I'm a publishing professional who works in science fiction and fantasy. That said, the ideas and thoughts here are my own, and don't reflect that of any publisher I've worked for (currently Harper Voyager). There are some things I just want to say that would be a pain on Twitter (@PomericoD), so I use this spot to say them.
I love all kinds of things besides books, including movies, music, theater, and sports, so you may see me discuss those things, too.
I know they don't give the Johnny-Come-Lately Award until well after the fact, but, I think I'm in the running. In other words, I've finally gotten around to reading Water for Elephants.
Sara Gruen's Depression-era circus novel was on virtually every publications' top ten list . . . last year's top ten list. Last year very soon to be two years ago, aka, 2006.
I can see why everyone loved it so much. For starters, it was the little book that could. Published by Algonquin Press, it took a strong marketing and word-of-mouth campaign to turn it into a national best-seller. Where it still resides today.
And the story deserves attention. It is the story of Jacob, a veterinarian student who quits school during his final exams after the tragic death of his parents. With no aims, he ends up on a circus train and, as most things go with such tales, wackiness ensues.
The story becomes a sordid tale, the seedy underbelly of the circus world emerges, as the masters sucker both the rubes and the workers alike. The social strata of their world is symbolically represented by the train, where the different carriages separate the workers from the performers, the animals from the humans. Yet, as metaphors often do, in the end, everyone has to traverse the top of the trains to get from on car to the other – thus breaking down the barriers and exposing everyone to equal danger.
Jacob tells us this story from two perspectives: the time it's happening and from his slightly addled moments seventy years later. A rather pedestrian literary device, but done rather well. Both characters are very different and at the same time still always Jacob. Their love for Marlena and Rosie go undiminished no matter what time, and those stories are the threads the plot relies on for structural integrity. Marlena, the lovely woman who leads the horse act, is Jacob's instant object of infatuation. Of course, she's married to a psycho-path who is also Jacob's new boss. (Guess how it ends).
Rosie is an elephant. Who understands Polish. In order to challenge the much-hated Ringling Bros. Circus, the owner, Uncle Al, risks everything to acquire her, only to realize that he can't do anything with her. Marlena's husband, August, doesn't restrain his cruelty to just his wife – he goes to town on Rosie, earning Jacob's double-disgust. And that's the worst kind of disgust there is.
What Gruen does is give us Jacob's dual stories in a way that makes readers not normally inclined to literary pretensions feel like they are reading something beyond a commercial story. This is not a judgment – it would be a bit hypocritical for me to pooh-pooh something for being too commercial – but it is an important not to make. Why? Because this story isn't complex in the slightest. There really aren't too many surprises, there really aren't too many twists or turns – it's a straightforward tale with only the slightest pauses from Old Jacob. The setting might be a bit exotic, but it's not as if this is the grand Depression Novel -- I think a guy named Steinbeck did something to keep us covered there. Hell, The Wizard of Oz actually evokes the period with a bit more creativity. What Water lacks, though, is made up for in the very fact that the story isn't difficult.
It's a plot- and character-heavy novel, and as such, it appeals to a large audience, literary-inclined or not. It is a love story, an adventure story, a save-the-princess-from-the-monster story. Who couldn't get behind a tale like that?
One thing that does bother me, though – and this is a big something – is Jacob's character. A naïve greenhorn and unworldly lad, he is either the quickest learner (which doesn't tend to bear out, as his conversations with his bunkmate, Walter, tend to show), or he gains aspects to his character that simply has no basis in the writing. Sure, he is outraged at August's treatment of Marlena and Rosie, but his, well, his ballsy-ness, comes out of nowhere.
To be fair, though, this was a second impression -- I initially finished it thinking: I understand why this book is so well-received. I still do. It's a good story. It's just not “perfect.” It is a novel with flaws, but these “flaws” are overcome with Gruen's ability to tell a story. In the end, isn't that what we want in a book? Sure, it's great when one can make you think, when you feel Hey, I'm learning something here. But, mostly, we want to know our time isn't being wasted, and I think Gruen makes sure that our reading experience is an incredibly positive one. Water for Elephants, then, is good book that caught fire, not necessarily on its merits, but because of one of those things that, if you ever found out the reason, you'd be incredibly rich. I'd say, don't worry about whether it's "worthy" or not of all the accolades and sales -- enjoy the story and feel good that a little guy (or rather, gal) made it.
Moreover, you do learn something, too. Namely: don't fuck with elephants. After "Pink Elephants on Parade" in Dumbo, I was already on board with that (seriously, if you ever want to give a kid nightmares, show them that movie before bedtime), but it's been a while since that film came out, so we were about due for a refresher. So thank you, Ms. Gruen.
It’s amazing how much more reading you can get done when your classes are finally over. The funny thing is, it’s not like I really did a whole lot of the reading for my classes, but I guess it was always in the back of my mind: if I do read, it should probably be something for class. Well, that’s done with for a month or so.
So what have I been reading, you ask? (Or not . . . I have only vague illusions about the numbers that make up my readership). Well, as it is the end of the year, most publications with some sort of literary connection/aspiration has gone out of its way to make sure everyone knows their opinions concerning which books were the best this year. In the spirit of the decimal system, many resorted to aping Letterman, and giving us top ten lists. Now, with so many books being produced each year, there’s rarely a consensus as to which books belong on the list, let alone where (although, to be fair, if there were only eleven books to choose from, I’m sure very few lists would actually match up). Still, it seems pretty clear that some books were more universally considered excellent compared to others. Interestingly enough, two such books, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao and The Yiddish Policeman’s Union, are two books that I read and reviewed when they first came out, and I was a little less-than-impressed than some of the other critics. But, hey, they got paid, and I didn’t, so maybe they’re onto something. I suggest you might try them for yourselves, but I personally can’t recommend them.
