“1913: The Year before the Storm”, by Florian Illies

 

268 pages, Melville House, ISBN-13: 978-1612193519

Back on August 10^th, 2022, I reviewed 1913: In Search of the World before the Great War by Charles Emmerson, and said that “I wanted this lost world to be brought to life once again, even if briefly, but it wasn’t. There are facts and figures and allusions and discussions and so on and so forth, but this is just dry knowledge…While 1913 is an interesting global tour of the world of 1913, it in no way brought this world back to life, and it sadly remains hidden still”. And so it was with this in mind that I got 1913: The Year before the Storm by Florian Illies, a German writer and art historian – for free, for reasons too opaque to go through here. Ask me about it sometime.

1913: The Year before the Storm is divided in twelve chapters, each corresponding to a month in this last full year of peace; each chapter in turn is made up of a series of vignettes of something interesting that happened at that time, many in Germany and Europe (well, what did you expect from a German author?). No verse. No poetry. Just a chronology of stuff, much like the aforementioned and maligned 1913. And so I am seemingly right back to where I started, with a dry recording of facts in which this happened and then that happened with no magic occurring and no spirits lifted by a lost world brought back to life, even if only in our minds.

Only…this 1913 does what the other 1913 did not; brings this world, dead by mass suicide committed on a global-scale, to life once more. You wouldn’t think that this was so, seeing as all it is are accounts of mostly famous people doing their things: politicians politicking, artists painting, singers singing, musicians playing and on and on – but somehow Illies accomplishes that which Emmerson failed to do: breathe life once more into a world long dead. Perhaps it is because Illies allows his subjects to speak for themselves, as it were; he steps back and observes their goings-on while narrating what is happening, never interfering with his own input.

Or perhaps it is because Illies chose to go small scale rather than large: by focusing on the lives of persons – not ordinary persons, but all the same – rather than on places or policies or politicians, he made his book more intimate and relatable to you and I. As these folks go through their days with Armageddon mere months away, we see them as we would ourselves, with their concerns both sacred and profane dominating their lives and motivating their actions. Just like us, today. This, I think, is Illies’ secret: by focusing his tales on the small he in fact encompasses so much of this lost world and makes it breath again, if only in our imaginations.

1913: The Year before the Storm resurrected this lost year and made me yearn for a world long dead – and I don’t know why, seeing as there is little to recommend this dead place to a fella such as I. Perhaps on some level I am fascinated by an entire society that saw cultural seppuku as preferable to the way things were, all without knowing the blood and terror that would ensue when this (admittedly unjust and flawed, though stable) culture imploded. Or maybe it’s just that I miss all of that Edwardian fashion. Regardless, Illies has done us all an invaluable service in making 1913 live once more, if only briefly.

“The NHL: 100 Years of On-Ice Action and Boardroom Battles. A Centennial History” by D’Arcy Jenish

 

448 pages, Anchor Canada, ISBN-13: 978-0385671484

Hockey has been a part of my whole life thanks to my Dad; he was a dyed-in-the-wool Detroit Red Wings fan from the day he was born and thrived and suffered with his team through thick and thin. I was never much of a sport fan growing up – indeed, for many years I was actively hostile to sports of any kind – but that changed upon my maturity, and I’m glad I was able to share in another of my Dad’s passions before he passed (the others were Formula 1 racing and the American Civil War). But I was still ignorant of so much, and so when I stumbled upon The NHL: 100 Years of On-Ice Action and Boardroom Battles. A Centennial History by D’Arcy Jenish I saw it as a way of correcting this particular flaw and jumped at it.

Published in 2016 as a celebration of a century’s worth of professional hockey, Jenish’s book traces the foundations of the NHL from before it’s official founding a decade later (with ten teams, no less; “Original 6” refers to the six teams that survived past that date). It’s all there, too, as the league fights to establish itself, grow the sport in the States, suffers contraction and promotes expansion, struggles with the aspirations of players versus the motives of owners, expands again and tries to adapt to the modern entertainment market. Somehow, Jenish manages to make all of these off-ice machinations interesting – or at least not-boring; thankfully he spares us the minutes of board meetings or lawyerly jargon.

And I must stress that The NHL is a history of the business of hockey; on-ice developments and rule changes are mentioned but typically in passing. The men who made the League – the owners, the coaches and even the players – are what Jenish focuses on, so if you wanted to know how the Icing rule came about or why fighting is tolerated then you won’t like it. I, for one, was engrossed by the backstage shenanigans these hockey-mad businessmen and players got into and how and why the League became what it is today. I may not like all the decisions that were made or the arguments that were launched, but after I finished this book I at least understood why things turned out the way they did.

The NHL was as interesting as it was informative, as I learned how North America’s 4^th Sport was founded and grew and contracted and suffered and thrived and survived. The culture of hockey, the fan base, the history of how the sport came about and developed – these are topics for another book, one I will have to track down.

