Bela Lugosi Is Dead

The execution of Hussein is one of the more surreal events of the year. This article isnt bad, although the first line is straight out of the dictator-execution style manual, and the recognition of Shiite accents and ‘deep brown’ skin tones must be the work of the Arab contributors. The exchange between Hussein and one of the guards is truly disturbing (and a great clue to who his death is benefiting). Could this have been managed any more poorly? The answer is ‘No’.

BAGHDAD, Dec. 30 — Saddam Hussein never bowed his head, until his neck snapped.

His last words were equally defiant.

“Down with the traitors, the Americans, the spies and the Persians.”

The final hour of Iraq’s former ruler began about 5 a.m., when American troops escorted him from Camp Cropper, near the Baghdad airport, to Camp Justice, another American base at the heart of the city.

There, he was handed over to a newly trained unit of the Iraqi National Police, with whom he would later exchange curses. Iraq took full custody of Mr. Hussein at 5:30 a.m.

Two American helicopters flew 14 witnesses from the Green Zone to the execution site — a former headquarters of the Istikhbarat, the deposed government’s much feared military intelligence outfit, now inside the American base.

Mr. Hussein was escorted into the room where the gallows, with its red railing, stood, greeted at the door by three masked executioners known as ashmawi. Several of the witnesses present — including Munkith al-Faroun, the deputy prosecutor for the court; Munir Haddad, the deputy chief judge for the Iraqi High Tribunal; and Sami al-Askari, a member of Parliament — described in detail how the execution unfolded and independently recounted what was said.

To protect himself from the bitter cold before dawn during the short trip, Mr. Hussein wore a 1940s-style wool cap, a scarf and a long black coat over a white collared shirt.

His executioners wore black ski masks, but Mr. Hussein could still see their deep brown skin and hear their dialects, distinct to the Shiite southern part of the country, where he had so brutally repressed two separate uprisings.

The small room had a foul odor. It was cold, had bad lighting and a sad, melancholic atmosphere. With the witnesses and 11 other people — including guards and the video crew — it was cramped.

Mr. Hussein’s eyes darted about, trying to take in just who was going to put an end to him.

The executioners took his hat and his scarf.

Mr. Hussein, whose hands were bound in front of him, was taken to the judge’s room next door. He followed each order he was given.

He sat down and the verdict, finding him guilty of crimes against humanity, was read aloud.

“Long live the nation!” Mr. Hussein shouted. “Long live the people! Long live the Palestinians!”

He continued shouting until the verdict was read in full, and then he composed himself again.

When he rose to be led back to the execution room at 6 a.m., he looked strong, confident and calm. Whatever apprehension he may have had only minutes earlier had faded.

The general prosecutor asked Mr. Hussein to whom he wanted to give his Koran. He said Bandar, the son of Awad al-Bandar, the former chief justice of the Revolutionary Court who was also to be executed soon.

The room was quiet as everyone began to pray, including Mr. Hussein. “Peace be upon Mohammed and his holy family.”

Two guards added, “Supporting his son Moktada, Moktada, Moktada.”

Mr. Hussein seemed a bit stunned, swinging his head in their direction.

They were talking about Moktada al-Sadr, the firebrand cleric whose militia is now committing some of the worst violence in the sectarian fighting; he is the son of a revered Shiite cleric, Muhammad Sadiq al-Sadr, whom many believe Mr. Hussein ordered murdered.

“Moktada?” he spat out, mixing sarcasm and disbelief.

Mowaffak al-Rubaie, Iraq’s national security adviser, asked Mr. Hussein if he had any remorse or fear.

“No,” he said bluntly. “I am a militant and I have no fear for myself. I have spent my life in jihad and fighting aggression. Anyone who takes this route should not be afraid.”

Mr. Rubaie, standing shoulder to shoulder with Mr. Hussein, asked him about the killing of the elder Mr. Sadr.

They were standing so close to each other that others could not hear the exchange.

One of the guards, though, became angry. “You have destroyed us,” the masked man yelled. “You have killed us. You have made us live in destitution.”

Mr. Hussein was scornful: “I have saved you from destitution and misery and destroyed your enemies, the Persians and Americans.”

The guard cursed him. “God damn you.”

Mr. Hussein replied, “God damn you.”

Two witnesses, apparently uninvolved in selecting the guards, exchanged a quiet joke, saying they gathered that the goal of disbanding the militias had yet to be accomplished.

The deputy prosecutor, Mr. Faroun, berated the guards, saying, “I will not accept any offense directed at him.”

Mr. Hussein was led up to the gallows without a struggle. His hands were unbound, put behind his back, then fastened again. He showed no remorse. He held his head high.

The executioners offered him a hood. He refused. They explained that the thick rope could cut through his neck and offered to use the scarf he had worn earlier to keep that from happening. Mr. Hussein accepted.

He stood on the high platform, with a deep hole beneath it.

He said a last prayer. Then, with his eyes wide open, no stutter or choke in his throat, he said his final words cursing the Americans and the Persians.

At 6:10 a.m., the trapdoor swung open. He seemed to fall a good distance, but he died swiftly. After just a minute, his body was still. His eyes still were open but he was dead. Despite the scarf, the rope cut a gash into his neck.

His body stayed hanging for another nine minutes as those in attendance broke out in prayer, praising the Prophet, at the death of a dictator.

Ali Adeeb and Khalid al-Ansary contributed reporting from Baghdad.

Why People Are Stupid (Reason #2985)

One of the dangers of aging as an artist/critic is that one tends to become a curmudgeon. Such are the wages of disappointment, and I was well on my way by 21.

But this shot is valid, I think.

So Im going out of the video store with two films – ‘Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang’ and ‘The Professional’ – and the Cheeto-eating clerk goes into his best Tarantino impersonation. ‘You couldn’t have done better,’ he says. ‘Kiss Kiss is one of the year’s best and ‘The Professional’…well, you know, that’s an all-time classic.’ Like it’s ‘Andrei Rubelev’ or friggin’ ‘Breathless’ for crying out loud.

I start watching The Professional and not only is it no ‘Last Tango in Paris’ it’s not the ‘The Crying Game’ either, or even ‘Ronin’. How does Besson have any bona fides? The premise has its charm but the dialogue is ghastly, the social milieus are utterly inauthentic (what ethnicity is Portman’s family? – she talks like she went to Andover but theyre supposed to be ghetto in some way), Portman cant act (but she shure is a purty piece of jail bait) and the pedophilia subtext is absolutely creepy.

Perhaps it’s better to be a curmudgeon. Ive been listening to old Wu Tang and been endlessly impressed. Hip-hop stream of consciousness from the mid-90s. It’s amazing that it ever sold. The hip among our grand-children will be putting it on their version of the IPod.


Spent some time last night looking at the Christmas tree in my parent’s house in Rhode Island. Many of the oldest ornaments have crumbled and vanished but we still have some that have been in the family for close to a century. I had a sudden memory of what it was like to decorate the tree as a child, the aura around the old ornaments as we drew them out of their boxes and paper shells. We usually had an artificial tree in the those days – it was the 70s, after all – and we would stick the limbs into the trunk, and the plastic confetti ‘leaves’ would shed on the rug. I remember the musty odor of the ancient old creche we had. It was that rare happy time in my household, much happier than Christmas morning opening the present with the attendant hyperstimulation and disappointment of American consumer culture.

I’ve had this event in this manner for forty years. But for how much longer?