One other book that made a lot of lists I can whole-heartedly recommend: Then We Came to the End, by Joshua Ferris. Clearly the most unique feature of this book is the gimmick: it is written in the first-person plural. For those of you not so grammatically inclined (okay, I had to look up “first-person plural,” too; English is hard!), the first-person plural is told from the point of view of a narrative “we.” So, for example: “We blog about things that nobody reads or cares about.” This is not to be confused with the royal “we,” as in “We are afraid someone at work will notice that we’re writing in our blog,” but the choral “we” (and don’t for a minute think I didn’t notice that royal and choral kind of rhyme!). So what you get is a story told from a group consciousness – a hive-mind, if you will, where individuality separates you from the pack and allows you a name. It’s both disconcerting and oddly liberating.
More to the point: it is perfectly suited for the story being told. Ferris is writing about advertising specifically, but the general office/corporate culture is certainly being commented on with the use of the first-person plural. The disconnection from personality, the mindless following, the addictive need for habit: this book is for the group what Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho was for the individual corporate drone. Except, of course, that it’s a lot funnier, and lot less gory (which isn’t to say I didn’t like American Psycho; just that these books are two slightly different beasts).
The story is of an advertising firm going through a hard turn during the economic stumble when the Internet bubble burst. As more and more people get laid off (“Walk Spanish”), the “we” jumps back and forth recounting those days, always through observations and heard conversations. Like the Greek choruses of old, what you get from the narrator is a communal news organization, reporting and commenting on the stories of the day. Ferris, then, makes sure to give us the news first, and then to go back and fill in the actual story. If you’ve ever worked in an office (or, really, ever been in any social situation where gossip and hearsay are the information disseminators), than you know this is how news gets spread: you get the pay-off first – or at least a reasonable facsimile – and then you get the parts that led up to startling revelation. So while various characters are going through very real and personal moments, we do not enter the story until much later, having to wait until the facts are in to make sense of the information we have received.
Which is probably one of the reasons that, despite the acknowledgment that Ferris is using a gimmick, the book still works. It simply feels true to the situation, and so you very quickly get absorbed into story, and forget that what you are reading is pretty much alien to the novel-consuming public. You get sucked into the “we,” and you follow along, hoping to find out if Lynn does have cancer, or how the pro-bono campaign is going, or who is going to be laid off, or if Tom is going to come back and shoot up the office, or what exactly Joe’s deal is. You are allowed into the offices, to gather in the little groups as you hear the first- or second-hand knowledge that propels the story forward. And that becomes highly enjoyable, because you’ve been accepted – you are on the inside, now.
Perhaps the only fault I really found in the book was the pseudo-meta-narrative that Ferris felt compelled to add. I guess part of the game is to figure out who the “I” might possibly be, but I rather liked the fact that, up until the end, there is no way to pinpoint one. At the end, though, the lines become a little less blurred, and I think it actually takes away from the impact of using the first-person plural. Yet, it is a minor moment, and one that only partially (and very partially) detracts from the overall brilliance of the book.
Please note: I was going to attempt to write this in the first-person plural, but I figured pretensions aside, I’m not sure I could actually do it. It’s pretty difficult, making me respect not only Ferris, but the editor who thought: Not only is this a good idea, but I think I will be able to edit it when the time comes. So, props to you, editor man or lady.
There's something to be said about pregnant, teenage girls with quick, dry wits:
They are awesome!
Juno proves this for us. The story of a sixteen-year-old girl who gets pregnant and decides to put the baby up for adoption normally isn't the kind of topic you'd go: Hey, let's make a comedy out of this situation. And yet, the situation is inherently filled with humor, from the awkward teenage sex to the urinating on a stick to the growing huge and waddling through high school – there is an absurdity that calls for something beyond the dramatics. Juno delivers, big time.
A lot of it has to do with the stylized writing. The improbably named (and, let's face it, chances are, not her (yes, her (and yes, I'm doing parentheses inside of parentheses)) real name) Diablo Cody creates a Middle-American world where everyone is both impossibly stuck in the 80's and 90's, but speaks in a dialect that I can only describe as “white-ghetto.” It works brilliantly, in that it both provides a comedic element and adds a level of ironic sophistication. We know it's ridiculous that they speak this way, and it's pretty obvious that everyone in the movie is subtly winking along with us.
What really makes this work is, of course, the acting. I will consistently stand behind the opinion that comedic acting is the hardest thing to do, because it's not just about raw emotion, but about knowing how to connect with people. In other words, drama can drift towards overacting, and still be powerful, because crying and screaming can still evoke a response even if it doesn't seem, in hindsight, overly genuine. Comedy, though, either works or it doesn't. The jokes, especially in a dialogue-driven film, require more than good writing: it requires the actor to be able to deliver it. This isn't stand-up or sketch comedy; it's not even a sit-com. We are supposed to believe that these are things people would actually say in these situations. That means, the delivery has to be natural, there has to be great timing and inflection and expression. While a writer may pen the line, and a director may try to draw it out, it is ultimately the actor who has to make it happen.