“I, Strahd: The Memoirs of a Vampire”, by P. N. Elrod

 

309 pages, TSR, ISBN-13: ‎ 978-1560766704

If you’re not a hopeless geek then much of what I’m about to relate will be simply obtuse to you. Deal. So, I, Strahd: The Memoirs of a Vampire by P. N. Elrod is the tale of Count Strahd von Zarovich, the big baddie in D&D’s Ravenloft Campaign Setting, as told by himself (and read by Dr. Rudolph van Richten, TSR’s answer to Prof. Abraham Van Helsing). Within, we discover just who and what Strahd is and how he came to be. Essentially, young Strahd, frightened by his own mortality and driven by jealously of his younger brother, commits a horrific crime to achieve both immortality and his one true love, only to be denied both by the evil powers he dealt with (well, whataya want; they’re evil, aren’t they?). And all told by Elrod, a modern-day master of the fantasy horror genre (circa 1993).

Beneath Elrod’s pen, Strahd becomes more than just a one-dimensional answer to Dracula. We see the young Strahd, powerful warrior and brilliant leader, slowly succumb to the doubts and shadows that plague all men as he proves to be mortal after all. As he relates his tale to us, the Reader, we follow his thinking, relive his agony and share his doubts until, quite surprisingly, one finds themselves sympathizing with the monster and almost urging him on. It is a rare feat indeed to make a sympathetic villain, but Elrod succeeds. Incredible read for any fan and, I would argue, for anyone looking for a fresh vampire story. Yes, yes, yes, I, Strahd plays on every vampire trope under the sun (heh), but there is something to be said on how much this novel encourages one to sympathize with the devil.

If you familiar with Curse of Strahd – perhaps, like me, as the module’s Dungeon Master – you already know how this story ends. But that doesn’t stop you from savoring every scrap of hope Strahd allows himself, and you join him desperately wishing for an impossible happiness.

“The King Whisperers: Power Behind the Throne, from Rasputin to Rove”, by Kerwin Swint

 

336 pages, Union Square Press, ISBN-13: 978-1402772016

The King Whisperers: Power Behind the Throne, from Rasputin to Rove by Kerwin Swint is about those shadowy figures who lurk in every government, whispering in the king’s ear and all but ruling the kingdom in fact, if not in name (I would love to know the names of the people who did so in the Biden Administration). Swint has subdivided these whisperers into ten distinct types: The Machiavellians, Empire Builders, Kingmakers, Spies, Silver-Tongued Devils, The Generals, The Rebels, The Truly Evil, The Fixers and Schemers; he further provides thumbnail sketches of forty-one examples of men (and some women) to illustrate each type.

Swint’s format should find broad appeal for the novice historian, although I expect that the expert will be rather bored, if not offended by the many mistakes (it was never “The Empire of Germany” but rather “The German Empire” is but one of many examples). But the unique subject matter should appeal to both, seeing as those bright, shiny crowns so easily distracted us poor peons from who were really calling the shots. And, seeing as this is but a primer on the subject, this book also sparked interest in finding out more about these shadowy figures for whom pomp and circumstance were anathema, but who craved power and influence all the more.

These types of individuals are fairly good representatives of the archetypes named in each chapter and, if I may be so bold, I found I was more interested in those I had never heard of versus the more famous names. Swint also doesn’t confine himself to one era, nation or region, but likewise attempts to spread the blame around to all and sundry. The one problem I had with this approach was his inclusion of more modern figures; while many of these persons may, in fact, fit the profiles he has established, it seems to me that he was hurrying things and not allowing the flow of history to sweep them along – perhaps he was trying to be relevant?

Anyway, The King Whisperers works as an introductory work that, hopefully, will whet your thirst for more detailed, meatier faire.

“Child Star: An Autobiography”, by Shirley Temple Black

 

546 pages, McGraw-Hill, ISBN-13: 978-0070055322

Shirley Jane Temple Black was born on April 23^rd, 1928, in Santa Monica, California, the third child of homemaker Gertrude Amelia Crieger Temple and bank employee George Francis Temple after their boys, Jack and George. Black was an American patriot and had a diverse career in public service, first as a delegate to the 24^th United Nations General Assembly from September to December 1969, then as the 9^th United States Ambassador to Ghana from December 6^th, 1974 to July 13^th, 1976 before becoming 18^th Chief of Protocol of the United States from July 1^st, 1976 to January 21^st, 1977, then the President of the Commonwealth Club of California from February to August 1984 before becoming the 27^th United States Ambassador to Czechoslovakia from August 23^rd, 1989 to July 12^th, 1992. In this last role she witnessed first-hand The Velvet Revolution and the end of 41 years of one-party Communist rule in Czechoslovakia that ended peacefully, whence a parliamentary republic was established and the command economy dismantled…

