Sam Cohen: Agent Of Destruction.

No, not Sam Cohen, the theater agent. Samuel T. Cohen, inventor of the neutron bomb. The other one may have been involved with bombs, but it was never intentional. According to the obituary by Robert McFadden (NYT 11/2/10) Samuel T. Cohen died at his home this past Sunday at the age of 89. He is survived by his wife, three children and three grandchildren. The irony is that he devoted his life to making sure there were no survivors. The weapon he created, unlike other bombs, was designed to kill people and leave buildings unharmed.

Born in Brooklyn to Jenny and Lazarus Cohen, Sam could, given his father’s name, be excused for thinking that death was not a permanent condition. His father, however, was a Jewish carpenter and, as a group, they tend to be peaceful. More “Turn the other cheek” than, say, “Lock and load.” His mother discouraged young Samuel from breathing through his mouth, believing it was unhealthy. She also forced to him to take daily ice-water showers to toughen him up. She was, in the words of Raymond Chandler, “Crazier than two waltzing mice.” Yet so are a lot of Jewish mothers and they have completely normal children. (Don’t ask me how I know.)

After graduating from UCLA and MIT, Samuel Cohen was chosen to work on the Manhattan Project, where he helped design the nuclear bomb that destroyed Nagasaki. You might think that incinerating civilians would have turned him into a life-long pacifist like Leo Szilard, the project’s founder, or Jacob Bronowski, who switched from mathematics to life sciences after witnessing it’s aftermath. Instead, it acted like an atomic appetizer.

In 1947, Cohen joined the RAND Corporation, a hothouse for Cold War strategy. He bloomed in its atmosphere of overheated speculation and in 1958, while serving as a consultant to Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, he designed the neutron bomb. Although “Many technical features of what the Pentagon called an ‘enhanced radiation weapon’ had been known for years, and scientists had theorized about a nuclear device that would release most of its energy as radiation” it took Sam Cohen to see the possibilities. (Insert “killer app” joke of your choice.) His patient cultivating bore fruit when the military successfully tested the neutron bomb. (Atomic testing is easy, you just blow the crap out of a bunch of dummies. How do you test a weapon that leaves structures untouched while killing every living thing in its path? Wouldn’t that require . . . living things? Hmmm.)

In 1969, five hundred thousand people marched for peace in Washington, D.C. Anti-war sentiment even breached the walls of the RAND Corporation. One of their top military analysts was suffering crushing doubts about his chosen profession. That’s right, Daniel Ellsberg, the man who leaked “The Pentagon Papers.” Samuel Cohen left that year to insure the future of his deadly invention. “. . . he relentlessly promoted the neutron bomb for most of his life, writing books and articles, conferring with presidents and cabinet officials, taking his case to Congressional committees, scientific bodies and international forums.” He also defended it when necessary. “Mr. Cohen called his bomb a ‘sane’ and ‘moral’ weapon . . . He insisted that many critics misunderstood or purposely misrepresented his ideas for political, economic or mercenary reasons.” (Mercenary in the sense of greedy and materialistic. Not, obviously, being paid to kill someone.) As an advocate, Samuel Cohen was operating outside his area of expertise. Fortunately – for the world –he was lousy at it.

“Washington rejected the bomb repeatedly. The Kennedy administration said it might jeopardize a test-ban moratorium. The Johnson administration said it’s use might raise the specter of Hiroshima – Asians again slaughtered by American nuclear bombs – drawing worldwide condemnation. President Jimmy Carter said development might impede disarmament prospects. In 1981, President Ronald Reagan ordered 700 nuclear warheads built to oppose Soviet tank forces in Europe . . . But deployment to the North Atlantic alliance was cancelled after a storm of antinuclear protest across Europe. President George Bush ordered the stockpile scrapped.” Was it Cohen’s fault for failing to convince them or did events conspire against him? Who cares? The neutron bomb was neutered.

Did Samuel T. Cohen experience any regrets about his devotion to death? Apparently not – although he many chances to do so. He lived a long time and went to his own death untroubled – except for one thing. The neutron bomb was never accepted into any of the world’s arsenals. His entire career as a bomb designer was, ultimately, a dud.

2010 Primaries: When DId Voting Become Ironic?

Is it me or is there something "Not Ready For Prime Time" about Carl Paladino and Christine O'Donnell?

Carl Paladino, Republican candidate for Governor of New York, likes to share ". . . racist jokes and pornographic images, espoused turning state prisons into dormitories where inmates can be given classes on hygiene, and defended an ally's comparison of the Assembly Speaker, Sheldon Silver, who is Jewish to an "Antichrist or a Hitler." (NYT 9/15) Let the record show, however, that he defeated former congressman Rick Lazio for the nomination. Lazio, the pride of Long Island, makes that other pride of Long Island, former Senator Al D'Amato, look like Alexander the Great.

Christine O'Donnell, Republican candidate to fill Vice-President Joe Biden's seat in the Senate, ". . . has struggled for years with personal finance problems - she has reported earnings of only $5,800 for most of this year and last and she has defaulted on her mortgage - and fudged her educational background and former campaign achievement." She also founded an "...abstinence organization that denounced masturbation as a form of adultery" and has been criticized by Karl Rove (top White House advisor when Al Gore was elected and Dick Cheney was President) as "unelectable, untruthful and 'nutty.'" (NYT 9/16) That she defeated Rep. Michael N. Castle, one of Delaware's most popular and longest-serving Republicans, says, perhaps, more about the state than about her.

