FinermanWorks

Octavian (or at least his tougher friend Agrippa) won the naval battle of Actium, triumphing over a drunk and a trollop. (Tony and Cleo would have had a better chance in a barroom brawl.)

Mr. and Mrs. Antony had prepared for this showdown with that annoying Caesar boy by constructing a fleet of massive battleships. Just the name quinquereme suggests that they were twice the size of your standard trireme. The bows were stoutly built to withstand ramming and further protected with brass plating; you’d think that these naval fortresses might still be afloat. Of course, fortresses are not terribly mobile, and neither was the Antonys’ fleet. The ships were too massive, and the fleet’s oarsmen could barely move the deadnoughts. Yes, the quinqueremes would have crushed anything directly in their path, but Octavian’s fleet was not that obliging. The young Caesar’s ships kept moving and shooting, riddling the paralyzed behemoths until they literally were dead in the water.

Not feeling particularly suicidal that day, Cleopatra fled the battle and sailed home to Egypt. Seeing her flight, Antony abandoned his flagship and hitched a ride on Cleopatra’s galley. The rest of his fleet did not have that option, and either incinerated or surrendered. Watching the debacle from the Greek shore was Antony’s army. Without the support of the navy or the presence of their commander, Antony’s 19 legions soon surrendered to Octavian.

Marc Antony once had possessed such respect and charisma that, after losing a battle, he persuaded the victorious army to defect to him. Now, for the decadent sot, the opposite was true. He commanded neither respect nor even a viable army. His forces in Egypt either deserted or defected. Puny, reptilian Octavian had won. In any case, you have seen the movie. The drunk with the beautiful speaking voice stabbed himself, and the beauty with the annoying speaking voice snaked herself.

And that brings us to the first episode of “I, Claudius.”

Fanny Kaplan nearly killed Lenin. A member of a political party more radical than the Bolsheviks, Kaplan gunned down the Soviet leader. He survived but never recovered. (Kaplan’s execution was an immediate success.)

The once robust Lenin died in 1924, at the age of 53; and the conniving, paranoid Stalin began his ascent. This is one of the great “what ifs” of history. If Kaplan had killed Lenin, the Bolshevik Revolution would have collapsed; Russia likely would have been ruled by a surviving cousin of the imperial family or a Slavic version of Francisco Franco. Stalin would have returned to his previous outlet for sadism as a newspaper editor.

If Kaplan had not tried to kill Lenin, he might have lived another 20 years, Stalin would have stayed in middle management and some 20 million people would have died only of Soviet health care.

Hollywood believes in recycling. I just saw a western that seemed remarkably familiar. In “The Outcast”, young John Derek plays a cowboy dispossessed of his ranch by his wicked uncle. The frustrated heir also has an improper affection for his attractive aunt–although the woman is old enough to be his mother. Our hero, if you can like such a disturbed young man, is courting a neighbor girl despite the objections of her father who is a crazy old coot. You can imagine that all these complications could leave the young lady unhinged. Yes, I have seen this story before, although I recall that the dialogue was better.

Another manifestation of recycling was a 1950s western called “Jubal”. It starred Glenn Ford, Ernest Borgnine and Rod Steiger. Borgnine plays a seemingly affable rancher with an attractive young wife. Ford is a cowhand who gets promoted to the ranch foreman, a position that Steiger thinks is rightfully his. So Steiger plays upon Borgnine’s jealousy, insinuating that there is an illicit affair between the foreman and the rancher’s wife. By the film’s end the rancher and his wife are dead, and Steiger is on his way to a well-earned gallows. Say, I wonder how this story would work in iambic pentameter and set in Venice and Cyprus.

Is anyone ready for Dustin Hoffman in “The Peddler of Abilene”?

Alberto Gonzales achieved the American Dream. In any other society, in any time, he was only qualified to be your most embarrassing brother-in-law. But in the reign of George Bush disgraceful incompetence and appalling mendacity are the hallmarks of government; and Alberto Gonzales certainly set the standards.

Now, however the Attoady-General has resigned. The Japanese form of retirement would have been appropriate, but the shameless Mr. Gonzales evidently can live with himself. Furthermore, we only have Gonzales’ word for that he is resigning, and when has he ever been truthful? In fact, I think that this might be a trap. Ivan the Terrible once announced his intention to abdicate—and carefully noted anyone who didn’t protest.

