun Fact 2: the shooting itself was over in a relatively short period of time, but it took law enforcement (who, Cullen notes, took great pains to cover their asses in the aftermath) several hours to enter/secure the school and get everyone out. During that time, a teacher bled to death in a classroom. And then there’s Cassie Bernall, the alleged Christian martyr who was not, in fact, killed for expressing a belief in God, not that this would stop her parents and the evangelical community from milking the martyr angle for all it was worth.

Supported by years of research and ample sources, Cullen left virtually no stones unturned in writing Columbine, and it deserves its status as the definitive account of the massacre. But it is not a flawless effort. While the first section of the book is gripping and tense, the remainder is considerably less so. Cullen’s use of a parallel structure (alternating Harris and Klebold’s lives leading up to the attack with the lives of the survivors in the aftermath) feels contrived and threatens to dilute reader interest. He also shows a certain smugness in sticking it to the media (of which, his introductory note explains, he was a member) and especially the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office (justifiable given their conduct, but you have to wonder if this isn’t some form of payback for being denied access). Lastly, Cullen freely engages in conjecture, delving inside the heads of his killers and recreating key moments. It’s conjecture guided by research, but it’s walking on a tree branch just the same.

These faults will keep Columbine from reaching In Cold Blood status, but it’s still a must read. It may shock you, and it may make you mad, but it will also fill in some holes that ten years worth of movies, books, articles, and endless speculation have failed to adequately address.

8

Josephine's Bistro (CLOSED)

NOTE: Josephine's closed, and the owners launched Scrambled Southern Diner in its location. Josephine's still operates as a catering business.

Located at 2417 Spring Garden Street, Josephine’sBistro specializes in upscale cuisine. It is open for lunch and dinner Monday through Saturday and offers $11 dinner entrees before 6 p.m. Monday through Thursday. Specials rotate daily and include free wine tastings on Thursdays and periodic wine dinners. Josephine’s caters and is available to host private events.

The sister restaurant of Lindley Park Filling Station, Josephine’s is a relative newcomer, but it is already leaving an impression on Greensboro’s dining scene. Months after friends gave it a favorable recommendation, I finally had an occasion worth celebrating and gave it a try. Upon arrival, I was greeted by the owner, Sara Keith, who apologetically explained that they were in the process of putting in a new roof. The renovations didn’t harm the aesthetics much, but the aesthetics weren’t a strong point to begin with. In contrast to the quaint patio, the inside is rather compact and adorned with muted tones. Josephine’s is also fond of unconventional dishware: my entrée came on a rectangular, trough-like plate, and bread was dispensed in small metal buckets.

These odd visual touches are hit-or-miss, but the menu is considerably less ambiguous in its quality. I showed up in time for the pre-6p.m. early bird special, which left me three choices: a gourmet burger, sautéed trout, or flounder and a black bean cake. Choosing between those three was tough enough, but throw in the rest of the menu (steak au poivre, pork Milanese, buttermilk sage fried chicken, and more), and the decision became torturous.

Ultimately, I went with the burger. A beef-lamb blend, it came topped with creamy Boursin cheese, greens, tomato, and bacon, and served with pomme frites and a garlic parm aioli. Both the burger and the veggies were juicy, and the soft, somewhat tangy cheese added a nice contrasting flavor. The aioli also made for the perfect dipping sauce. Gourmet burgers are often a cynical way to gouge diners with unsophisticated palates, but this one was an exception. Everything was so flavorful that I had trouble remembering I was eating a burger and fries, let alone what I was paying for it. I then followed that up with a white chocolate Frangelico cheesecake, a dessert so rich it deserves an entry on the Forbes 500.

As has been said on this blog and elsewhere, good food does not come cheaply. Appetizers run from $6 to $14, and entrees are $14 and up. Josephine’s does offer both small and large plate options for many of its entrees, so it is possible to have a meal here without breaking the bank.

Servers at Josephine’s are both friendly and attentive. Conveniently, they leave you with a carafe of water instead of circling to refill your glass. The food didn’t emerge from the kitchen quickly, but the wait was not unreasonable.