True, neither has been elected yet and Mr. Paladino has a formidable opponent in Andrew Cuomo, New York State Attorney General and son of former Governor, Mario Cuomo. Ms. O'Donnell will face New Castle County Executive Chris Coons in the Delaware Senate race - unless they find her legs sticking out of a mulcher first. Not that the Republicans would ever stoop to dirty tricks, but . . . if I were Christine O'Donnell, I'd keep my eye on Karl Rove.

Fashion Week or Fashion Strong?

You can look at fashion as art, industry or a form of entertainment. You can even look at it as clothing. I prefer to look at it through the eyes of photographer, Richard Avedon.

Avedon's work for Harper's Bazaar magazine in the late Forties and early Fifties is uniquely elegant and sophisticated because the people in it express a certain maturity. They smoke and drink and stay out late with authority. They wear evening clothes in a way that says, "What else would you wear in the evening?" Scenes in casinos, nightclubs and fine restaurants suggest that whatever happened to these people (and by implication, an awful lot did) wouldn't be wasted on them. There's nothing tentative or naive about them and they certainly don't worship a Youth Culture. These people enjoy their adult privileges. In fact, they enjoy a lot of privileges because they are unself-consciously elite. They aren't monsters of entitlement, they are gods and goddesses of it. Look at them. Suzy Parker and Dorian Leigh don't live "next door" and they are, most emphatically, not "girls." Dovima is not trying to convince you that she's sixteen. Young as they are, they're women of the world.

Another strong element in Avedon's fashion photography is movement. He either catches his people in mid-action or in the moment just before or after. Even when they're posing or sitting or leaning, there's a tension to his photographs - the tension of a dancer balancing on one foot. More than a ballerina, in fact, the dancer his pictures suggest is Martha Graham. Partly, it's the grandly sweeping fashions of the time. To mark a sharp change from wartime austerity, Christian Dior's "New Look" employed extravagant amounts of fabric. To wear these clothes - and not look like you're wearing a costume - requires equally sweeping gestures and a strong degree of conviction expressed in a detached, almost abstract, way. Since Avedon, Graham and Dior were contemporaries, mutual influence is a possibility.

Avedon didn't work alone, of course. He collaborated with - indeed, owed his career to - some rather exceptional people. The fashion director of Harper's Bazaar, Diana Vreeland; Design director, Alexei Brodovitch and the magazine's editor, a woman with the appetizing name of Carmel Snow. Not only did they recognize Avedon's talent when he was twenty one, TWENTY ONE, they kept him busy and happy for the next twenty years. The fashions themselves are more than major contributors to these photographs, they are the raison d'etre. Yet, I don't want to go into detail. Any discussion of fashions then and now is bound to become a pissing match between fathers and sons, founders and heirs, mentors and students. Suffice it to say that Christian Dior, Balenciaga and their peers were at their peaks and produced exquisite work.

Then, there are the women. Take Dorian Leigh, considered by many to be the first supermodel. A 1949 photograph of her wearing a coat by Dior shows why. She is swaddled up to her neck in a coat with a fur collar and voluminous sleeves. Gloves and a small, fur hat complete the ensemble. A small dog sits patiently in her lap as she sits in the back of a convertible or open carriage, next to a large hatbox. All the movement is internal. She may be sitting, but her mind is racing. What is Dorian Leigh thinking as she gazes down pensively at the smoke curling up from the cigarette clasped in a long, elegant holder? Is she worried, bored or remembering something? Introspecting or waiting for someone? She's not smiling. Does that mean she's unhappy or just momentarily distracted? Is the way the smoke seeps out between her barely parted lips the hottest thing since nuclear fusion? If modeling objectifies women, then Dorian Leigh is a novel - by Colette.

Before we give in completely to the nostlgia induced by these pictures, we may want to consider the society that produced them. It isn't pretty. Not one of the socially progressive movements that we know today was even in existence back then. Racial segregation was legal, antisemitism widely and openly practiced and most of the women alive, Dorian Leigh included, were born without the right to vote. Not a single democratic or equalizing impulse had any influence - including the G.I. Bill of Rights. All the G.I. bill proves is that, in this country, you have to kill someone before the government will help the middle class. Of course, all that's really necessary to fall out of love with the era is to consider what they ate. There was no Italian food, only spaghetti. No Chinese, only chow mein and people smacked their lips over Chicken a la King. This is the kind of food that made Julia Child historically inevitable. Though we may admire the beauty that these ugly conditions produced, it's very hard to feel nostalgia for the real world of that time.

Not impossible, however. If life in 1949 was nasty and brutish if you fell short of the upper class, it was a much bigger world for everyone. Take Paris, the background for many of Avedon's most compelling fashion fantasties. There were far fewer ways to experience the French capital in 1949 than there are today. No television, computers, internet, cell phones, iPods, iPads or DVDs. Tourism, halted by World War II, was only beginning to revive. Commercial air travel was still in its adolescense, not its second delinquenthood like today. So, Richard Avedon didn't have to make Paris seem exotic - it truly was. There's a freshness to these photographs, a sparkle to the City of Light, that appeals to our jaded eyes. Not innocence exactly, more like an innocent view of experience that we can only see in retrospect.