Ellen Page, the eponymous character is a excellent. She takes “wry” and “sardonic” to levels of heretofore untold heights. She is at once charming and crude, lovable and distasteful. She can nonchalantly deliver lines about abortions or the process of birth and make us love her all the same. It certainly doesn't hurt that she's adorable, but it's also important to note that she is adorable. She's not gorgeous or a super-model – she is, despite her innate Canadian-ness – a typically pretty American teenager. She's also a superb actor, because she brings out the depth of her character. While Juno appears to be tough and cynical, you can tell that she also a frightened, confused little girl. What makes it so great is that throughout, she is an incredibly strong young woman, but not so over the top that it becomes unbelievable for the situation.
Then, the fact that she's surrounded by an excellent supporting cast makes the movie complete. Her parents, played by J.K. Simmons and Allison Janney (who, I'm convinced, should just be given every role that requires a middle-class Midwestern couple), are both bumbling and sophisticated, never quite the caricature you expect them to be. Janney, as the step-mom, is level-headed and loving, and one of the best scenes is when she berates the sonogram technician. Michael Cera, who plays the Y chromosome in this little passion zygote, establishes himself as the teenage nerd-hero for this decade. His nervous charm allows him to be the everyman high school persona, and he pulls it off without a hitch. Jason Bateman is great as the reluctant, hipster father-to-be, and relative newcomer Olivia Thirlby is a great comedic sidekick for Juno. Even Rainn Wilson, in his brief cameo as the corner store cashier, almost steals the show with his ridiculous commentary on Juno's situation.
In fact, even Jennifer Garner, who I find to be a rather wooden actress, does nothing to detract from the movie for me.
What you get, then, is a complete story. Yes, there are parts that are probably too much (Jason Bateman's role verges on the melodramatic), but on the whole, those little distractions are ancillary to the main story anyway – or, if they aren't, they do not detract from the overall movie. This is a movie that will make you laugh for an hour-and-a-half, even with the touching moments interspersed throughout.
More important, this is a movie that will make you wish you owned a hamburger phone.
Nancy Horan's Loving Frank is the historical fiction of Frank Lloyd Wright's life with his mistress, Mamah Cheney, told from her point of view. As one of the most recognized personalities of the Twentieth Century, Wright is probably the one name people could come up with if asked to give an example of an architect.
Horan's book goes beyond the architecture, it goes beyond the man himself. As the title implies, the novel is about loving Frank Lloyd Wright, and thus it is actually Mamah's story, a woman pretty impressive in her own right. Granted, this isn't a biography, being fiction extrapolated from what little writings we have left of Mamah's, but what we do get is a fairly convincing portrayal of a woman who gives up everything in order to be with the man she loves.
And I do mean everything. By having an affair with a married man, while being married herself, she entered into a scandal that was latched on by the newspapers in a way that would make our current paparazzi proud of the tradition they follow in. And, I won't say without reason.
What amazes me about the writing is how Horan somehow makes Mamah a sympathetic character. Sure, she's unhappy in her marriage, but it's not like her husband, Edwin Cheney, was abusive or an alcoholic or anything really negative. If anything, it's mostly because he's basically boring, while Frank is exciting. For that reason, she leaves her children behind with a friend (who subsequently dies, which must have been delightfully traumatic for the kids), and goes off to Europe to meet up with Frank.
Still, despite her selfishness, you never see her as cold-hearted. She agonizes about leaving her children – and her guilt is a constant throughout. She also has to deal with her sister being left in a rather untenable situation, living in the house with her husband and children, who are now being harassed by the press and berated from the pulpit. And, perhaps most troubling, is that she has to deal with the fact that Frank Lloyd Wright is, well, kind of a self-absorbed asshole.
I think what's so surprising is the time period. Because Frank Lloyd Wright was so ahead of his time, and because of the misnomer that is “Modernism,” I've always felt he was working much later in the century, certainly beyond World War II. But, apparently I'm a moron, because this is turn-of-the-century America, and as such, the depiction of the social situation – concerning divorce and women's rights in particular – is crafted in such a way that it is revelatory without shocking. Again, I think it's Horan's work, creating the lovely voice of Mamah,
This is not a happy story. The affair, while comprised of touching moments, never gets to culminate in a happily-ever-after manner. In fact, if it could have ended in a less satisfactory way (at least from Mamah or Frank's perspective), I'd be glad to hear it. Unfortunately for the story, Horan was dealing with history, and history, although mold-able, is comprised of facts (with the obvious caveats applied about the factual nature of history). But even in the sadness, there is beauty. Shifting in the end from Mamah to Frank, Horan writes:
“Frank opens his eyes. All around his bed, he sees crippled salvage from the fire—a rolled-up carpet reeking of smoke, the two chairs they used for sitting in front of the fireplace, both now missing legs. When he closes his eyes again, the memory is gone. What he does not know is that he will not be able to retrieve her again like that. He will try. He will say to himself, She loved to joke. She had a wonderful laugh. But he won't be able to hear it, not for a very long time.”
Behind every famous man is a remarkable woman, and Mamah, with Horan's help, gets her due.
I highly recommend.
I also want to note that the cover, a Frank Lloyd Wright stained-glass design in yellows, was a fantastic choice. In case you're interested, it was done by Archie Ferguson.
When you are building something out of wood, you will inevitably produce waste-product. It is a part of the process, a you-need-to-break-some-eggs-to-make-an-omelet situation for sure. But, instead of eggshells, with wood you get scraps and, more to the point of this review, sawdust.
The Killers, a band I love and think produce some of the best rock albums of my generation, gave us Sawdust, and the title was incredibly apt. This is not an album in the traditional sense of the word, because it is not songs that were chosen specifically for the purpose of making a cohesive whole. Rather, Sawdust are the remnants of The Killers previous attempts: Hot Fuss and Sam's Town, two albums I think are strong entries into our musical catalog.
