Dedicating the Res Club Memorial at Cornell

After 52 years, Cornell has recognized the nine members of the university community who died in the Cornell Heights Residential Club fire—eight students and one faculty member—with a well-designed memorial placed centrally on the campus between Sage Chapel and Day Hall.

One member of our class, Anne Catherine McCormic ‘67, was among the deceased, and another, Sherry Carr ’67 ’70 MILR, delivered one of two reflections at the dedication ceremony at the memorial site on October 4. Both were senior women, who resided on the second, which was the top, floor of the Res Club.

Most people at Cornell then only were aware that 60 freshmen were living on the two lower floors: they had been recruited for the Ford Foundation-funded Six-Year-PhD program. But women in our class who learned about the housing opportunity, at a time when living on campus was severely limited for undergraduate women, occupied the rooms on the top floor, along with several female graduate students.

All, except for Anne McCormic, managed to be rescued by first responders and other residents who used ladders to reach the windows after those trying to escape punched out the screens. Those living on the lower floors either got out through a back door (on the lowest level) or through the windows on the first floor at street level.

The Tompkins County District Attorney’s Office has never initiated criminal proceedings in the case. Until recently, Cornell University did not allow any scrutiny of its archives and records relating to the fire. Our class’s 50th Reunion Book, published in 2017, featured an article by one of the ’67 survivors, Judith Adler Hellman, who recalled what happened that night and also analyzed what has been described as a cover-up by Cornell. Subsequently, the New York Times ran a long piece examining what it could find out about the case.

Cornell President Martha Pollack delivered opening remarks at the dedication of the memorial, acknowledging that “[F]or too long, all of you have felt unheard and your memories unacknowledged. No one can take away the pain of what you experienced. But what we can do is hear your stories and become accustomed, become the custodians of your memories with this memorial, which will remain here in the heart of campus for as long as the University stands.”

In her reflections, Sherry Carr described McCormic, who was one of her roommates and was enrolled in what was then the School of Home Economics during her time at Cornell, as a “dynamo” and observed that “earlier administrations” had refused to recognize the need to honor those who were lost in the fire or resolve the issue of its origin.

The case was complicated by the University’s admitted negligence in failing to observe fire codes in the building, which lacked fire doors, sprinklers, and other standard protective requirements. Subsequent investigations by the New York State Police, fire marshals, and other authorities have reached inconsistent conclusions as to whether an accelerant, which is a fire-causing substance, was detected on the Res Club premises.

One speaker at the reception in the Straight Browsing Library, which followed the dedication, mentioned the name of a former Cornell student whom many of the survivors, and their families and friends, believe started the fire and is living under an assumed name. Others have said that they don’t expect any legal cases—civil or criminal—to be brought unless the District Attorney’s Office ever decides to proceed or Cornell issues a finding regarding the fire’s cause.

Both of these possible outcomes are regarded as unlikely to occur, although the District Attorney’s Office regards the fire as an open case.

The memorial reads “In memory of nine vibrant and brilliant young scholars who died in a tragic fire at the Cornell Heights Residential Club on April 5, 1967,” then lists the names of the deceased and concludes: “Their families, friends, classmates, colleagues, and the entire Cornell community promise to never forget them.”

Mockingbird and Tootsie

Is it still possible to approach To Kill A Mockingbird without bringing the immense baggage that the title now carries all these years after becoming perhaps the most significant novel of the second half of the 20th century? Watching Aaron Sorkin's highly effective adaptation for the stage this weekend at New York's Shubert Theater leads me to conclude that the answer is yes. This is because the underlying subject--race--remains a major part of our culture and because the leading character--Atticus Finch, the lawyer who accepts a court appointment and believes he can achieve justice--is still compelling.