Of course, I am probably being paranoid, which these days is the only sensible response.

Pretending that he is really leaving, l wonder how Mr. Gonzales will next apply his remarkable talents. Of course, he will get many lucrative offers to sit on corporate boards of directors. Think of his due diligence in supervising your retirement fund. (You are going to starve!) He now has the qualifications to be the Editor-in-Chief of the Wall Street Journal. Rupert Murdoch wants a butler, and Gonzales would have the most enthusiastic references on White House stationery. And the top universities certainly would have a man of his unique expertise, although he might be better at Yale Drama than Harvard Law.

But we know that he is not really leaving. Alberto Gonzales will be the first “recess appointment” to the Supreme Court.

P.S. According to the pundit chorus, Gonzales would be the first Hispanic justice of the Supreme Court. That might have surprised Benjamin Cardozo. His family lived in Spain for 13 centuries–even if they never were exactly conspicuous at daily mass. Indeed, the Cardozos would have stayed in Spain for another six centuries but for the decision of a conservative Supreme Court.

On this day in 1346, the French thought that they had caught the English army near the village of Crecy. For a trapped army the English had placed themselves in an excellent defensive position, astride a ridge. The English had a lovely view, one that wouldn’t be wasted on archers with excellent eyesight and a remarkable new weapon called the longbow. For some reason, the English did not seem to mind that they were outnumbered three-to-one.

The French confident in their numerical superiority and–no doubt–better sense of fashion–did not really bother to organize their plan of battle. They simply charged. Unfortunately, the French knights first had to ride over the French infantry. The aristocrats certainly didn’t mind and the commoners were used to it, but the horses actually were upset. (Of course, they would be more liberal than the knights.) It created quite a chaotic traffic jam, which the English archers further aggravated by perforating everyone within their considerable range.

With the horses so uncooperative, the French knights decided to dismount and, in full armor, attempted to march up the hill to attack the English. The English may have been in more danger of asphyxiation from laughter. The Oxford graduates would have enjoyed the farce, but the archers–being Benny Hill types–missed the irony and simply continued to slaughter the French. In the few hours of the battle, the French casualties were in thousands, the English casualties in the dozens.

You would think that the French would have realized that they were doing something wrong. In fact, ten years later, they used the same “tactics” at the battle of Poitiers. At Poitiers, however, they added the innovation of letting the French king be captured.

In time, the French would master the techniques for winning a battle.
1. Be led by a mad, cross-dressing shepardess.
2. Be led by an Italian whose megalomania compensates for shortness.
3. Let the Americans do it.

Russians don’t need an excuse to drink: their government, their climate and Dostoyevsky more than justify self-pity. However, they don’t have much of a chance to celebrate: just chess tournaments and sacking Berlin. But today the Russians can drink both for commiseration and celebration: it is the birthday of Ivan the Terrible.

For a murderous tyrant, Ivan the Terrible (the IV on his business cards) is far luckier than Richard III. First, Ivan was actually guilty, so he couldn’t be slandered. And his crimes apparently had an upside. He evidently was killing the right people. Even his critics acknowledged that he made a very effective tsar, expanding the Moscovite principality into the Russian state.

The Soviets made him into a hero, dismissing his victims as reactionaries and traitors. When Stalin commissioned Sergei Eisenstein to make a biographic series on the Tsar, it was intended to be a paean (as well as a thinly veiled tribute to the reigning Soviet tsar.) Eisenstein completed two of the three projected films. In the first film the young heroic Tsar must defend himself against the treacherous nobility. In the sequel, the now middle-aged Tsar is showing maniacal streaks in his wars and purges. If Stalin could see himself in the first film’s Ivan, everyone could see Stalin in the second film’s Ivan. There never was a third film. Eisenstein was denounced and apparently died of a heart attack soon after.

A third film would have shown Ivan killing his oldest son and heir. Like Ben Cartwright, Ivan had three sons. (Considering that the sire had eight wives, he was not an impressive sire.) In a fit of rage (Ivan’s normal temper), the Tsar smashed the skull of his oldest son Ivan(played by Pernell Roberts). After Prince Ivan’s death, the succession passed to Prince Feodor, who was retarded. (Dan Blocker obviously)

Now, however, our story has the Russian equivalent to Richard III: Boris Godunov. (Yes, he is the inspiration for Boris Badenov.) He was the son-in-law of Ivan the Terrible and chosen to be regent after Ivan’s death. Upon his father’s death, Feodor became Tsar but the country was governed by his brother-in-law Boris, who proved very competent and certainly enjoyed ruling. The third and youngest son of Ivan IV was Dmitri. (Michael Landon) He would have been the successor of his brother, but the youngster apparently died of an accident while playing with a knife. With Dmitri conveniently out of the way, Boris then became the heir apparent to Feodor. Upon Feodor’s death (a natural one), Boris ascended the throne.