Sawdust is not.
In an interview in Maxim, Brandon Flowers, lead singer of The Killers, was asked point-blank if this was simply a way to keep the brand in the public consciousness until a new album can be released. Flowers denied this, and said that these are songs the band really loved, but they simply had to make editorial choices when putting together the other albums.
The thing is, as someone who makes editorial decisions myself, Flowers is forgetting something: you never see books made up of chapters excised from first drafts.
Granted, music and novels are two different mediums, but these songs were left off because they were chapters that didn't make sense in the albums. Moreover, they were left off because they weren't great songs. They aren't bad songs, really, but they don't do anything for me. I'm simply underwhelmed. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the song I liked the best was a remix of their song I like the best, “Mr. Brightside” (the song is the “Jacques LuCont's Thin White Duke Remix”).
Of course, just as Maxim asked the highly critical question, they in turn gave the “album” a fairly positive review. It makes me wonder what they were listening to. And, even if it wasn't as subjective as I'm making it out to be (I don't think Maxim ever gives bad reviews to albums guys are “supposed” to like), there is still the fact that we are being asked to buy what is amounts to refuse. It's not like this a director's cut of a movie – these are not the missing tracks that “complete” Sam's Town. Instead, it's a CD of songs that a die-hard fan might buy so that they have everything from their favorite artist.
I never thought I'd be disappointed by the ethical practices of a band called The Killers, but they fooled me out ten dollars, and for that, I am ashamed.
I guess I understand the fascination with Amy Winehouse – she's a phenomenal voice paired with an interesting story, and her album has a couple songs that bear out her talent. Back to Black is an odd kind of concept album, one where Winehouse's angst is set to a Motown soundtrack – to varying results. On some songs, she carries it off well, such as her ubiquitous “Rehab,” a song that's been making the rounds for practically a year now (yes, I know – I'm reviewing an old album – I never said anything about the timeliness of my criticisms, so there). Her whiskey-dark voice throbs when necessary, and the rather somber (sober . . . anyone?) message is juxtaposed nicely with the slightly upbeat music. Better yet, though is the song that more clearly works as a throwback to Motown, “Tears Dry on Their Own.” Part of it's success for me is the the chorus: the way she sings it with a slight catch right at the apex brings the message home. And, of course, the sampling/re-appropriation of “Ain't No Mountain High Enough” -- the classic Marvin Gaye/Tammi Terrel song – gives a melody that is both catchy and familiar.
And, yet, that's about all I have to recommend for this album. The gimmick gets old, which is why when Lauryn Hill put “Doo Wop (That Thing)” on The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, the success was in the fact that it was unique – just like every song on that album. Soul-singers, R&B singers, blues singers – take note: Seminal albums rarely, if ever, try to do the same thing over and over again. Winehouse, who's voice must draw comparisons to Hill's (and rightly so), is asked to do the same thing over and over again, and too often, what you get is mediocrity instead of great music. The album isn't terrible, but I don't get what people were in such a hizzy about.
Tizzy?
On the other end of the spectrum, I was surprised by how much I enjoyed (enjoy) Paramore's album Riot!. Surprised not so much because I thought they would make bad music, but more because I would have thought more people would have been talking about just how good the album is.
Certainly one needs to acknowledge that they are coming from a musical tradition (if you can call something that's essentially only a few years old a “tradition”) which isn't really known to get a great deal of respect from music critics: emo. But, then again, this really isn't truly emo anyway, so what's that say about music critics?
Sure, there is something that seems to scream out “emo!,” but as I've discussed numerous times on this site, what comes out for me is not sub-genre, but simply great rock music. From the beginning, we are drawn in with a driving guitar and a voice that, like Winehouse, knows how to sing with emotions. Unlike Winehouse, though, almost every song has a catchy hook, thanks to the voice of singer Hayley Williams and her and guitarists Josh Farro's songwriting ability. Together, they put together “poppy” music that you can dance to, sing along with, and basically feel good about listening to. While I can see the artistic merits in downer music – and Riot! is not all sunshine and rainbows – I generally listen to enjoy myself.
As is often the case, the singles chosen are good, but not really the best songs on the album. “Misery Business,” the first U.S. Single, is excellent, and I still haven't sickened of it. Even the second single, “Crushcrushcrush” is pretty decent, but it doesn't bring the emotional resonance (it doesn't touch me in a non-creepy-uncle-way) like some of the other songs. In particular, “Hallelujah,” “Miracle,” and incredibly Fall Out Boy-ishly titled “For a Pessimist I'm Pretty Optimistic” stand out – and this is only a 12 song album.
And really, all the songs are good.
Save yourself the time and money, and leave Ms. Winehouse on the shelf. Download “Rehab” and “Tears Dry on Their Own,” (if you haven't already) and count yourself finished. On the other hand, invest in Riot!. I can't promise you'll love it, but I can assure you will be buying a complete album made up of songs -- you know, the combination of musicality, lyrics, and singing that make you enjoy popular music in the first place.
In a completely different medium, allow me to not recommend Matthew Pearl's The Poe Shadow.
You may recognize Pearl as being the author of The Dante Club, a book in which some of America's greatest poets solve a series of post-Civil War murders by interpreting Dante's Inferno. For all the highfalutin' literary pretensions, Pearl delivered the goods in that one, because he could bring his historical, in-depth knowledge of Dante to create a unique and creative mystery. The main characters are all people we should probably know (and even if we aren't familiar with their works, per se, we are familiar with their names), and this connection, combined with an equally familiar poem and a particularly gruesome serial killer made an interesting and enjoyable read.