Last year a sequel to the famous novel by Harper Lee was published posthumously amid questions regarding both its provenance and its quality. It apparently (I haven't read it) presents Atticus as somewhat less than the saint portrayed in the renowned movie by Gregory Peck. Despite his proclamations in the movie (and original novel) that justice can be achieved and times have changed in the Deep South, the sequel suggests that he was more conflicted and wasn't in favor of change coming too quickly.

Even without that added input, however, the current rendition is moving and inspiring, while providing excellent characterizations through outstanding performances by the entire cast. The set design and production are excellent, reflecting traditional Broadway standards. Jeff Daniels may well give us a fairer portrayal of Atticus than the majestic Peck. My only complaint was not the appropriately strong Southern accents but the players' tendency to drop the ends of sentences or project them toward the side or rear of the stage.

Sorkin has managed to capture the novel's powerful impact even though by this time, most of us are familiar with the plot and many of the characters. In the end, Mockingbird stands as a formidable picture of our times because it confronts its challenging subject so well, showing all the different angles and impacts it has on each character.

On a lighter note, I was mightily surprised to enjoy the musical Tootsie so completely. My recollection of the Dustin Hoffman movie is now vague so I had no problem accepting the talented Santino Fontana in the title role. The book here is clever and often uproariously funny. That to me may be why this musical captured the Tony award for best musical. Others in the cast are also excellent: Sarah Stiles as the lead's ex-girlfriend performs what could easily be a Gilbert & Sullivan patter song with great spirit and charm.

The whole topic of men dressing as women to save a thus-far dead-end career is now freighted with our current battleground of sexual politics and culture. Even so, this show demonstrates that there's still room for enjoyment of clever lines and lyrics, accompanied by imaginative music. My weekend included these two exciting evenings in the theater--and even more, the weather in New York was palmy and pleasant. It remains challenging to walk through Times Square either before or after showtime, and that's as it should be.

Pavarotti Sings Again

The movie  Pavarotti captures the sheer delight that Luciano Pavarotti inspired during his career as the reigning tenor of his times. The film is a documentary of sorts directed by Ron Howard, who has already succeeded in a second career as a director following his acting days, when, most memorably he played Andy Griffith's son in the TV series of the 60s.

It reminded me of just how fantastic Pavarotti was. His voice was absolutely beautiful and he seemed adept in using it to give extra quality to the famous operatic arias he sang. He first appeared of course in his native Italy and then Covent Garden. When he came to the Met in the early 70s, he costarred with Joan Sutherland, the Australian soprano who made singing bel canto scales and trills as easy as he made the great challenges of the tenor repertory.

We saw them in a grand performance of Donizetti's The Daughter of the Regiment, a show-off bauble that exists today, or should exist, to be revived only when singers of the calibre of Sutherland and Pavarotti are available. Sure, there are nine High Cs for the tenor and likely a similar challenge for the soprano, but the special appeal of this duo was the ease with which they appeared to produce these amazing sounds. No one wants to see a singer show the difficulty of performing these arias; Pavarotti always seemed to be holding notes for amazing lengths and Sutherland negotiated the exposed coloratura of Lucia di Lammermoor's Mad Scene without seeming to try.

The reason I called the film a documentary of sorts is that it mostly presents a wholly positive view of Luciano. Even his affair with a far younger woman in his later years, which led to his divorce from the mother of three of his children, is treated sympathetically--while pointing out that this did diminish his popularity in Italy, his first wife seemed understanding about what happened. I also chuckled about the omission of his disastrous solitary venture into starring in a movie.

But the high point of the picture is definitely the famous Three Tenors concert in the Baths of Caracalla in Rome on the eve of the World Cup football (soccer) final. Aside from the gorgeous singing, what is most enjoyable is the sheer joy that Pavarotti, Domingo, and Carreras, along with Zubin Mehta, exuded while producing incredibly wonderful music. The indulgence of those three magnificent voices doing O Sole Mio was complemented by their extraspecial rendition of Nessun Dorma. 