All in all, Josephine’s might not offer the ambience of Print Works or the bonafides of the other Quaintance joints, but on food and friendliness, it should definitely stay in the conversation as a special occasion dinner destination.

8.5/10

The Collector

In postwar England, Frederick Clegg, an unassuming, socially awkward clerk becomes obsessed with Miranda Grey, a beautiful young art student. He is too shy to approach her and instead watches her from afar and collects butterflies. Once Clegg wins a large sum of money betting on soccer, however, he decides to purchase a large country estate and kidnap Miranda under the belief that she will love him once she gets to know him. Nothing goes as planned for either captor or captive.

An unfortunate favorite of several notorious serial killers, John Fowles 1963 debut novel deserves to be something more than notorious. To start with, there are some interesting – if somewhat superficial – commonalities between The Collector and Nabokov’s Lolita. Both feature as their (quite unreliable) narrators deranged men who are obsessed with young women. But unlike the latter, the former gives a voice to its victim. Half of the book takes the form of Miranda’s diary, in which she pines for freedom, shares her disgust (and occasional pity) for Clegg, gushes over a fellow artist twice her age, and shares her contempt for everything bourgeoisie and inauthentic. Interestingly, she comes across as every bit as unsympathetic as Clegg: she’s vain, condescending, (perhaps justifiably) cruel, and hypocritical.

Despite the bulk of the interaction taking place between just two characters, Fowles intended this novel to be social commentary, a critique of prosperity. The working class (as represented by Clegg), he argued, was getting money and power before it knew how to utilize either responsibly. Even if you find this view a tad insulting – and I do – there is something amusing about the juxtaposition of Clegg’s (old fashioned, uncultured, and isolated) aesthetic and moral opinions with Miranda’s (a sharp-minded proto-hippie of sorts).

Whether it’s the association with serial killers, the chilling downer ending (an asset, in my view), the by-now familiar plot, or just its datedness, The Collector is easy to write off as damaged goods. But it shouldn’t be. Watching these two characters find new ways to drive each other crazy makes this book well worth the read.

8

Wild Strawberries

Isak Borg (Victor Sjostrom), a widowed, retired professor/physician, sets out on a long car trip with his indifferent daughter-in-law Marianne (Ingrid Thulin) to receive a prestigious honor. Along the way, they pick up a bubbly young woman, Sara, (Bibi Anderson) and her competing beaus. Through a series of daydreams, Isak confronts the regrets of his past.

With a meandering pace and a threadbare plot, Wild Strawberries could have easily been a pretentious bore. That it instead proved to be an engaging, thought-provoking reflection on disappointment is a testament to its writer/director, the legendary Ingmar Bergman (who reportedly penned the script while in the hospital).  Make no mistake about it: there is no shortage of melancholy here. Isak comes to the realization that his coldness has condemned him to a life of lonliness while Marianne is on the verge of leaving his similarly frosty son Evald because the latter cannot stomach the idea of bringing a child into this world. But Bergman also incorporates moments of humor (Isak and his housekeeper bickering like a married couple, Sara’s two suitors ignoring her and fighting over religious philosophy) and surrealism (Isak’s first dream is like something out of a Tool video). Throw in some handsome shots of the Swedish countryside and a minimalistic but powerful score and you have as well-made a film was possible for 1957.

Of course, Bergman isn’t the only thing that makes Wild Strawberries work. Sjostrom, who was a.) primarily a silent film director, b.) in his late 70s, and c.) reluctant to take the role does a phenomenal job essaying Isak. We get to see him as outwardly esteemed, principled, and composed but also uncaring, tormented, and full of regret. It’s the type of role Jack Nicholson would have thrived in had this movie been made from 2002-2006.

If there’s one flaw to Wild Strawberries, it’s that the relatively happy ending seems unearned. There is nothing wrong with the notion that people can and do change, even in old age, but there is something almost Christmas Carolesque in Isak’s realizations. It may be a cliché, but it would have been more fitting – and more moving – if this closed with his passing.

It would seem a stretch that a fifty-plus year old slow-paced Swedish film could resonate with modern viewership, but given the ascendency of character-driven thinkpieces during the past decade, Wild Strawberries should continue to shine.

8.25