Cantabrigian teacher and poet Charles Coe died Friday Nov. 21.
The spirit of creativity in Cambridge dimmed last week when longtime resident, teacher and poet Charles Coe died Monday from complications related to prostate cancer surgery. His death was sudden and stunned many. In addition to touching people with his words, often delivered in a deep, mellifluous baritone, Coe offered mentorship, leadership and a sense of community. He was 73.
He was an omnipresent figure in local literary circles: the Mass Poetry Festival, long-running literary salons across Cambridge and Somerville, the Writers’ Room, Black Writers Reading series, arts advocacy boards. If there was a gathering where people were wrestling with words or art or community, chances were good Coe had either helped organize it or slipped quietly into a seat to listen.
The first film from indie stalwart Hal Hartley in more than 10 years – a Kickstarter campaign got it off the ground before a Covid pandemic delay – is a loose, autobiographical reflection on the director’s life and body of work like Almodóvar’s deeply personal “Pain and Glory” (2019). At the center is Joseph Fulton (Bill Sage), a lion in winter edging toward 60 and one-time maker of successful romantic comedies who’s taking a break from the director chair to get his last will and testament together. He also has a desire to put his hands in mother earth, and applies for a job as a cemetery groundskeeper. Through a comedy of miscommunication, Joe’s girlfriend, Muriel (Kim Taff), an actor in Season 14 of her “Wonder Woman”-esque TV series, and his niece and assistant, Veronica (Katelyn Sparks) discover an unopened, confidential letter from a hospital and think it all adds up to Joe dying. Adding fuel to the fire is the subplot about a wannabe screenwriter (Jeremy Hendrik) claiming to be Joe’s son. It’s a stoic, reflective affair with some strong writing. The best moment is when a film studies professor (Aida Johannes) challenges Joe with SAT word salad and Rorschach test reasoning about the meaning of his films. It’s blazingly brilliant, but begs the question as to why Joe’s rom-coms are being intellectualized as if they’re “One Battle After Another.” No offense to rom-coms, but it’s apples and oranges – and Joe, a likable sort, doesn’t really emanate the auteur je ne sais quoi that many in the film seem to heap on him. As to the title, the film begins and ends with a Shackleton-esque-esque ship amid rough seas – a clear metaphor for hitting a patch of turbulence late in life and what to do. It works, even if weakly employed. As with most Hartley (or Mamet, for that matter) films, it’s less about the oblique references and more about matters of the heart and struggling soul.
The text came in at 12:22 in the morning. “I have ur cat. The $$ is now $200.”
Miriam had been unable to sleep that evening, it had been three days since Speedo scampered out the door of their third-floor walk-up and hadn’t returned. It wasn’t the first time the black cat with a white blaze across its face and one white paw went on a “walkabout” as Miriam and Charles affectionately called it. The first time he disappeared Miriam was riddled with angst and emailed the neighborhood listserv at 4:30 in the morning, “Our cat Speedo has gone missing. Have you seen him? We are worried sick. If you see him, please call.” She included her cellphone number and attached her favorite picture of the pet, which was the embodiment of kitty cuteness, though the creature’s piercing green eyes probed the viewer as if the cat knew the beholder’s deepest, darkest secret. Later that day, the McFadden’s son, home from college on a laundry run, found Speedo batting around a balled-up paper bag in the basement. To thank the boy, Miriam and Charles invited the young McFadden up for a brunch of vegetarian black bean chili crowned with poached eggs and hollandaise along with Miriam’s personal pride, home cured lox on bagel crisps with whipped cream cheese and chive. As Miriam arduously whisked the thick yellow sauce, the scene of Charles assembling a bagel as he listened to the boy talk excitedly about his future plans—something outdoors, urban planning, land conservation or maybe renewables—tweaked memories of the weekends that Leah would come home from veterinary school for comfort food and quiet. She laughed inwardly for a second because Charles always overloaded his bagel with a triple spread and a double heaping of onions with capers rolling off a teetering crown of sprouts, and then there was the two layers of her meaty, thick lox, and as usual, a good portion of it ended up in his bushy beard. She was about to do a subtle chin point behind the boy’s back but paused in mid motion as a hot tear welled up and made its way down her cheek and into the hollandaise.
More overnight “Where’s Speedo?” disappearances happened, but the cat always returned the next day for his mid-morning feeding, and seemed to be eerily cognizant that Wednesday, Friday and Sunday, were sardine days as he’d always be there waiting in the kitchen for Miriam, excitedly purring and crashing into her legs, nearly tripping her as she tried to fork a pungent headless filet into the cat’s bowl. As Speedo escape days became more and more, the mode of which, the stealthily trailing of a pant leg of an unwary resident, delivery person or anyone else operating the heavy wooden door that closed with creaking, achey slowness, Miriam and Charles began to fret less, often sharing a glass of crisp kosher white wine and laughing about, “Speedo being Speedo.” “He’s out saving the world,” Charles said one night as he sipped wine and noshed on crackers crowned with a diced mixture of Miriam’s lox, capers and pickles. To Miriam’s non-reaction he reiterated, “I’m serious, I think he morphs into a giant crime-fighting kitty.”
Miriam took a long sip of wine, savored the buttery oak sweetness for a contemplative beat, and then nodded in reluctant agreement.
“See?” Charles said, perching forward in his chair, “I’m telling you, it’s a thing. What do you think his superpower is?”
Again, Miriam regarded the question with pause and said, “Laser beam eyes and saber claws, or maybe, he can command other cats as allies like the rat girl in ‘The Suicide Squad’?”
“A giant starfish and Jim Ignatowski with Christmas tree lights popping out of his head? That movie was utter poop!” Charles bellowed. “Superhero films are ruining cinema.”
“So says the grown-up man who collects kewpie dolls.”
For What it's Worth 