Ah, who am I foolin’? You and I know Shirley Temple as an American child actress, dancer and singer who began her film career in 1931 and continued successfully through 1949. Over that time she starred in over 40 films for Fox (saving the studio from bankruptcy during the Great Depression), Paramount, MGM and Warner Brothers, said films ranking number One at the box office from 1935 through 1938, in addition to her work in television and radio. Temple danced in her films with some of the most famous and accomplished entertainers of her era, such as Buddy Ebsen, Jack Haley, Alice Faye, George Murphy, Jimmy Durante, Charlotte Greenwood, Jack Oakie and Bill “Bojangles” Robinson (whom she said was her favorite partner). At the 7^th Academy Awards in 1935, Temple was honored with the first Academy Juvenile Award., while later that same year her hand and foot prints were immortalized in cement at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. She received a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame on February 8^th, 1960.

Much of this and more we learn from Shirley herself in Child Star: An Autobiography – and make no mistake: this is an authentic autobiography written by the woman herself with nary a coauthor or ghostwriter in sight. Technically, this is her second autobiography, the first being My Young Life from 1945, but Shirley has stated before that that book was actually cribbed from past published quotes; this work is the real deal, written by herself alone and ending in about 1954, when she was just 26 years old. And what an autobiography; Shirley’s personality shines through with every sentence, whether describing her family, famous costars, directors, producers or studio heads. Her intelligence, verve and wisdom are all on display and, mores the point, described in her own words. I had never before been a fan of Shirley; oh, I had nothing against her but, under Mom’s influence, had rather drifted towards Margaret O’Brien, instead. But that changed upon completion of Child Star; I can now be counted among the legion of Templeholics.

But if Shirley’s book has any overarching thread it is the relationship she had with her mother and how “[s]he was not only my best friend, but we had a partnership”. I suppose that it’s a good thing that Shirley thought so well of her Mother (and her Father, although George Temple’s influence on his daughter pales next to his wife’s). But it is hard not to realize just how manipulated our little curly-top dynamo was by the parents she so obviously loved and adored, her Mother especially. That Shirley made a great deal of money cannot be disputed; that she could have made so much more if only she had proper representatives who knew how to negotiate and read a contract likewise cannot be disputed. Her parents just weren’t up to the task. Also, Shirley’s adored parents took advantage of their child to advance their worldly ways and ignored others who misused her as well if it boosted her monetary value; but judging by our author’s words, she either didn’t or couldn’t face this fact (the last words of her autobiography are “Thanks, Mom”).

But this is about the worse thing I can say about this book, as Shirley wrote a rambling recounting of her extraordinary life in which the sun seemed to always shine and nothing ever went wrong – well, not exactly. She mentions plenty – the discrimination suffered by Bill “Bojangles” Robinson because he was black, the exploitation of actors of every stripe by the studios, the sexual harassment of female stars and starlets that was rampant under the “studio system” (like her own, when Arthur Freed exposed himself to Shirley when she was 12-years-old; or when she was raped by another, unnamed producer) – but all of it told from her viewpoint and in her own words, with nothing spared us. But she managed it all in ways that newer stars today can’t, because she had a strong, supportive family to back her up. While her parents pocketed much of the money she made over the years, it was used to support the family and not some lavish lifestyle – a small concession, perhaps, but meaningful nonetheless.

Upon coming to the end of Child Star I was a fan and admirer of this cultural icon who, upon the end of her career, did not pine for a life that was over, but instead launched a new career as wife, mother and, later, diplomat (if only other stars would follow her lead, rather than cling to fame like grim death). But I was also left a little vacant, for Shirley had intended this work to be the first of many volumes that would have recorded her service in the State Department, books that were never written. Which is a damn shame, for I would love to have read what she thought of Republican power brokers and foreign statesmen, especially Václav Havel, the leader of the Czech Velvet Revolution with whom she interacted with during the same. But it was not to be. Shirley Jane Temple Black lived an extraordinary life, most of it in the public eye, and she always carried herself with dignity, charm, intelligence and vigor. Would that all stars these days would do the same while showing a basic respect for the nation that made them rich.

God Bless You, Shirley.

“Scotty Bowman: A Life in Hockey”, by Douglas Hunter

 

408 pages, Triumph Books, ISBN-13: 978-1572433502

William Scott “Scotty” Bowman is the winningest coach in NHL history, with 14 Stanley Cups as a coach and/or executive (behind only Jean Béliveau’s 17) to go along with his 1244 regular season wins and 223 wins in the Stanley Cup playoffs. We here in the Motor City will always be grateful to him for ending our 42 year Cup drought in 1997 and winning 3 Stanley Cups to give the Detroit Red Wings 10 total (upped to 11 after Mike Babcock won in 2008). But in many ways the man is a cypher whom few can ever get close to, especially those of us in the cheap seats. And so when I discovered Scotty Bowman: A Life in Hockey by Douglas Hunter…somewhere, I picked it up to see what could be learned about this fascinating and maddening hockey guru.