The Poe Shadow doesn't quite make it.
To begin, the main character, instead of being a historical figure, is a completely fictional one, already taking away some of the interest we might have in the book. Yes, the mystery might be real, but that's not exactly the point in fiction: I'd rather have a boring but real character solve a fantastic crime than a relatively boring fictional character solve a relatively boring real crime. But that's what we get in Pearl's last book.
Part of what makes it boring is that it's a bit muddled. Intent on saving Edgar Poe's (the book makes a point of dropping the Allan, as apparently Poe was estranged from Mr. Allan, his guardian) name after an ignoble death, the protagonist, Quentin, goes to France to find the real-life inspiration for Poe's great detective, Dupin. Instead, he finds two: the burnt-out detective Duponte and the shady Baron Dupin. Quentin decides that Duponte must be the real Dupin, and gets him to come back to Baltimore.
What follows isn't entirely clear. Quentin, despite his acknowledgment of Duponte's abilities, continues to ruin his own life while searching for the truth. The Baron, seeing an opportunity to regain stature and money (and therefore return from Paris, no longer an outcast), comes to Baltimore too, in order to “find the truth” -- basically, make a buck with a convincing story. I guess along the way there are some elements of danger, but nothing incredibly ominous. And then . . .
But what's the point? It just keeps going on and on, getting more and more convoluted, until eventually Quentin's aunt sues to declare him incompetent of handling his own inheritence, to which he has to defend Poe and prove his search wasn't in vain.
And yet, it was.
Because, at the end of the book (HUGE FRICKIN' SPOILER ALERT), the mystery isn't solved. Oh, there are theories. There is conjecture and logical thinking – but there's NO PROOF. And so, the main thing I got from the book was big serving of “what a gyp.”
What didn't help, either, is that Pearl, while technically a good writer, must have the driest voice of any popular novelist. It's as if he can't escape the “historical” part of historical fiction, and what we get is a possibly good idea mired in dusty prose. And then the idea didn't turn out to be that good.
Surprisingly, I won't even make a pun with Pearl's name. I could, rather easily, you know. This book simply isn't pun-worthy.
If that's not a telling statement, I don't know what is.
As we get to the point of no-return for most television studios, the haves and have-nots are being sorted at a prodigious rate. Granted, I simply don’t have time to watch every new show that comes out, but there are also usually pretty strong indicators as to how a show is going to do or not.
For example, any show with a caveman that isn’t a “Captain,” a “Honeymooners” rip-off, or a solitary, once-and-done joke probably isn’t going to last that long. Couple that with the fact that this is essentially free advertising for Geico (a company, by the way, that is owned by Berkshire-Hathaway – Warren Buffett’s company), and what you get is the merger of corporations and the arts that is at once bourgeois and craptacular. If I was the proletariat, I’d just let this show run its course and let the Revolution handle itself.
But it’s not just about blatantly bad ideas being shown for what they are: One might think that the combination of Kelsey Grammer, Patricia Heaton, and Fred Willard would have enough star-power and genuinely funny people to make “Back to You” work. And yet . . . not. Instead of being funny, it’s either mean or stupid. There’s nothing necessarily funny about awful people being awful to each other – you need a connection of some sort to make you sympathize on some level with the characters. Hence, while “Everybody Loves Raymond” made me cringe (because Raymond was a coward and yet Debra put up with it – both his cowardice and his truly reprehensible mother), at least there were moments when you understood that, deep down, these people truly do love each other. “Back to You” fails in this regard.
So, while these shows are still on the air, it’s only a matter of time before the ratings point out that businessmen don’t understand comedy.
Someone, however, does understand good television over at NBC. Two new shows, “Chuck” and “Life,” are quite good (with “Life” struggling to find its way into Excellent). They both have interesting premises, charming lead actors, decent supporting casts, and good writing.
For “Chuck,” Zachary Levi is a perfect balance between shyly-charming, intelligent, and nerd-core to the extreme. It’s one of those things where you have to believe that the hot girl wouldn’t be out of her mind for going out with him – and you don’t. While I’m not sure exactly how long they can maintain the double-life story (or how many terrorists or international criminals can realistically frequent the Los Angeles area) and I wish there was actually more “geek,” the show is highly amusing.
“Life,” while also incredibly amusing, is more of a straight drama. About a cop who was falsely accused of murder, and, upon his release, reaches a settlement in which he is given an undisclosed (but clearly huge) sum of money and a job back on the force. The interplay between the re-acclimation to the world, between Charlie (the lead, played fantastically by Damian Lewis, who you might remember from “Band of Brothers”) and his partner Dani, and the tension of being a cop surrounded by people you think have betrayed you, is gripping. Everyone has demons on this show, and yet Charlie’s quirky nature – his annoying philosophical ideas and his idiosyncratic tendencies – are a joy to watch. The one flaw I have noticed early is that the cut-scenes – in which an unseen documentary film-maker/journalist is interviewing people in regards to Charlie’s murder case – have already become repetitious. Sure, I understand the desire to drill certain facts home, and during a particular episode it can be an effective and powerful device, but to repeat things from show to show is a bit of a cop-out as far as writing goes. Couple of other notes:
I read a review of “Shot of Love with Tila Tequila” that read: “Pour this shot down the drain and get yourself a real drink – you’re gonna need it.”
Okay, I wrote that.