Enough loitering in the past, where are the Avedons of today? The first place to look would be the Vogue and Harper's Bazaar magazines of today. (The former assuming pre-eminence after an exodus of stars - including Vreeland and Avedon - from the latter.) Look carefully, however, because you may not recognize them. With the exception of putting Blake Lively on the cover - something which, in my opinion, should be done all the time forever - they look rather, well, commercial. Lot of words, typefaces, colors and, occasionally, a banner across the entire affair called, appropriately, a "violator." It's easy for photograph to be overwhelmed, for fashion and style to get lost. Inside is the usual hash of demi-news and disguised marketing. (Thinly disguised, at best.) The fashions spreads show the usual twelve-year-old models, mugged by their hair and make-up stylists and left to strut against a colored backdrop. Clothes? Yes they're wearing clothes. One particularly edgy layout shows the backdrop itself. You can see that the models are in a photographer's studio. Edgy.

I realize that this comparison is unfair in several ways. We're taking the cream of twenty years work and comparing it with random issues of a magazine. I'm also aware, having worked in advertising, that pragmatic, marketing decisions must be made. And the pressures facing Vogue today are not the same as sixty years ago. Massive differences in style, though, overcome the differences in selection and presentation.

Style? What style? Thanks to Avedon and Harper's Bazaar, we know exactly what was considered stylish in the Forties and Fifties. We have a perfectly rendered set of fantasies that conveys it. What about now? What is stylish in 2010? Is urbanity still valued - even though our shrinking and interconnected world puts it, literally, at our fingertips. How about maturity? Has the Youth Culture, propped up by plastic surgeons and the cosmetics industry, slammed the door on adulthood - or are entitled Boomers trying to close the door on youth as they age? Do people still aspire to elegance and sophistication - or have fifty years of social advancement leveled the field until no one wants to play anymore? Have we been traveling in coach so long that all we can dream about is legroom? I hope not. Day-to-day life is not so rich that we can do without dreams. Life is not so full of good taste that "Jersey Shore" is a relief.

A Story For Rosh Hashanah.

All happy families are alike; each unhappy family in nineteenth century Russia is Jewish. Especially in the little village of Anatevka, where, on this day in 1875, Count Vronsky is leading a pogrom. That means he and his regiment of cavalry are killing every Jew in sight. Vronsky has the local milkman, Tevye, by the beard and is raising his saber, when the frightened man pleads, “Why me? I’m just a poor milkman.”

“You may well ask,“ replies Vronsky, “I’ll tell you. I don’t know, but it’s a tradition!” The cavalry join him in a lusty chorus of “Tradition.”

In a Moscow train station, it’s love at first sight for Count Vronsky and Anna Karenina. Her chiseled features part the steam like an icebreaker. He’s no zhlub himself (he’s a colonel) and exceptionally dashing in his uniform. Anna, however, rejects him because she has a husband and child back in St. Petersburg. In addition to getting his heart broken, Vronsky sees a man run over by a train and his mother arrives for a long visit. “Now I Have Everything,” he sings.

When it’s time for Anna to return home, Vronsky insists on joining her and won’t take nyet for an answer. That plus quitting his regiment are enough to overwhelm Anna’s fragile morality. They

arrive in

St. Petersburg on a Sunday - to the evident joy of her son, a noisome cherub of the Freddy

Bartholomew variety and the

seething displeasure of her

husband, who looks like Basil

Rathbone and acts like Dick

Cheney. A high-ranking

paskudnyak in the Czar’s

government, he’s a proud man.

He’s also not into swinging, so

he gives his wife an ultimatum:

either give up Vronsky or never

see your son again. She agrees

to stop seeing Vronsky, but

secretly wishes her husband

would die in a samovar

explosion. “Sabbath Prayer.”

When the house of cards that

Anna calls her character

collapses in record time, she

and Vronsky are lovers once

more. Seeing no future in St. Petersburg, they plan to run away together. London or Paris, anywhere as long as it’s “Far From The Home That I love.” They decide on Venice and in no time, they’re canoodling on the Grand Canal. To further escape detection, they pretend to be a Jewish couple from Fairlawn, New Jersey. Toasting each other with Bellinis at Harry’s Bar, they sing, “L’Chaim.”

Meanwhile, back in St. Petersburg, Anna’s husband goes to the matchmaker and demands his money back.

“I got you a wife who looks like Greta Garbo, “ she yells, “I should

have charged you double!”

“But she’s cheating on me with a man who looks like Frederick March!”

“I didn’t say you’d be happy. I’m not Doctor Philsky.”

Mr. Karenin pleads his case musically:

“Matchmaker/Matchmaker/Make me another match.

Find me another find/Catch me another catch.”

“Listen, Kerensky –“

“Karenin.”

“Whatever. I want my customers to be happy, but I can’t start giving refunds or I’ll go out of business.”

“Then how about a wife – for the night.”

“I’m a matchmaker, not a pimp!”

“And the difference is?”

“Making me angry won’t help.”

“Sorry.”

“Mr. Korsakov –“

“Karenin.”

“Whatever. I’m not out to cheat anyone, so, I’ll give you half your money back. Half! But you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone. Okay? “

Karenin agrees and sings, “Miracle of Miracles.” Then he goes home and tells his son that the reason the boy’s motheris missing is because she’s dead. The winsome tot refuses to believe him. Preferring, instead, to believe that it’s a “Rumor.”

Anna Karenina has no money of her own and Count Vronsky is rich in title only, so they run through their cash presto. On the train back to St. Petersburg, Vronsky muses on what their life would be like “If I Were A Rich Man.”

