nally does triumph, but by that time, thernmain characters have been shown to bernfar less than admirable and wholly susceptiblernto one or another form of moralrncorruption. This includes the tailor’srnwife, whom McCartney wrongly describesrnas “entirelv immune” to the appealrnof the womanizing agent. Hence,rnthe apparent message praised b}’ McCartneyrn—that good exists and that bad deedsrnhave bad consequences —comes acrossrnas phony, as an artificial add-on. Thernmovie tries in the 11th hour to please thernmoralists in the audience, and some ofrnthem are apparently used to being gratefulrnfor small favors, cjuite happy to spendrnthe other ten hours seeing their principlesrnhonored in the breach. McCartney’srntake on the movie is not withoutrnfoundation, but it is strange that hernshould be seemingly oblivious of thernfilm’s highly questionable kind of moralrnambivalence, its basic dishonest}-.rn— Claes G. RynrnPotomac, MDrnDr. McCartney Replies:rnDr. Ryn takes me to task for overlookingrnthe film’s “basic dishonesty,” “its blatantrnand protracted pandering.” I assume hernis referring especially to Doorman’s inclusionrnof a show-and-tell sex scene betweenrnBrosnan’s character and a Brifish attache.rnI agree: This scene is not artistically justified.rnWe don’t need to see actors getrnnaked and roll around with one anotherrnto know their characters are dissolute or,rnshould they be married, conjugally correct.rnThis information can be communicatedrnquite readily without doffing sornmuch as a cloche. That said, the scene inrnquestion is quite restrained by today’s admittedh’rnlow standards. By m}’ estimate,rnit lasts less than a minute and is shot inrnnearh’ total darkness so that the actors appearrnas blue and white silhouettes, arnpalette choice that emphasizes the coldheartedrnnature of their loveless coupling.rnDr. R}n goes on to charge me with beingrntoo read}’ to applaud any sign ofrnmoral intelligence in the products of anrnotherwise cynically compromised filmrnindustr}’. Well, yes. Under the onslaughtrnof a befouled popular culture, one doesrnsearch for the odd gold nugget in thernmud. Nevertheless I hold with my originalrnjudgement of T/ie Tailor of Panama.rnDespite its glancing concession to currentrnfilm convenfions in the matter of visualizingrnwhat would be better implied,rnthe film is an intelligent and essenfiallyrnmoral satire. With wit and justice, itrnskewers the brand of international powerrnpolitics conducted by the First World inrncollusion with corrupt rulers of the Thirdrnwho are often so willing to exploit andrnabuse the poor of their own lands mercilesslyrnwhile we look the other way. As forrnBrosnan’s character, his brutal use of othersrnfor his own financial aggrandizementrnis critical to the film’s meaning. He incarnatesrnthe evil that well-intentionedrnpeople and their governments let loose inrnthe world when they refuse to considerrnclosely their self-serving policies. Howeverrnimportant our access the PanamarnCanal, is it right that we ignore the inequitiesrnvisited on the local populationrnby those we help stay in power?rnOne more issue. Dr. Ryn reproachesrnme for finding Brosnan’s character “fascinating.”rnFirst, let’s put this in context.rnHaving called him fascinating, I call him arn”moral crefin” in the next sentence. Second,rnwhat else can the spectacle of evil bernbut fascinating? In its presence, we arerntransfixed with fear and wonder not justrnwith regard to the perpetrator at handrnbut—if we’re honest—with its latent appealrnto ourselves. If not, would Milton’srnSatan mean anvihingto us? Would we stillrnbother to read Hawthorne? Would Mr.rnKurtz’s horror still resonate? Would HarryrnLime go on dazzling us with his boundlessrnwillfulness? Eil fascinates us precisely becausernit is the subject of the cenh’al questionrnin our lives: Wliat should we do aboutrnour devilish self-will? The achievement ofrnBoorman’s film and the John le Carre novelrnon which it is based should not be slighted.rnAmong other things, it unmasks the alltoo-rninfluential amoral icon of our time, fliernscreen version of James Bond. Here, hernstands revealed as the repellent thug he reallyrnis. No one will swagger from this filmrnhumming the theme to Goldfinger. I fliinkrnthat’s reason enough to lavish a litfle praise.rnOn Vanquishing HeathensrnWhile I enjoy Chronicles immensely, arnparticular issue sometimes exceeds yourrnhigh standards.rnTimothy Murphy’s Horses For My Fatherrn(June) was, to my taste, the finestrnpiece of American poetry of the last 50rnyears. The seventh stanza was particularlyrnpoignant because it evoked memoriesrnof my mother’s father, who farmed a quarter-rnsection in Caldwell, Idaho, for 40rnyears. From him, I learned a fierce lovernfor the Old Republic, and a reverence forrnbooks and learning. He also taught me tornwork complex mathematical problemsrnwith a framing square—as well as the artrnof rifle shooting with an .03 Springfield.rnIt was also a great treat to read AndreirnNavrozov’s “The Avenging Deity as a RationalrnProjection of the Wounded Ego”rn{Views), which was so well written thatrnmv wife, who is not at all political, foundrnit both cogent and profound. The meritsrnof his “Letter From Venice: Up WithrnPrejudice” {Correspondence) are so selfevidentrnthat they don’t need me to echornthem. This feature is a positive luxury tornread and a treat best enjoyed with a goodrncigar and a little Armagnac.rnLastly, let me add to the sentiments ofrnanother Chronicles reader who said thatrnChronicles was “the college education Irnnever had.” Last month, I travelled tornMassachusetts on business. While there,rnI was invited to dine at a good restaurantrnin Northhampton, the home of SmithrnCollege. After dinner, we went to a localrncollege haunt for a nightcap and somernconversation. It took all of ten minutesrnbefore the enemy was identified.rnI was amazed at how easily a 40-year-oldrnmachinist with a public-high-school education,rnarmed with a five-year running subscriptionrnto Chronicles, could demolish thernarguments (both artistic and political) of anrnamalgamation of lesbians, Wiccans, andrnpierced and tattooed heafliens wifli a compositernmillion-dollars-worth of Ivy Leaguerneducation. On the way out flie door, I hadrnto remind their high priestess, a theater-artsrnmajor at Smith, that very litfle of worfli hadrnbeen penned for the stage in about 400rnyears, and that, for pure drama, EuripidesrnTrojan Women was hard to beat—unlessrnher tastes were more inclined to the Latinrndramatists, in which case she would likernSeneca’s Hecuba more. For good measure,rnI added that Maya Angelou was nornWordswortli, and that what Toni Morrisonrndid should be called typing, not writing.rnI was saddened, though, by the expressionrnof amazement on the faces of myrncompanions at hearing a commoner reciternKeats and Shakespeare and show anrninterest in anything beyond the prosaic.rnIt was the same expression one can imaginernon the faces of savages being shownrnthe use of a phosphorous-tipped match.rnThank you, again, for the opportunityrnto sit at the table with giants.rn—Monte MartinezrnBrigham City, UTrnSEPTEMBER 2001/5rnrnrn