The show sucks. Whereas at least other dating/reality shows have some sort of theme, this show is all over the place – her tokens should be shot glasses, but they’re keys. Winners go to “heaven” and losers to “hell.” It just is poorly executed. Couple that with the fact that she’s a celebrity because she hyped herself up on MySpace and is (maybe) a bi-sexual makes me question if this is the sort of person who we need to encounter on a weekly basis.
On the good side, the new season of “South Park” has started, and, as usual, they are hilarious. They just wrapped up a three-part episode in which terrorists attack our imagination (they suicide bomb Imagination Land), Cartman is trying to enforce a court-ruling saying Kyle has to suck his balls, and Butters turns out to be the Neo of the Imagination Land-Matrix, and it was so incredibly money.
A fun game would be to try to name all the imaginary characters – it’s like a who’s who of pop-culture from the past 25 years. Some quick hits:
“My Name is Earl” is still very good.
I have no desire to watch “Lost” when it finally decides to come back – I can’t watch a show that doesn’t do anything.
I don’t understand the appeal of “Grey’s Anatomy.” I think I might need a vagina for that.
I’ve heard “Pushing Daisies” is very good, I just have too much on my plate at the moment.
Please let the rumors about new “Futurama” episodes be true. “South Park” aside, “Futurama” was the most consistently excellent adult cartoon after “The Simpsons” (and shouldn’t they have bowed out after the movie? Wasn’t that the point?) started sucking – at least 9 years ago.
I think that’s about it for now. I actually don’t get to watch a lot of TV anymore, but I am a firm believer of bowing at the altar of TiVo (although I now just have a cable-box DVR) – so I tend to catch up slowly but surely.
Remember: Television is not a passive activity. If you don’t like something, turn it off!
There was the hope that literary fiction, post-colonial literature, and science fiction could come together in a brilliant – perhaps wondrous – way. Junot Díaz tempts us with such a possibility – a gorgeous portrayal of a life that is both real and yet, by it's very nature, fantastical. In a way, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao manages this task.
But there is the part of me that feels let down. The picture the catalog-copy paints is one of a single hero, struggling to live up to the ideals that he reads about as the consummate fan-boy. I acknowledge this struggle may be subtle – that he might possibly lose -- but there's nothing disappointing about that. Heck, I concede that Díaz was not specifically writing science fiction – he's using it as an allusion, an analogy. As he writes: “What's more sci-fi than the Dominican Republic?”
Apparently everything.
In its Otherness, I can see what he's trying to point out. An evil, monstrous dictator who is both omniscient and terrible – yes, I can see a Trujillo/Sauron comparison. But, the fact is, Sauron is an idea born from reality, Trujillo is the reality (not that Sauron is based on Trujillo specifically, but on the many dictators throughout history). The power of science fiction isn't to create monsters – it's to tame them. To escape them, defeat them, or at worst, literally close the book on them: allowing their victory in return for the solace of the illusionary safety of our reality.
Díaz, in essence, does the opposite of science fiction. Sci-fi isn't the suspension of disbelief, but rather the creation of belief. When successful – always an important step – sci-fi draws its reader in, regardless of the unbelievable nature, alien races, or paranormal systems. Díaz does draw you in – he's a fine writer – but he doesn't create belief in the Dominican Republic. If anything, the world he points out is unnatural to us, and perhaps too much so. And, ironically, the problem isn't that Trujillo isn't a monster, but rather that he's painted as both a “monster” and a Monster: a human devoid of humanity and a being is so completely without definition that it's impossible to come to grips with him.
I think what also hurts is the lack, not of a hero – many sci-fi works lack heroes – but of a protagonist. Because Oscar is not the center of the story. If there was a protagonist, it would be his whole family, but that doesn't completely compute, either, because they are often at odds with each other. There is a focus on Oscar, but the book is more the story of his past (and his family's past). Much of the action centers outside of Oscar's sphere (and, as is the case with his mother's story) his time). But, unlike the adventuring parties in science fiction , this cast of characters does not does not work in conjunction with each other, and their goals are very different. Overall, the book fails in creating incredibly sympathetic characters.
On a more personal note: I wanted more geek! There's something ego-boosting about being shouted out in by an artist, whether it's a band screaming out the name of the city they happen to be playing in or an author mentioning things that you can connect with. When I first read the description of The Brief Wondrous Life, I thought it was going to be an homage to all things nerdy. I was ready and willing to smile every time I could say: Hey, I know that reference! Instead, what we were thrown were little dork-tidbits surrounding a meaty-core of post-colonial burger. And that saddens me a bit.
This isn't a terrible book. Most people I have encountered who have also read it have loved it. But I might be too much a part of the world Díaz is describing. No, I'm not Dominican, but I have read a great deal in the genre. And then, of course, I was raised in the science fiction genre. In writing a hybrid, Díaz has the freedom of picking and choosing the best of the many genres he wishes to sample, but also has to contend with the fans of those disparate works. In the end, Díaz's experiment falls short of coming together as a whole, and that's so disappointing for a book that I approached with such high expectations.
Makes me happy I borrowed it instead of buying. So do yourself a favor, patronize your local library, but keep the book from permanent residence on your shelves.
Ugh. I know – even I feel a bit queasy about my title. Then again, when puns are making you nauseous, you know they’re doing something right.
So what’s the deal with this movie? Critics seem hell-bent on lashing out at Reservation Road as if a) the movie is claiming to be something earth-shattering and ground-breaking and b) it’s personally offended them. Maybe I’m not the world’s finest critic, but I think what people were expecting from that movie was more than they should have. It is a fairly simple tale of two families connected by a tragedy: one is the victim, one is the perpetrator. On a dark Connecticut road, a young boy is killed in a hit-and-run, and while his family tries to cope with his death (and pursue the “killer”), the driver is trying to work out his own demons – both with his estranged ex-wife, his son, and his guilt.