Anna is overjoyed to see her son again. He responds with a display of filial devotion matched only, perhaps, by Anthony Perkins in “Psycho.” As Anna is leaving, she meets her husband coming up the stairs. He banishes her forever, refuses to give her a divorce and tells her that she’s gained weight. She reprises, “Far From The Home That I love.”

Fortunately, Count Vronsky has a friend, Madame Ranevskaya, who invites the couple to stay at her country home. Anna loves spending time in the cherry orchard, but Vronsky, a man of action, grows restless. He tells Anna that his old regiment is planning a pogrom in Lithuania and that he’d like to join them.

“That’s just an excuse,” she says, “You want to leave me.”

“No, it’s very important that I go. There’s a cantor and kosher slaughterer who must be nipped in the bud before he has great grandchildren.”

“Admit it. You’re bored with me and can’t wait to leave.”

“It’s a small town near Vilna. We’ll demolish it quickly and I’ll come right back. I promise.”

“Do you love me?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you love me?”

“Do I love you?/With no cherries left to pick/

And there’s trouble back in town/You’re upset/

You’re worn out/go inside/go lie down/

Maybe it’s indigestion?”

“Vronsky, I’m asking you a question/

Do you love me?”

The Count is so frustrated that, instead of answering, he picks up an axe and chops down a local merchant named Lopatkin. (This later turns out to have been a good idea, but that’s another story.)

Vronsky goes back to Moscow and rejoins his regiment. Regretting their argument,

Anna follows. She gets to the train station just in time. His train is about to leave, when Vronsky sees her. He jumps off and they embrace. As they apologize and promise to love each other, the train starts to move. Vronsky is so happy, he reprises, “Now, I Have Everything.” The train begins to speed up, but before he can jump back on, three

women named Hodel, Tseital and Chava push him under the train, killing him. They are Tevye’s daughters. Anna Karenina briefly considers throwing herself under the same train, but comes to her senses. Taking the long view, she sings the touching, “Sunrise, Sunset.”

G.M. CEO Wants I.P.O? NFW.

General Motors is a colony of the United States and they want their independence. Should we give it to them? I say no. According to an article by Nick Bunkley in The New York Times (8/6/10) “The chief executive of General Motors, Edward E. Whitacre Jr., said Thursday that G.M. wanted Washington to sell their entire stake during an initial public offering.” I don’t think G.M. is ready. Some colonies go on to become robust, independent nations – the United States, for instance. Others become unstable, third-world countries run by corrupt, tin pot dictators and produce nothing but terrorists. I would put G.M. in the second category.

What does G.M. gain by this proposed I.P.O? Not money. That goes to the people who sell the stock. We the people. So, what’s in it for them? “We want the government out, period,” states Mr.Whitacre. “We don’t want to be known as Government Motors.” He goes on to say that eliminating government ownership would be good for employee morale and would improve G.M.’s image. Stirring phrases of nationalism and self-determination if I ever heard them. Who thinks that Mr. Whitacre is the next Robespierre and G.M is the next France? Anyone?

Why don’t I have more confidence in G.M? Maybe it’s because they went bankrupt and didn’t change management. That before the Obama administration lent them $65 billion ($43 billion of which was converted into 61% ownership during G.M.’s bankruptcy) The Bush administration lent $20 billion, most of which is not expected to be recovered. Mr. Whitacare, of course, thinks, “our future is pretty bright.” Hinting (no figures until next week) that second-quarter earnings would surpass their first-quarter profit of $865 million. I’m sure he’s right – about the earnings. I’m sure they’ll be healthy, even glowing. What are they chances they won’t be? Figures that might be a tad more reliable show that the last time G.M reported a profit was in 2007, when the worst economy since the Depression was only starting. An economy, by the way, that usually discourages people from buying new cars. Not according to Mr. Whitacre. He claims that G.M. is scrambling to meet the demand for new Equinoxes and Lacrosses. Lacrosse? Like the Native American sport? I hope it wasn’t invented by Chief Pontiac.

Suppose The United States does grant independence to General Motors, who will manage the I.P.O? Goldman Sachs? Yeah, that’s what this country needs – to get into bed with Larry Blankfein. (Hint: He won’t respect us in the morning.) Remember, too, that I.P.O. stands for Initial Public Offering. Initial? For G.M. stock? You might as well talk about Larry King’s “initial” wife.

Don’t get me wrong. If this I.P.O. does take place, I’ll definitely need a stockbroker. Not to buy G.M. stock, but to short it.

This Weak With Christiane Amanpour.

I never watched This Week With George Stephanopoulos. (I don’t watch any television on Sunday morning. Unless it involves toast, I’m not available until noon.) Yet, I wish I had seen the debut of This Week With Christiane Amanpour this past Sunday (8/1). Not all of it, just the part when Ms. Amanpour interviews Nancy Pelosi. According to Alessandra Stanley in today’s (8/2) New York Times, the show’s host confronts the Speaker of the House with the Time cover photo (7/29) of a woman mutilated by the Taliban and asks if America will abandon the women of Afghanistan. When did Sunday morning talk shows become an extreme sport?