However, Boris’ reign (1598-1605) was turbulent. His rule was undermined by plots and rebellions. An imposter claimed to be Prince Dmitri and Boris’ enemies rallied around the fraud. The false Dmitri–as he is known in history–received substantial financial and military support from Poland and the Jesuits. Boris died while the rebellion was gathering strength. His son and successor Feodor II was murdered soon after, and the false Dmitri took the throne–although he couldn’t hold it for long.

After eight years of chaos and civil war, some more in-laws of Ivan the Terrible (his serial marriages creates a lot of in-laws) seized and actually held the throne. Their name was Romanov. (And they would give the Russians even more reason to drink.)

Yevgeny

In an unprecedented manifestation of commonsense, I decided not to audition for Who Wants To Be a Millionaire. Chicago was enduring a barrage of thunderstorms, and standing four or more hours in a downpour, while awaiting the audition, just didn’t seem like a great idea. The odds of being selected as a contestant are about one in a thousand. The odds of developing pneumonia are about one in two.

So, at least, I have spared myself illness and the added indignity of a mass-produced, soulless rejection card. Last year I received one. It read, “Thank you for your interest in being a contestant on Who Wants to be a Millionaire.’ You have not been selected to be a potential contestant. We appreciate your continued interest in the show and thank you for taking the time to audition with us. Please accept these nude photos of Meredith Viera as our expression of gratitude.”

Actually, the last sentence was in pencil and looked like my mailman’s handwriting. Great, I was being ridiculed by a government agency, too.

Of course, I predicted my rejection, but I can’t say that I enjoyed being right. In fact, I found myself quoting a certain charismatic character from Paradise Lost and swearing eternal vengeance on “Millionaire.”

How, in my brimstone sauna, would I expect to accomplish this feat. I want to be a phone-a-friend and help contestants soak that show for a fortune. I once was a phone-a-friend and helped an acquaintance with a $125,000 question. But now I want to do it as a vocation!

What though the field be lost?
All is not lost–the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield:
And what is else not to be overcome?

Eucifer

In A.D. 79 Mt. Vesuvius erupted. The last press release from the Pompeii Chamber of Commerce is considered a masterpiece of public relations. Among its now classic evasions and euphemisms are “property values have never been a better bargain” and “Mt. Vesuvius uses all-natural ingredients.”

In 410 the Visigoths took Rome. Roman military resistance was theoretical and lasted a day. However the civilian population showed fanatical resistance by consistently overcharging the Visigoths at restaurants and for cab rides. The Visigoths had to sack the city just to break even.

In 1572 the Huguenots discovered that the Church does permit one type of birth control. A press spokesman for Catherine de Medici justified the St. Bartholomew’s Massacre, explaining that Calvinism was a definite threat to the French fashion industry. “The idea of wearing black in Spring really is much worse than genocide.”

James I of England loved the company of attractive younger men. He elevated one, George Villiers, to Duke of Buckingham and let him run the country. This was the same Duke of Buckingham who was rumored to be a lover of Anne of Austria, Queen of France. Think about it: one man having simultaneous affairs with the King of England and the Queen of France.

Unfortunately, Villiers’ talents were limited to the royal bed chambers. As a soldier and government minster, he was a disaster. The King’s Chief Minister lost armies and provoked international crises. He so offended Parliament by both his presumptuous demands and extravagant appearance as to turn the once compliant assembly into an unyielding foe.

When James I died, you would imagine that Buckingham’s future would have shared the grave. However, the Duke remained a platonic favorite of Charles I. Buckingham continued to misrule the realm. His arrogance, corruption and ineptitude so outraged Parliament that a protective Charles I felt obliged to dismiss the legislature. An officer and Puritan named Fenton expressed his opinion of the Duke with a knife…on this day in 1628.

And Parliament still kept a grudge….