Yes, it is easy to get lulled into a trap. Based on a highly acclaimed novel by John Burnham Schwartz, it also stars three relatively big name actors – people you would probably see in a trailer and say: Wow, those three? It must be good. And I think that was part of the initial disappointment for some: although it does star Joaquin Phoenix, Jennifer Connelly, and Mark Ruffalo (and, if you want to consider Mira Sorvino a “star,” Mira Sorvino), these are not the actors’ finest roles. While I think they all do adequate jobs with what they are given, after a while, crying and angst is not really the pinnacle of acting: somber is easy; comedy is hard.
Still, they are not terrible either. And, as most movies are the sum of their actors, I think this needs to be brought into consideration. For a movie that is high on melodrama, it’s not overwrought with cheese. It does get a bit cloying that much of the “dialogue” consists of crying and “screeching,” but, I mean, their fucking son just died! How are people supposed to react?
And that’s what bothers me so much about the reviews – this total disregard for the situation of the movie. The plot might ring a bit false, but does the way the actors react to the situations they’re given work? I think, for the most part, the do. Mark Ruffalo, as the murderer, does a particularly good job working with what he has, and his guilt and fear seem completely normal for such an abnormal situation.
I went in with low-expectations. The “word-on-the-street” buzz was such that I was seriously contemplating if I wanted to go. There are moments during the movie that I laughed out loud at the ridiculous coincidences that sprung up – everyone is connected to everyone in this movie. Does this come across as preposterous? Yes – it definitely does. After the first few times, you just know what’s going to happen next – and it does. So, for instance, when Phoenix’s character talks about using a lawyer to help keep on the police, whose office does he end up in? That’s right, the lawyer we already met: Ruffalo’s character. I’d like to be kinder here, but that is the level this movie works at.
But, again, that’s the level the story works at. Think about it this way: if there weren’t all these “coincidences,” there wouldn’t be a movie. Or, rather, there wouldn’t be this movie, based off of Schwartz’s book. Would another movie have been better? Possibly. And yet it’s hard for me to shake off the fact that this was a psychological thriller, and that, unlike a novel (where you get internal monologue), we need to see the emotions in raw forms. Think of it this way: would it have seemed more realistic for people going through this ordeal to just sit down with each other and talk about their problems? Just writing that seems absurd to me. Think about it in another way: is there a good movie version of Crime and Punishment? If there is, I can’t think of it. And the reason for that is because how do you translate a novel about one man’s struggles with guilt into a movie? Remember, too: movies are not books. They are not cinematic novels. They are a completely separate medium that requires a different mindset.
After reading what I’ve written, I am actually a little at a loss as to where I say why I thought the movie was good. I guess it comes down to this: I walked away with a reaction that made sense for the movie. Say what you will, but for us “regular” movie-goers, there are some powerful emotions being thrown around, and I felt them strongly. I wasn’t amazed by this movie. I don’t think I’d ever see it again. I don’t even necessarily expect others to see it.
I just don’t want people to think it’s a bad movie. I think it set out to adapt a novel in a way that works on the big-screen, and for the most part, they succeeded. In a movie about a little kid getting killed, I think it does everything you would expect it to do. Don’t forget, too, that there are plenty of people out there who not only like melodrama, they thrive off of it (hence our culture’s obsession with celebrity gossip). Is the movie Oscar-worthy? Of course not. But it’s not the crap-fest that critics so eagerly dump upon it, either.
Know what pisses me off about "The Hills"? Besides the fact that I'm a guy, and technically it's pretty gay that I watch "The Hills?" It's that it's reality television.
There is a persistent belief that reality television is, in fact, fake or scripted. Perhaps that is the case, and I doubt "The Hills" is in any way an exception (hello: Spenser and Heidi?), but there's a reason they call it "reality television." Not because it depicts any true reality (and, I'm sure I could get into a whole existential discussion about the "truth" of "reality"), but because the fakeness is of a questionable nature. There is clearly a scripted quality to the show -- such as Jason reappearing, not mentioning he has a girlfriend, and then announcing his engagement at his house-warming party. It's completely ludicrous to believe that he and Lauren would have ended up at the same restaurant as Spenser and Heidi (you know someone got a text saying they should go there).
And the obnoxiousness that is Heidi and Spenser is beyond compare. Is there a faker person than Spenser? Everything about him screams "I'm a douche-bag!" And not in a "I'm a suave, bad-ass douche-bag" -- no, he's a complete, dorkified, full-blown douche-bag. With ridiculous teeth and a face that begs for people to punch it.
He's corny.
Yet, Heidi sticks with him. Despite the fact that Lauren (in a kind of dick move, but at least she's honest) has hated on him from the get-go, meaning that Lauren and Heidi's friendship is over. Despite the fact that Heidi's family thinks it's a mistake, and has told her and Spenser -- numerous times -- that it's a bad idea. Most importantly, despite the fact that Spenser has yet to tell his parents that he's engaged to be married.
It's that last one that blows my mind. How can this not be fake? What girl would put up with that kind of nonsense. It's bad enough he doesn't have a job. It's bad enough he thought it would be cool with his fiance if he got a friend to do a graffiti mural on their living room wall (I'm a single guy, and I think that's fucking wack). But to propose marriage and never tell your parents? I don't get it. What's he trying to avoid or say with this? Moreover, once Heidi is aware of the fact, he still doesn't think it's all that imperative that he get on the horn and let his parents know they will soon have a daughter-in-law.