I admire Nancy Pelosi. Anyone who can wring legislation from that dirty mop called the House of Representatives gets my respect. As for Christiane Amanpour, she’s a justifiably famous and respected foreign correspondent. What’s more, she has a British accent, which, among broadcast journalists, connotes authority. At least, it did until Lara Logan began to studiously undermine it. So, why would an otherwise civilized person like Ms. Amanpour drop an earless and noseless woman in Ms. Pelosi’s lap? Did she expect fresh insights? Off script revelations? Did she think The Speaker of the House would go rogue? Instead “She made her guest recoil and look away,” Ms. Stanley writes, and “Ms. Pelosi, though startled, gave fractured, politic responses.”

I know what Ms. Pelosi should have said when asked if our country will abandon the women of Afghanistan. “To the extent that the U.S. entered Afghanistan in order to protect women, no. To the extent that any war in the world has ever been fought to improve the status of women, no.” Does Ms. Amanpour honestly think that ending the mutilation of women, a profoundly worthy goal, has ever been our objective in Afghanistan? First, believing that there was a goal or strategy when we began fighting there is beyond generous. Second, if it’s a goal now, you can bet it’s well behind stopping the killing and maiming of American soldiers. The horrifying debasement of women deserves ten Sunday morning programs. Yet, Ms. Amanpour relegates it to one question intended – in lurid, tabloid style - to embarrass a member of the current administration. If she thinks that will make it a national priority, that she can effect policy in this way, Ms. Amanpour is foreign to the ways of Washington and has no correspondence to “Network hosts . . . chosen for their experience and air of calm detachment.” People like, well, George Stephanopoulos.

Sun-Sachs Boulevard

Ric Burns, who created the PBS series “The Civil War” along with his brother Ken, is shooting a documentary about the Wall Street firm. Goldman Sachs Group Inc. is paying for the film, has editorial control and is overseeing the project through its marketing department.

Wall Street Journal

7/24/10

EXT HIGHWAY MORNING

A New York City Police car and an ambulance are stuck in traffic, sirens sounding and lights flashing.

RIC BURNS

(Voiceover) Yes, this is the Westside Highway, Manhattan, New York City. It’s about ten o’clock in the morning. That’s the homicide squad, complete with detectives and tourists with cell phones. A murder has been reported in one of those big, modern skyscrapers in Lower Manhattan. You’ll read all about on your iPads, I’m sure, because an old-time bank is involved, one of the biggest. But before you hear it all distorted and blown out of proportion, before Fox News gets their hands on it, maybe you’d like to hear the facts, the whole truth . . .

INT POOL MORNING

RIC BURNS is floating face down in a pool.

BURNS

(VO) If so, you’ve come to the right party ... You see the body of a young man was found floating in the pool of their executive health club. Nobody important, really. Just a filmmaker with a couple of documentaries to his credit. Poor dope, he always wanted a pool. Well, in the end he got himself a pool, only the price turned out to be a little high. Let’s go back a couple of hours.

FLASHBACK

EXT OFFICE BUILDING MORNING

A large, glass-walled office building, glinting in the sun.

BURNS

(VO) My name is Ric Burns. I created the PBS series, “The Civil War” together with my older brother, Ken. Or maybe you saw my documentary series about

New York City? They were both very popular – a long time ago. My current documentary, The History of Lint, has been taking years to make. The dry cleaner sponsoring it backed out. I also made an expensive mistake. Apparently, Linzer tarts aren’t made with lint. So, my whole trip to Austria was a waste. I had to hock my cameras to fly back in either the baggage compartment or first class.I can’t tell anymore.

INT OUTER OFFICE MORNING

RIC BURNS sits patiently in an executive’s outer office.

BURNS

(VO) That’s why I’m here – at Goldman Sachs. I’m going to film a history of them for corporate use. Okay, it’s not as interesting as lint, but it’ll get my cameras out of hock.

A tall, bald man in a black suit and rimless glasses enters.

ASSISTANT

The Chairman will see you now.

INT INNER OFFICE MORNING

LLOYD C. BLANKFEIN sits behind a large desk. The ASSISTANT stands at attention next to him. RIC sits opposite them.

BURNS

(VO) All chief executives decorate their offices the same way. It’s the bland overstatement of someone who can afford the best designers in the world and ignore them. This CEO is younger than I expected and bald. His Italian suit hugs him without irony. He’s looking at me with the squint of man who can read the date on a quarter at fifty paces. The assistant has a resentful look. Like he’s just eaten some bad beluga.

BLANKFEIN

I want you to make a film about the history of our company. It should be dignified, but not boring. Positive, but not a puff piece.

BURNS

I’m very expensive.

BLANKFEIN

I’ll make it worth your while. But I’m warning you, don’t charge me a fancy price because I’m rich.

BURNS

Making it positive could be a challenge.

BLANKFEIN

Why? Because of the government? Those fools, they’ll ruin everything! We had the pockets of the world, their wallets, but that wasn’t enough for Washington. They wanted legality, respectability. So the SEC opened its mouth and out came ethics, morals, principles. In my day, we didn’t have ethics. We had traders!

BURNS

(VO) Something told me to get my money in advance, but something, equally strong, told me to get out of there – fast.

Ric starts to rise.

BLANKFEIN

Where are you going?

BURNS

I, uh, have to get my equipment.

BLANKFEIN

Don’t be silly. You can use this.

Lloyd throws a smart phone on the table.

BURNS

What’s that?

BLANKFEIN

An iPhuc. There are only two in the world. Steve Jobs has the other one.

BURNS

Does it shoot movies?

BLANKFEIN

It pans, tilts, dollies and vorkapichs.