Be warned, however, for this book was written without any input from Bowman at all; indeed, it would appear that several of his past and current players also refused to cooperate, seeing as the book did not have Bowman’s authorization and thus, did not have his blessing (I, for one, would not want to be on Scotty’s bad side, and I don’t even know how to skate). For all that, Hunter still manages to dig deep and uncover all sorts of gems from the life of this most private and inscrutable man, partially by providing such density of information – over 46 years of coaching, Bowman crossed paths with damn near everyone in the NHL – that one can, at times, feel rather buried in hockey tales, statistics, player bios and so on and so forth.

But it is still Scotty who is the subject of this work and, in spite of his subject’s noncooperation, Hunter managers to uncover several hidden gems. Such as Hunter’s idea that Bowman’s playing days were not cut short when that sonovabitch of a Frenchman Jean-Guy Talbot cracked his skull with a flailing stick; rather, it was the impetus Scotty needed to hang up the skates on a mediocre career at best and instead move behind the bench – a fact Bowman new all too well. This revelation says a lot about our subject and his clear-eyed, unsentimental view of things, especially of All Things Hockey. Since he could see that he would never prosper as a player he segued into coaching without muss or fuss; if anything, the frog Talbot did him a favor.

And it was as a coach that the legend of Bowman would take root and grow. While coaches come and go in the league, Bowman thrived and survived when so many around him faltered and fell. As to how he managed to last and succeed for so long, Hunter posits that Bowman, almost alone amongst his peers, could adapt faster than a chameleon to the fluctuating world of professional sports, be it changing tactics, adapting strategies, or massaging the egos of all of those big-name millionaire athletes who have killed many a coaching career. All this, as well as his ability to take advantage of other teams and their struggles on-and-off the ice to advance the cause of whatever club he happens to be with at the time.

I don’t know about other leagues, but hockey is rather notorious for the revolving-door appearance of so many coaching positions, something that not even the Legendary Bowman has been immune to. That he has achieved the success and longevity despite not having a playing career worth talking about makes his many achievements so much more extraordinary. And to think, when this book was published in 1998, Bowman still had one more Stanley Cup to win as the Red Wings Coach, along with three others as senior advisor of hockey operations to the Chicago Black Hawks. While at times rather dense and turgid, Scotty Bowman: A Life in Hockey goes far in capturing the personality and drive of this man as traditional trailblazer.

“The Watchmaker of Filigree Street”, by Natasha Pulley

318 pages, Bloomsbury, ISBN-13: 978-1620408339

The Books on Tap bookclub that I run for the Fraser Public Library is an opportunity for me to introduce the Reading Public at large to all sorts of different books and subjects that are, perhaps, outside of their typical experience – like Longitude: The True Story of a Lone Genius Who Solved the Greatest Scientific Problem of His Time by Dava Sobel (reviewed on June 13^th, 2012), for example – only the members of the bookclub had no interest AT ALL in reading about longitude, so I substituted it for The Watchmaker of Filigree Street by Natasha Pulley, instead. Ah, well; their loss. Not that I really minded, in the end, for The Watchmaker was as interesting and intriguing book as any I’ve read – that it was also Natasha Pulley’s first ever novel makes her accomplishment that much more triumphant.

So, what’s it all about? Set in 1883, we follow one Thaniel Steepleton who, after returning to his tiny London apartment after a day of work as a Telegraphist, finds a golden pocket watch on his pillow, its provenance unknown. Six months later, the mysterious timepiece alarm function goes off as he is in a pub – minutes before a hidden bomb explodes, thus saving his life while destroying Scotland Yard. This prompts Thaniel to go off in search of its maker, one Keita Mori, a genius who creates ingenious clockwork creations who informs Thaniel that the watch had been stolen months before. A whole chain of unexplainable events soon suggests he must be hiding something, and when Grace Carrow, an Oxford physicist, unwittingly interferes, Thaniel is torn between opposing loyalties.

The Watchmaker kept me interested the whole time I was reading it. Pulley pulled out just enough facts to keep the story moving while hiding her Big Reveals in such a way as to make them intriguing rather than irritating. The main characters – Thaniel, Mori and Grace – were interesting enough to keep me intrigued, while the motivations of all concerned were clear-cut – well, except for Mori, whose decisions were decidedly opaque. Until, that is, we discover more about the man and what he is all about, whence all those strange things he said and did make perfect sense. There is a plot hole or two I could mention. But won’t. For The Watchmaker of Filigree Street kept me engrossed in its tale and its characters enough for me to overlook much, and to look forward to the continuing adventures of Mori et. al