The Works of Vincent Bugliosi

Vincent Bugliosi is the American prosecutor who put Charles Manson, and three of his followers, behind bars for the murders of Sharon Tate, her houseguests, and Leno and Rosemary LaBianca on two broiling nights in August, 1969. The case was said to be so untenable that all the prosecution had was “two fingerprints and Vince Bugliosi”. In other words, diddly squat.

Eat your words, Mister District Attorney!

 

I have 4 of Mr Bugliosi’s books:


 

I really enjoy rereading them, because there is so much complex information that it’s difficult to retain all of it each reading. The detail of explanation is not difficult for a layperson to understand. Particularly, “Outrage” does feel, as Bugliosi intended, like an extended personal conversation with the reader, which makes it that much more enjoyable to read.

Does this qualify me as an obsessive fan?

I haven’t yet read And the Sea Will Tell – possibly because I am as yet unfamiliar with the case. But it’s sitting on our bookshelf.

I haven’t read his books about the assassination of John F. Kennedy, yet. I had to cease and desist reading Reclaiming History because of its physically gargantuan size. Its heaviness made it painful to hold for long periods.

However, his Four Days in November, a smaller volume that deals only with the four days around the assassination, is lighter in weight and might be more comfortable to hold.

I haven’t finished The Prosecution of George W. Bush for Murder yet, and I’ll have to start it over because it was a long time ago that I read it. Very sad, from what I remember. I’m a Canadian living in the UK, so my perspective of events is likely a little different from American readers. I have no love or loyalty for the former American president – indeed, he made a hash of his tenure. The book merely confirms and explains the reasons behind my suspicions. It is rather hard going because of my lack of extensive knowledge of American jurisprudence…

But that’s why Bugliosi is a great writer. He has that rare ability to make complex legal issues and matters readable, even enjoyable to learn about – for the lay reader. A good sense of humour generates the unexpected laugh while reading about very serious events. 

For example, in “Helter Skelter”, Bugliosi related the question an inept defense attorney asked one of the witnesses during the Manson trials:

Paul Fitzgerald: Have you, or any member of your family ever been the unfortunate victim of a homicide?

The judge interrupted this scintillating line of questioning to remark that, if the witness had, they probably would not be sitting on the witness stand.

Read and enjoy!

Book Review: “The Escape of Alexei, Son of Tsar Nicholas II: What Happened the Night the Romanov Family Was Executed”

This book was ghostwritten by someone hoping to make a name for himself, and he tells the story of one Vasily Filatov, who claimed to be Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich of Russia.

The Tsarevich Alexei died, along with the rest of his family and their servants, by firing squad in the basement of the Ipatiev House on the night of 16-17 July, 1918.

There’s only one word to describe this travesty of a book:

Ridiculous

…especially in the light of discovering the remains of the last two missing Romanov children – Tsarevich Alexei and one of his sisters in 2007.

Although this book was written before that discovery, the premise that a sickly haemophiliac thirteen-year-old boy could have survived being shot several times and then finished off by a shot directly into his ear (see Robert K. Massie’s “Nicholas and Alexandra” or his follow up “The Romanovs – The Last Chapter” for further, infinitely more accurate information*) could have survived the massacre of his family in the basement of the Ipatiev House defies credibility and common sense.

I hope that the authors feel significantly chastised, or at least regret being pulled into ghostwriting this nonsense. There have been many pretenders, over the years, claiming to be one or more of Nicholas’ children that “survived”, and now, at last, those stories can be put to rest. This book only adds fuel to the fire of the extremely bad taste of people who have wanted to capitalize on fame at the expense of historical accuracy.

Here is a picture of where the Romanovs’ bodies, along with that of their faithful servants and doctor, were thrown down into a mineshaft on the night of 16-17 July 1918. Five churches have now been built there in memory of them, all without the use of nails.

It’s pretty hard to claim you’re still alive when your bones are lying buried in a shallow grave.

Alexei Nikolaevich’s remains, and those of one of the missing daughter’s (I believe it was Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna), have been re-interred with the family’s at the Peter and Paul Cathedral in Saint Petersburg.

I’ve been there, and it’s a moving place to visit. All of the tsars and tsaritsas (empresses) are buried there, beneath the floor. Over each grave is a massive marble block that resembles a coffin. When I saw them, I assumed first that the bodies were actually inside those structures, but I was told that the bodies are under the floor.