BURNS

Wow.

Lloyd points to the lower left corner.

BLANKFEIN

Just don’t touch it there.

BURNS

Why not?

BLANKFEIN

I had a jelly omelette for breakfast.

BURNS

A jelly omelette? Lloyd Blankfein has gone crazy! The world must know.

Ric rises again. The assistant takes the iPhuc.

BLANKFEIN

Where are you going now?

BURNS

I, uh, have to do some research.

BLANKFEIN

Hank will tell you everything you need to know.

The assistant nods.

BURNS

Great. I’ll make an appointment.

BLANKFEIN

You’ll stay right here. I’m sure you’ll be comfortable. Hank, show him to his room.

Ric and Hank climb a grand staircase.

INT PRIVATE ROOM MORNING

A beautifully furnished bedroom with a dazzling view of downtown Manhattan.

HANK

There’s even a private gym.

HANK opens a door.

INT GYM MORNING

RIC and HANK stand by a full-size pool.

BURNS

That Lloyd Blankfein, he’s quite a character.

HANKS

He’s one of the greatest. But you’re not a banker, you wouldn’t know. Hedge funds hang on his every word. His Facebook page has seventeen thousand friends. Martha Stewart once bribed him with a year’s worth of cupcakes just for one stock tip.

BURNS

How do you know so much?

HANKS

I was once Chairman of Goldman Sachs – before I was –

BURNS

Secretary of the Treasury. You’re Henry Paulson!

HANK

I’m glad to see that I still enjoy a modest degree of reknown.

BURNS

Why this job? Why put up with the humiliation? You can do so much better.

HANK

Beats working for Citigroup.

BURNS

(VO) Paulson is nuts, too. No one will believe me.

Ric turns to leave and, as he does, Hank presses a button on the iPhuc. Two electrodes connected to wires shoot out of the phone and hit Ric in the back, electrocuting him. Ric falls, face first, into the pool. He floats there, not moving. LLOYD enters the gym.

BLANKFEIN

I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. Burns.

THE END

The Role of Lloyd C. Blankfein Will Be Played By Mel Gibson.

“Goldman Sachs has agreed to pay $550 million to settle federal claims that it misled investors” according to an article in The New York Times (7/15/10) by Sewell Chan and Louise Story. Yet, their stock has gone up, clients haven’t left and their chairman and chief executive, Lloyd C. Blankfein still has his job. Why?

First, let’s dispense with that fine business. Goldman Sachs acts like Murder Inc. (“Goldfellas” TFT 8/6/09) and they get a slap on the wrist. Not even. Though an historic sum by S.E.C. standards, $550 million, as Graham Bowley writes in the same issue, “Represents a mere 15 days of profits, based on Goldman’s 2009 earnings.” That’s not punishment. That’s sending their profits on vacation.

As for the 5% rise in their stock price, who cares? I don’t own Goldman Sachs stock and don’t know anyone who does. Do you? Warren Buffet cares, but I don’t own Berkshire Hathaway stock and don’t know anyone who does. Do you? (“A New Financial Model For Wall Street” TFT 12/12/09)

What concerns me are the clients of Goldman Sachs. How can they trust a company that agrees, under pressure, not to commit intentional fraud in the future. That’s always against the law. You shouldn’t need the U.S. government to, shall we say, remind you. The one “mistake” Goldman “regrets” is that “marketing materials contained incomplete information.” Suppose you're a client and you decide to trust them? How do you know that your “marketing materials” will be “complete?” That your competition isn’t getting the complete ones or, maybe, no one is except Goldman itself. (“Letter To Our Clients From Gold Ransacks” TFT 1/13/10)

The next business to hire Goldman Sachs will be in the same position as the next woman to date Mel Gibson. By now, everyone knows that he’s a colossal jerk and that his attitude towards women falls somewhere between that of the Roman Catholic Church and the Taliban. (Mel, by the way, is a very religious Catholic. Not that there’s a connection. Not that there isn’t.) Yet, you know there will be a next woman, if not many, because, after all, he’s a movie star! He’s rich, famous, talented and, before he started looking like a dingo’s breakfast, incredibly handsome with blue eyes to die for. In his movies, he still is. The fact that if you displease him – in any way – he’ll twist your head off and have sex with your throat doesn’t seem to bother these women.

It’s the same with Goldman. They’re rich, famous, powerful and have, for many years, been the most profitable financial firm in the country. In the pecking order of Wall Street, they’re the big pecker. How do you know they won't break your corporate heart? Oh, that’s right, you’re too smart and tough to be taken in. You wouldn’t invest in anything as risky as subprime mortages. Not you. That’s for fools like Lehman Brothers or Bear Stearns or AIG.

Still want to ride the tiger? Consider the picture of Lloyd Blankfein that accompanies those articles in The New York Times. The one by Chris Kliponis of Bloomberg News. See that gimlet-eyed expression of skepticism? The last time I saw it was in the movie, The Pawnbroker (1965). Rod Steiger, in the title role, was giving that look to the poor African-American woman trying to convince him that her diamond ring was real.