There were shots and snippets of Caruso, but although Caruso's fame was heightened by his making some of the first recordings, the somewhat limited quality of those early preserved sounds couldn't compare with modern technology. There was also a clip of DiStefano, who also came off as a lesser singer. It probably would have been the same with others--Gigli, Bjoerling, Martinelli--and we'll never really know how they would stack up with Pavarotti, Domingo, and Carreras.

I also learned from the film. I had never credited Pavarotti with his knowledge of singing technique derived from his two excellent teachers. To me, he just seemed to be a natural, needing no training, but that wasn't true. He had worked hard to be able to perform at the exceedingly high level he achieved. The film included many of his most famous and favorite operatic pieces and reminded me of just how extraordinary he was. We were so fortunate to be able to hear him in person and also on recordings and on television for all those years.

Funny Man Not So Funny

Just finished reading a bio given to me as a present, Funny Man, by Patrick McGilligan, which is about Mel Brooks. It definitely holds your interest and even provides a laugh or two every so often. But while Brooks, still kicking in his early 90s, does not fit the sad clown-comedian profile perhaps most famously depicted in Leoncavallo's always delightful opera, I Pagliacci, the story does bear a resemblance to Billy Crystal's film, Mr. Saturday Night.

I always enjoyed Brooks's movies because he tended to push at the edges of being outrageous. The bio confirms that he only succeeded in producing top-flite films a few times. To me, The Producers will always stand apart, and I mean the original movie, not the musical, which I've not seen (the film of the musical did not get the raves received by the stage version). One reason it was so good was the perfect casting--Zero Mostel, Gene Wilder, Dick Shawn, Kenneth Mars. 

Young Frankenstein, which I hadn't known was Gene Wilder's conception, had great moments, again with players including Wilder, Marty Feldman, Peter Boyle, and Madeline Kahn making it work. And "The Inquisition" number in History of the World--Part I, performed by Brooks, offends a whole lot of people with panache and severely black humor.

He did produce 12 films altogether, not that many for a long career and there are other episodes in movies I've never seen in full, like the great song-and-dance scene in his re-make of To Be or Not to Be, where he and wife Anne Bancroft perform "Sweet Georgia Brown" in Polish. His marriage to Bancroft, which lasted more than 40 years until her death, was his second and seems to be one of the few really happy aspects of his life. 

It's also highly satisfying to compare Bancroft's career--always a fantastic actress, who was recognized as such, and who wisely kept her career separate from Brooks's until that song and dance late in both of their stories. One of the most moving events I read about for the first time was that Paul Simon sang "Mrs. Robinson" with acoustic guitar at a memorial for Bancroft at the Shubert Theater. She had many great roles but that's the one most will remember.

And last but definitely first, is the routine developed as a party piece by Carl Reiner, the perfect straight man (also still going strong, at 97), and Brooks--The 2,000-Year-Old Man, which provided Brooks with a continuing source of support--emotional as well as, ultimately, financial. Brooks always had limitations as a performer, eventually learned to direct without having to terrorize everyone on the set, and even had to get educated in writing comedy when he started out barely out of his teens as the junior on one of the greatest assemblage of writers ever--the gang that created Your Show of Shows starring Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca. 

To me, what the book leaves you with is the recognition that Brooks missed enjoying much of his colorful career because he was so focused on making money. Many of his projects did not rake in profits, which of course is a sad truth prevailing in show business. But the story is full of occasions where he stiffed people and was chintzy when he didn't have to be, including to the three children from his first marriage.

It's encouraging that in his later years Brooks acknowledged that he had sacrificed a lot of enjoyment--especially with his children by his first marriage--by focusing almost entirely on his work. It's an object lesson because in many ways,he maximized a bunch of mid-range abilities--writing, singing, directing, producing--with the amazing comic inspiration of a truly great clown. It didn't always appear but we should be grateful for the handful of absolutely hilarious occasions when it did.