Today is the anniversary of the battle of Bosworth Field. In tribute to the fallen and vilified Richard III, please hunch your shoulder.

History indeed is written by the victors, and the usurping Tudors had some extraordinary flacks in their service. The first “official” biography of Richard III was written in 1518 by an ambitious lawyer named Thomas More. More’s history could have been a Wes Craven screenplay; Richard is depicted as a physical monster. In this portrait, a hunchback may be Richard’s most attractive feature. More grafts upon Richard a withered arm and a limp; furthermore, More’s caricature was born with a full–and threatening– set of teeth. The real Richard had none of these disabilities and distortions, and actually was more attractive than Henry VII–who looked like a constipated actuary.

In 1592 a young playwright named Shakespeare was eager to ingratiate himself to the public and rich patrons, so he wrote a gushingly Pro-Tudor dramatization of the War of the Roses. The four plays, the Henry VI trilogy and Richard III, are a slapdash concoction of convoluted history and overripe melodrama. In “Henry VI, part III”, Richard is depicted as gleefully waging war when, in fact, he was only three years old.  However inaccurate the plays, the audience loved them.  (Indeed, Richard III is still popular–and today is considered much funnier than Shakespeare’s intentional comedies.) Shakespeare would have been gratified–if amazed–to know that his melodrama has become the common perception of King Richard.

Of course, Richard has his defenders. A number of historians and novelists have attempted heroic exonerations of the vilified king; but it remains an uneven match: their facts against St. More’s reputation and Shakespeare’s talent.   You may number me among the vicarious Yorkists. Let’s deal with the most notorious charge against Richard: the killing of the Little Princes.

I think that Richard is innocent of killing his nephews. They certainly were an inconvenience to him (don’t we all have nephews like that!) but he could have found better ways to remove them than an unexplained disappearance. He could even have blamed the Lancastrian/Tudor partisans for the princes’ deaths. In fact, he should have if they really were dead. However, their disposal was not urgent or even necessary. Parliament had already declared them illegitimate; and there was little political support for them. Their mother’s family, the Woodvilles, was hated by the old nobility.

However Henry VII would have had to kill them. His claims to royal lineage were tenuous and illegitimate. (The Lancastrians had proved obligingly sterile, allowing Tudor–a half-second cousin, once removed, from Wales–to represent the dynasty.) Any Yorkist prince or princess was a threat to him. Other than the Yorkist princess he coerced into marriage, Henry had his in-laws executed, imprisoned or cloistered.

Perhaps Richard had already done him the favor of killing the Princes. But Henry’s behavior was suspicious and incriminating.

It is interesting to note that when Henry VII ascended to the throne, he had Parliament issue a list of Richard’s crimes. The murder of the Princes was not cited, a rather surprising omission. Since Henry married their sister, you think that he have noticed their absence when they didn’t respond to the wedding invitations.

Didn’t anyone notice that the Princes were missing? Perhaps the Queen Mother did. For some reason, she was suddenly imprisoned in 1487 for being a supporter of Richard III. Would she really have supported the man who had murdered her sons? That may have been Henry’s reason for imprisoning her.

In fact, it wasn’t until 1495 and the attempted coup by Perkins Warbeck, a charlatan claiming to be one of the Little Princes, that Henry finally announced the deaths of his brothers-in-law. He also ordered the execution of Richard’s henchman Sir James Tyrrell. The one incongruity with that revelation was that Tyrrell had been a favorite of Henry’s and had enjoyed promotions under the Tudors.

Furthermore, although Henry seemed to know the details of the murders, he didn’t make any effort to exhume the bodies and give them a Christian burial. That gesture of decency didn’t occur until the reign of Charles II.

I am inclined to one theory that would explain Richard’s silence and Henry’s reticence. The crime might have been committed by the Duke of Buckingham, a proclaimed Yorkist partisan and a covert Tudor conspirator. The Duke was in charge of the Tower and had the opportunity to kill the princes. He could have committed the crime and then assured both sides he had done it as a favor to them. He may have been expecting rewards from both sides. However, Richard seemed anything but grateful. The King rebuffed his old ally, driving the Duke to rebellion. The Duke lost the battle and his head. However Richard may have felt too incriminated by his past association to announce the murder of the Princes.

Of course, this is just speculation.

Ironically, while I defend Richard’s innocence, I must admit that Henry VII was one of England’s greatest kings and the founder of a brilliant dynasty.