Here is a photo I took of the tomb of Peter the Great.

He was seven feet tall. You did not mess with this tsar.

Something amused me greatly while I was there in 2003: I noticed that Tsar Peter III is buried next to his wife, Empress Catherine the Great.

They hated each other in life; she is rumored to have ordered his execution soon after she seized power from him. Now, alas, they are lying next to each other for all eternity. I wonder what they'd have to say about that?

Nearby is the tomb of Empress Elizabeth, aunt of Peter III, who doted on Catherine.

Nicholas and his family are interred in a separate room from the main hall; you can’t actually go in because it’s cordoned off, perhaps out of respect, or perhaps because the room is so small.

The plaques on the wall list the family members' names and perhaps also some religious dedication or blessing. The servants' names may also appear; I remember reading somewhere that it was decided that since they died together in the service of their sovereigns, it was deemed appropriate that their remains stay with them.

(*So far as I’m aware, when “The Romanovs: The Last Chapter” was written, Alexei Nikolaevich’s and Maria Nikolaevna’s remains had not yet been discovered, and at the end of “Nicholas and Alexandra”, Massie addressed the “Anastasia controversy” as well. Since all the remains have now been identified, we can now say for certain that none of the children ever survived. Anyone claiming to be the Grand Duchess Anastasia, or any of the Imperial children, was either delusional or a liar.)

Book Review: “Not Without My Daughter”, Islamophobia, and Unanswered Questions

Today I bought a Kindle.

I was searching around for a kindle copy of “Not Without My Daughter” by Betty Mahmoody (I own a paperback copy of the book). Some time ago, we watched the Finnish documentary “Without My Daughter” – it’s the other side of that story, her ex-husband, the father’s side – he died in 2009. You can find the documentary in several parts on Youtube, and there’s a website, too.

I wonder if anyone has written a book in the father’s defense? It’s a “he said, she said” case, in 1984, set just after the 1979 Iranian revolution when the shah left Iran, and was replaced by the Ayatollah Khomeini.

There is substantial Islamophobia in the book, and it goes on and on. In some places, Mahmoody (as the ghostwriter has made her the first-person narrator) attempts to backpedal and repair her “all Iranians are evil” stance, but it doesn’t really work, even though there are very obviously good people in all countries, particularly since it is Iranians who eventually help her escape.

It continues to not work, especially not when you’ve read her follow-up book, For the Love of a Child - which details numerous stories of other parents who are victims of international kidnappings, as she and her daughter were. It’s not always “dad is the bad guy” – sometimes the mother is the one who takes away the kid.

Parts of the book detail the writing process of Not Without My Daughter, and the making of the film starring Sally Field. I found those bits interesting – how does a book actually get written? It seemed to mainly consist of endless interviews, tape recordings and discussions.

The real daughter, Mahtob Mahmoody (who is of course, much older than her character in the film at the time) even has a cameo in the film – she is dressed as an Iranian female student in a scene where the character Mahtob becomes upset at having to go to Iranian school and be separated from her mom (she was four years old at the time). All of the female students at the school are dressed in a uniform of grey headscarf and trousers, so I have no idea which one is the real Mahtob.

It was mostly shot – ironically! – in Israel, which at the time the events in the book took place, was an enemy country of Iran. Serious mindfuck. Mahmoody and her daughter were invited to the home of Sheila Rosenthal, the little girl playing Mahtob, for a Passover seder.

But speaking frankly, I like Not Without My Daughter, and I return to read it often – not for its content (which is at times very disurbing), but for the excellent writing quality of the ghostwriter, William Hoffer. His choice of varied words, his descriptions of environments, are all evocative, and you feel as if you’re there with Mahmoody and her family.

Whether or not what she says is completely true is left up to you to decide. I just enjoy the book for its style, and I have to admit, its wonderful descriptions of various Iranian food dishes:

Lavash – unleavened bread.

Taskabob – a spicy meat casserole, heavy on the curry.

Sex and Tolstoy

Sexual repression and excitation is a theme in Tolstoy. Bet you never guessed that before, eh?

Kiera Knightley is one of those actresses who has become known more for her looks, her breasts (or lack thereof), and her southern genitalia than her talent. I happen to respect her acting talent first. Having found out that she’ll be starring in a certain film next year, I managed to give my husband (who is not a Russophile) a decent summary of Anna Karenina without having read this book, but I have studied others of Tolstoy.