Stevens and Elephants

Justice Stevens was one of the finest members of the Supreme Court ever because he was likely the last to approach every case with an open mind. He came to the bench from a privileged background and an antitrust practice with a major law firm. Of course, his family had suffered during the Depression when their hotel business failed and his grandfather and uncle went to early deaths and his father was imprisoned for fraud. That his father was later exonerated and freed did not erase the experience from the teenage son's consciousness.

Gerald Ford, who had been a partisan minority leader in the House and will be remembered for the disgraceful Nixon pardon, which at least cost him election to the Presidency, did act presidentially with regard to this Supreme Court appointment. Then-Judge (7th Circuit) Stevens's name was advanced by Sen. Charles Percy of Illinois, the kind of moderate Republican with a strong business background who no longer exists, and cleared by Ford's finest appointment, the distinguished former Dean of the University of Chicago law school and President of that university, Attorney-General Edward Levi. He was confirmed, 98-0, in those calmer times.

Stevens did strike observers when he was appointed as likely to follow a center-right trajectory on the court. Instead, his bow ties signaled someone who was independent if not maverick. He seemed to take each case as it came, without a prefixed position. This country has always been more tolerant of far-right positions than far-left ones: Stevens was in reality a moderate; he has been described as a liberal because our media and politicians have moved the center so far to the right. His mentor, Wiley Rutledge, for whom he clerked, was a liberal. So was William O. Douglas. We haven't had any on the court since then.

But some justices have demonstrated a willingness to change their world views. Earl Warren had been a solid conservative when Attorney-General and Governor of California. Now, it is hard to believe he was the Republican nominee for Vice President in 1948. He evolved or, more probably, was able to act on his long-held personal outlook when he joined the court. So did Stevens. He even did what hardly any of them have ever done, before or since: he acknowledged that some of his earlier decisions had been wrong.

I see his dissents in Bush v. Gore and in the Heller 2nd Amendment case as his shining moments. If you read his dissent in Heller, it destroys the spurious historical justifications Scalia managed to convince four ignorant colleagues to accept. The Bush v. Gore decision was fraudulent the moment it appeared and will haunt us by its naked power grab in inflicting someone who had not clearly won the election on us as President. Until now, he was the worst to hold that office.

A story in last Sunday's New York Times Magazine convinced me to change, as it happens. It described in fascinating detail how keeping elephants in captivity, much less having them perform, is entirely alien to their nature and, it has now become clear, their very continued existence. This is not a conclusion that I arrived at easily. I always enjoyed the circus and I've found animal rights a dubious legal concept.

Having put the circus out of business--yes, some small ones persist but Ringling Brothers' fall truly sounded the death knell for this ancient survivor in the show-business world--the animal rights movement turned its attack machine on the zoos. This article showed clearly that the zoos have ignored doing the right thing, which would be to support and lead a movement to enable elephants to endure in their natural habitat. Instead, they have connived to evade export bans to increase their entertainment values by exhibiting elephants. Even if I'm still skeptical of animal rights as a legal theory, I do hate to see animals mistreated. The elephant story shows that the zoos have behaved abysmally and deserve condemnation.

Baseball, Art & Rock'N'Roll

Recently spent several days in Cleveland more or less at large. Had been there before--ages ago for a wedding and a few years previously when I visited the then-new Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. This time it was a pleasant outing to Progressive (née Jacobs) Field to see the Tribe host the Reds--an intrastate battle but in a non-existent rivalry, because these ancient franchises hardly ever played each other before the relatively recent inter-league era, as they were always in different leagues.

It was a fine afternoon for baseball, not too hot, sun shining. Lots of memories revived by various monuments both in a "legacy park" and around the stadium to famous Indians. Unlike at my home park, hot dog vendors circulate through the stands and the house mustard is excellent, sharp and tangy. Indians fell to Reds, in last place in their division. Indians are in 2d, 10 games out, and lost twice in a row last week to Orioles, 13-0 each time.