The point, anyway, is not that you can outsmart your banker, but that it shouldn’t be necessary. You shouldn’t have to worry about him betraying you. If you’re a Hollywood starlet, you shouldn’t worry that the handsome Australian you’re dating could turn into a Tasmanian Devil. I’m not pushing for legislation or punitive fines because both can be subverted. Indeed, an entire political party exists for that purpose. Nor do I expect a radical shift in human nature. As a society, though, we should not reward unethical behavior by giving the companies involved our business and, implicitly or explicitly, our respect. And, as a group, financial firms like Goldman Sachs and CEOs like Lloyd Blankfein, should, at the very least, catch up with the rest of the corporate world. The part of it that uses marketing to compete for customers. They know that a reputation, what they call a “brand”, is a very valuable, but very fragile, asset. It must be cultivated diligently and handled carefully. They know it’s a long trip to the throne and a short one to the toilet. And there’s no turning back.

Rogue Scholarship.

Like Moliere's Monsieur Jourdain who was shocked to discover that he’d been speaking prose all his life, I’ve had a second career and wasn’t aware of it. In addition to being a writer, I am also a placebo scholar. I didn’t know such a thing existed until I read about it in today’s (6/22/10) New York Times. Actually, I didn’t read the article. Like a true placebo scholar, I read the teaser, “Scientist at work: Tor D. Wager, placebo scholar” and feel entitled to expound upon it.

The classic example of a placebo is the sugar pill that, somehow, cures the subjects of a medical experiment as well as the real drug. Another example would be my knowledge of French. I’m a dab hand at “menu” French (the only surprise I get in a French restaurant is if the food is bad) but, in conversation, I use what Raymond Chandler would call “A sort of broken-down patois which is something like the way a Swiss waiter speaks.” Yet, it’s enough to get me through a vacation in France with only a few mild reprimands. Voila, le placebo.

Okay, I’m being a little modest. I can, for instance, puzzle out what the characters are saying – and singing – in the classic French film, Les Parapluies de Cherbourg (Lay Para-PLOOEYS duh SHARE-burg.) If you haven't seen this movie, I confess that it’s not exactly written by Albert Camus. Although, that would be interesting: Boy meets girl on beach in Cherbourg, Boy beats girl to death with umbrella (le parapluie) . . . on second thought, there’s probably no future for L’etranger de Cherbourg.

Another example would be my knowledge of nineteeth-century literature. Take Anna Karenina: I’ve never read it, but I have seen the film version several times and strongly believe that reading the novel would be a lesser experience if I didn't see Greta Garbo in my head. The same goes for Madame Bovary (Jennifer Jones) Pride and Prejudice (Greer Garson) and Moby Dick (no women – a complete waste.)

Is placebo scholarship as socially useful as the medical kind? No, but only because real scholarship, as they say, is not the cure for cancer. Look at higher education, it’s hardly changed since the Middle Ages. We still study some form of the trivium (grammar, rhetoric and logic) and the quadrivium (arithmetic, music, astronomy and geometry) but with an overlay of British imperial training and the German mania for organization. None of which has anything even remotely to do with the way people learn. About the only thing that the modern university does well is serve as, in the words of Erik Erikson, a “psycho-social moratorium.” That is, it delays emotional maturity until society is able to absorb young adults into the labor pool. As such, however, it’s a wonderful laboratory for advancing sex, drugs and rock-and-roll and thoroughly deserves our heart-felt gratitude.

Thus, I’d like to welcome the scientist, Tor D. Wager, and everyone else to the ranks of placebo scholarship. It’s a cheap distinction, but not a small one.

Cap and Frown.

Another spring and no has asked me to speak at their graduation. It doesn’t have to be a big or fancy school and I don’t expect an honorary degree although one would be nice. I just want to share my wisdom. The speech is already written, so I’m waiting for an invitation. Until then, all you wisdom seekers can read the text below.

In the story, "Trouble Is My Business, " Raymond Chandler writes, "Anna Halsey was about two hundred pounds of middle-aged putty-faced woman in a black tailor made suit. Her eyes were shiny black buttons, her cheeks were as soft as suet and about the same color. She was sitting behind a black glass desk the size of Napoleon's Tomb and she was smoking a cigarette in a black holder that was not quite as long as a rolled umbrella. She said, 'I need a man.'"

Beginnings are important. They can tell us a lot about the rest of the story, even determine it to a certain extent, but no one should presume to guess the end from the beginning. Especially with a mystery. The same is true of you. It's fine to have ambitions and feel you have a grip on the future, but not too tight. A relaxed grip is best.

"I need a man good-looking enough to pick up a dame who has a sense of class, but he's got to be tough enough to swap punches with a power shovel. I need a guy who can act like a bar lizard and backchat like Fred Allen, only better, and get hit on the head with a beer truck and think some cutie in the leg-line topped him with a breadstick."

This passage is both prescriptive and descriptive. It prescribes the sort of man that Anna Halsey claims to need. Indeed, the sort of person that any man would proudly be. Right down to knowing who Fred Allen is. But this passage also describes Anna as a woman who knows what she wants. Not literally, of course, but vividly and explicitly. That's a good quality. Have goals, but don't get hung up on specifics. Note that Anna never says why she want this man or even if she expects to finds him, yet her sense of direction is firm.

"It's a cinch', I said. 'You need the New York Yankees, Robert Donat and the Yacht Club Boys.'"

Don't ever take yourself too seriously. Who was Robert Donat? He was a lot of people, he was an actor.

"You might do', Anna said, "cleaned up a little."

You might, too. Thank you. And Good luck.

Unmatched Saki.