Anna Karenina

Boy (Vronsky) meets girl, (Anna Karenina), who is stuck in suffocating marriage. Girl falls in love. Boy is a devastatingly handsome count (ah yes, we all go weak in the knees for guys with titles, don’t we?), but utterly unworthy of her love, and totally self-absorbed. Girl refuses to acknowledge this, and instead pines away and eventually throws herself under a train, leaving her only son and stuffy husband alone. Vronsky goes off into sunset, oblivious and unremorseful at the pain he caused Anna, presumably to get more skirt.

Tolstoy’s Novellas

Olenin…I wrote an essay about “The Cossacks”. This protagonist is so self-absorbed it’s enough to make anyone want to just chuck it all, abandon living in society and go live alone. Which, incidentally, is exactly what Tolstoy did!

“Family Happiness” – it’s about a man and a woman, who are discussing their brood of five or six children. It seems a very ordinary story at first…until you realize that the point of the story is that the husband’s children aren’t really his. They are all children by different men, with whom his wife has been having affairs with over the years. She knows, of course. He doesn’t. He doesn’t have a clue.

“The Kreutzer Sonata” – This piece of music caused a man to kill his wife and her lover because he heard them playing it together in the next room. It aroused such a fiery passion, sexual jealousy and hatred in him that this was all he could do.

Here is what the Kreutzer Sonata sounds like. Listen as you read the story, and you might feel what the protagonist felt. Just keep all the sharp knives far away, OK?

“Father Sergius” – a celibate priest is unable to cope with the repressed sexual urges he feels. He goes bonkers, sleeps around with various women, and we go bonkers with him.

“The Death of Ivan Ilyich” – Reading this is like going along a roller coaster of black, depressing, massive illness. You think about everything your body is doing, everything that could possibly kill you. The last page is like the longest, steepest drop, and when you hit the bottom it pulls you faster and faster, and you can’t escape. There’s no way out. The last sentence is almost finished, and when you’ve reached the last word, you’re DEAD! Except you’re really still breathing. Or are you? I had to check a few times to make sure I still had a pulse after I was finished reading this story.

Given how Tolstoy ended up living the life of an ascetic, I have to wonder why sex pervades and impregnates so much of his work.

*feedback whine*

Paging Dr Freud to the communal farm…Dr Freud…

Review of Laura Kalpakian’s “Cosette: The Sequel to Les Misérables”

I love this much-maligned “sequel” to Les Misérables, because I do not look at it strictly as a sequel. Yes, it contains many of the same characters in name, who in the original novel act in certain ways and have recognizable traits of personality, and in Kalpakian’s book do not act in the same way.

It also contains a rehashing of old characters metamorphosed into new ones (Gavroche becomes the Starling; Javert becomes Clerons). That’s what has formed a lot of the criticism of her novel. Well, that’s called maturation and growing up, though there are better ways to go about writing this.

In Hugo, Cosette is ten, and then fifteen to seventeen years old. In Kalpakian, she grows from eighteen through thirty-two and beyond. Of course people are going to behave differently as they age and are assaulted by the experiences of life. If you want to read Victor Hugo, then read Victor Hugo. He is most enjoyable in a chaste, reserved way, when you prefer that your passion be kept under lock and key, firmly bridled and kept quiet until the wedding night (until and unless you have read Notre Dame de Paris and the scene where Phoebus is murdered. Half-nude gypsy girl Esmeralda, anyone?).

Well, there is that scene in the Luxembourg Gardens, where Marius, never having once exchanged a word with Cosette, sees her leg, in a white stocking, revealed because an errant wind blows her black skirts up. Then, at that moment, a young officer walks by at the same moment and also gets to see Cosette’s leg, which throws the gallant Marius into a rage which he cannot express at that moment. (Cosette, of course, is oblivious to all of this in classic nineteenth-century female fashion) That counts as erotica for Victor Hugo.

If you want to read another book, then read another book. Both are enjoyable for different reasons, and there is no reason to malign either one. For similar reasons, Susan Kay’s Phantom is hailed by readers as the prequel to Leroux’s classic, yet it has never officially been published or touted as such. Yet it Phantom is stylistically far superior to Cosette.

The less said about Cosette or the Time of Illusions by Francois Ceresa, the better.