A good part of re-visiting the Rock'n'Roll museum is that they keep changing the exhibits, and not just for each year's new entrants, although they get plenty of attention. A half-hour video showed how just about every significant performer appeared at least once on Dick Clark's American Bandstand, which I recall watching in the 50s in black-and-white at my cousins' in Philly. Dick Clark was a graduate of my hometown high school and seeing this reminded me of the immense charm he exuded as well as his programming skill. 

Enjoyed a filling dinner at Sokolowki's restaurant, a venerable Polish establishment where we were invited to join a large cohort. Lots of sports pix on the walls, and I did spot Jim Brown's and Bob Feller's as well as--less predictably--Ted Williams, but missed seeing Hank Majeski, who may well have been there, as he should have been.

The Cleveland Museum of Art is major league all the way. An amazingly eclectic collection--from ancient Greek and Egyptian to excellent paintings from just about every era. Not only was the museum clearly a product of old money, much like the St. Louis Art Museum, but the curators through the years showed a lot of perspicacity in their selecting the art. Good representation of American art, too, from colonial to American impressionists to abstract and current. 

We passed up a boat ride on Lake Erie because a storm was coming and those who sailed returned to a torrent. I don't think I've ever gone on one of these excursions--usually, as this one was, organized by conventions--where the comestibles offered were any good. We ducked out after negotiating the dinner line, which led us to conclude that escape was the best route.

Giverny and Bayeux

In addition to visiting the beaches and the cemetery and St. Mere Eglise and Arromanches a week before the 75th anniversary of D-Day, we managed to see a lot of Normandy. Bayeux is the town closest to the beaches but it's best known for the Bayeux Tapestry, really an embroidery, which tells the story of the last successful invasion in the other direction, of England in 1066 by William the Conquerer. (He obviously undertook that campaign to acquire a new name to replace William the Bastard.)

The Tapestry tells the whole story, from the Norman point of view, of course. It ranks as perhaps the first example of propaganda but is absolutely fascinating in its almost cartoon-like appearance. It of course is amazing that it has endured almost a millenium. Bayeux is a charming town, almost entirely spared from the ravages of the World War II fighting. 

Mont St. Michel is the prime turisto spot in Normandy, and it's in Normandy by a hair, across the way from Brittany. The abbey atop the rock on the island that until a decade or so ago was separated from the mainland every high tide remains fascinating and a geographic and historical anomaly. Honfleur is another largely unwrecked town that was spared because its harbor, a mainstay of French sea trade in the 1500s, was no longer viable. Le Havre, the major port across the Seine, was 95% destroyed. It has a nice museum given by the painter Eugene Boudin, who drew wonderful pictures of beaches and clouds, as well  serving as a mentor for Monet, who started his career there.

Giverny is where Claude Monet moved in 1883 and established both his house and marvelous gardens. Today, it is a prime spot to visit, although the original red Japanese bridge recognizable from many Monet canvases, has been replaced. But when we were there, the nympheas--water lilies--were in bloom, along with toitally glorious irises and many other flowers. It is the ultimate artist's garden and Monet took full advantage of it.

Deauville remains a tony resort and its adjacent neighbor, Trouville, has much more of a raffish tone with its blocks of wonderful bistros. It was good to learn that it was the first spot Marcel Proust visited on this coast, as the one major omission in my trip was getting (or not getting) to Cabourg, which apparently was the model for Balbec in the second volume of In Search of Lost Time, where Marcel meets Albertine.

Normandy is famous for apples and Calvados, butter and cheese, viz., Camembert, Pont L'Eveque, and Livarot, and perhaps most relevantly for dining: fish and seafood. The seafood restaurants are the places to go and so we went. Platters of oysters and mussels and whelks and shrimp as well as homard (lobster) and langoustines. Good cod and raie (skate) and probably as excellent fish and chips as are obtainable across la Manche (the English Channel).