The news has been so dull lately that I’ve been forced to read. Books. What’s more, literature. It’s a sad state of affairs. I’d much rather watch network news than think, but they keep re-using the same, tired plots. Wall Street is still being written by Honore de Balzac (“Great fortunes conceal great crimes”) and American politics was summed up ninety years ago by William Butler Yeats (“The best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity.”) As for the current straits of the Catholic Church, it’s a simple case of “Do as I say, but don’t tell anyone.” Everything else is Papal bull.

I’ve already written about my attempt to read all eight hundred and seventeen pages of Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy (“Anatevka Karenina” 6/20/09) so don’t expect anything as ambitious this time. Instead, I’ve gone back to one of my favorite short stories, “Sredni Vashtar” by Saki (H.H. Munro.)

You don’t hear much about Saki these days. That’s a shame because he’s a wonderful writer and deserves to be more popular. He was a contemporary (1870-1916) of Oscar Wilde and arguably his equal in wit. Saki, however, excelled at short stories. Clever, as well as witty, they combine carefully observed satire and black humor with a strong sense of earthbound fantasy and a respect for surprise endings. His nearest rivals in this form are Ambrose Bierce, John Collier and Roald Dahl. Saki’s life also had a surprise ending. Like Wilde, he died tragically at the age of forty six while in France. Although, in his case, he was fighting World War I, not the British legal system.

“Sredni Vashtar” is about a young boy named Conradin, who lives with his cruel, older cousin, Mrs. De Ropp. Using his poor health as an excuse, she acts more like his guard then his guardian. She rarely lets him out of the house and never out of her sight. To Conradin, “She represented those three fifths of the world that are necessary and disagreeable and real; the other two fifths, in perpetual antagonism to the foregoing, were summed up in himself and his imagination.” She won’t even make him toast. Her excuse is that it’s bad for him, though “In her honestest moments… she might have been dimly aware that thwarting him ‘for his good’ was a duty that she that she did not find particularly irksome.”

For companionship, he relies on two pets hidden in a backyard shed: a hen “On which the boy lavished an affection that had scarcely another outlet” and a ferret. He gives the ferret “A wonderful name, and from that moment it grew into a god and a religion.” That may seem excessive, but “Without his imagination, which was rampant under the spur of loneliness, he would have succumbed long ago.” Since his guardian is a faithful churchgoer, Conradin goes, understandably, in a more Old Testament direction. He worships Sredni Vashtar, “ A god who laid some special emphasis on the fierce, impatient side of things.”

Wondering why he spends so much time in the shed, the guardian investigates. Next morning, she announces that the hen has been sold and taken away overnight. Conradin doesn’t respond. He won’t give her the satisfaction. Privately, though, he prays to his still hidden ferret for revenge. “Sredni Vashtar went forth, his thoughts were red thoughts and his teeth were white. His enemies called for peace, but he brought them death. Sredni Vashtar, the beautiful.” Clearly, Conradin has added a fillip of near-eastern fanaticism to his home-brewed religion. It’s justified, however, for his guardian is about to add iconoclasm to her program of deliberate cruelty. Seeing that his trips to the shed haven’t stopped, she inspects it again and finds a suspicious, locked hutch. Ransacking his room for the key, Mrs. De Ropp goes back to empty it out. She never returns. Instead, “Out through the doorway came a long, low, yellow and brown beast, with eyes a-blink through the waning daylight, and dark wet stains around the fur of jaws and throat.” Servants eventually find the body. “'Whoever will break it to the poor child? I couldn’t for the life of me!' exclaimed a shrill voice. And while they debated the matter among themselves, Conradin made himself another piece of toast.”

It may seem a little grim at first, but the actual violence is treated with exquisite tact. Our sensation-hungry culture demands that writers describe arteries bursting like fire hoses. A movie would insist on a close-up of her gaping trachea. Thank heavens for Saki, who only suggests the mayhem. What’s more, this story illustrates the difference between the principled violence of Conradin and the unprincipled violence of Mrs. De Ropp. At least six wars after the one in which the author was killed, that still isn’t clear to some people. Especially those in power.

Some may think it’s a very sad story about an abused child. Not at all. This little boy is sensitive, intelligent and wise beyond his years. The savvy way he adjusts to his environment would do credit to someone ten times his age. “One of these days Conradin supposed he would give into the mastering pressures of wearisome necessary things – such as illnesses, coddling restrictions and drawn out dullness. Without his imagination, rampant under the spur of loneliness, he would have succumbed long ago.” Bring on the nursing homes! Old age holds no horrors for this stout lad. Mrs. De Ropp, on the other hand, is person without inner resources. The sort of dull, unreflective, knuckle-dragger that tends to cluster in the upper reaches of advertising and, as one glance at the headlines will tell you, fairly dominates politics. The only thing that may be slightly sad is if the doctor, who diagnoses him with a fatal and incurable disease at the beginning of the story, is right.

I prefer to think of “Sredni Vashtar” as a positive story. Even inspiring. It’s about a person whose faith is tested and, finally, rewarded. True, he’s delivered by a ferret, but how is that any different from Androcles and the Lion? There are contemporary resonances as well. If his faith was in himself, he’d be Rocky. If the ferret was a small, friendly alien, it would be E.T., but with an attitude. In a way it’s about growing up, too, and how you have to kill some people along the way. Symbolically, if you believe in Sophocles and Freud and not if you’re a follower of Sredni Vashtar. At the very least, it’s a story about justice. Particularly that wild justice called revenge, which, in this case, is a dish that’s best served toasted.