To me, that's insane. Not him not telling. That I can deal with, on one level or another. But who is this girl with no self-esteem that allows her entire life to fall to shambles and lets the cause of all her problems insult her by basically saying: the news of our impending marriage is not important enough to mention to my parents. That's crazy.
And yet, is it? Sure, it's a little weird how she doesn't seem to get mad at him, but I have a feeling people in a lot worse situations have gotten married. At least these two are pretty, B-list famous, and relatively wealthy. More to the point, this does not seem to be so out of line with what one could expect from certain girls.
For example: Audrina. Seemingly a cool chick (okay, I think she's hot, so she's "cool" in my eyes), and yet she's the most preposterous person when it comes to her relationships with guys. The most telling example of this is her interactions with Justin-Bobby (his name is Bobby, but he wants people to call him Justin; don't ask). This is a guy who is completely anti-social with everyone, including Audrina. At one point, they went on a trip to Vegas, and he ditched her there. As in, left her in Vegas, by herself. And she took him back.
Then, at a party they went to together, he leaves with another girl.
And she takes him back.
So the go to Vegas (again!) and all her friends hate him (because he's an anti-social dick), and she's practically willing to drop them all to be with him. In the end, she doesn't (kind of), but you could tell she wanted to.
Basically, she's a television camera away from being in a physically abusive relationship and convincing everyone that it's her fault. Hyperbole? Perhaps, but if this isn't a mentally abusive relationship, I'll . . . um, I'm not sure what I could "turn in," seeing I really don't have any credentials in this regard. Still, it certainly appears like a weak person being dominated by a strong person, and not in a sexy, leather-and-whips kind of way.
That's what makes me question the fakeness of this reality show. Because, as sad as the above situation is (because, like I said, she's pretty hot, and could probably find a guy who wouldn't treat her like crap), this is not something straight out of science fiction. This is a trope common throughout history. Chances are, you know someone like this. God knows I knew girls -- intelligent, beautiful girls -- who couldn't grasp that they were both going out with the same guy. Oh, they knew he was seeing the other girl (because the guy didn't try to hide it), but they each convinced themselves that "he really loves me." The bad boy thing is almost a biological inheritance from our more primitive ancestors.
So what if that also throws a lot of the Enlightenment out the window? This isn't a show for feminists, that's for damn sure. It's not about a woman's independence. Destiny's Child does not sing the theme song (Natasha Bedingfield does, a fairly conservative pop-star if there is such a thing). There is no political agenda with this show. Which means, of course, that the "reality," while faked, comes across as genuine, in an oddly perverted way.
So next time you watch "The Hills" -- and trust me, you should watch "The Hills;" Whitney's the shit -- remember that you are watching thousands of years of supposed human evolution getting shown the door. But you'll get to see it accompanied by L.C.'s all-purpose raised eyebrow (It's a question! It's approval! It's incredulity! It's everything and nothing and deserves it's own show!).
If you don't have a half-hour to spare for that, than maybe you ought to check how "real" your life is.
When Michael Lewis decided to write Moneyball, his intention was to figure out how a team with seemingly no resources in which to compete with large-market teams could put together playoff runs year after year. He was specifically interested in how the Oakland A's, one of the "poorer" teams in baseball (I always smile a little when teams complain about having a payroll of "only" 40 million dollars) was able to be successful. What he found wasn't a magic formula but, in fact, the seeming opposite.
Baseball, a game built on traditions, didn't understand any of those traditions. Instead, with a series of superstitions and misguided beliefs, a multi-billion dollar industry was run with the efficiency of a ice cream stand on the sun.
With a little less melting.
The baseball theory itself is pretty interesting, but, amazingly enough, not really the point of the book. The point is to show that baseball is not really a game of gut-calls, but instead, a game of numbers. It can be a game of numbers because it produces such large sample sets -- 162 game seasons, multiple at-bats per game, multiple innings-pitched, multiple pitches thrown. What this means is that, over the course of a season, and over the course of a career, there is enough data to generate statistical probabilities that generally stand up. What the A's figured out was that certain statistics more accurately gauge a players offensive capabilities, and that those statistics weren't the ones that find themselves in the daily box scores, key among them, on-base percentage. The team had come to the conclusion that, when it comes down to it, the most important thing a hitter can do is not make an out. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter how you get on first base, just that you do (with the exception of fielders choices, of course).
What Lewis was amazed by (as were the A's, who people saw as this anamoly), was that this was a radical way of thinking. Logic-be-damned: no boy with a computer is going to tell someone who actually played the game that RBIs, steals, and batting average don't matter. The problem was, that the A's weren't saying that. They were saying that those numbers are not as accurate at explaining how good an offensive player is.
In the end, the book is less about the math (although it is important), and more about the philosophy. It wasn't that the A's were trying to prove that the rest of baseball was wrong. it wasn't trying to say that the people everyone else had designated as good were bad. It was simply trying to show how a baseball team, if run as an efficient business, can do so with less money by identifying the "parts" others were undervaluing, selling high the players other teams were overvaluing, and getting the best possible team for his money. The fact was, the A's couldn't afford superstars on their team, so instead they had to figure out a way to win that didn't include players traditionally labeled as being good (regardless if they had actually performed or not -- hence their liking college players over high school players: they had more evidence on which to make a decision).
That's why the book is called Moneyball. Because, although it's a game built on tradition, it's also a business built on cash.
The most amazing thing about this book is the reaction. This book was written a couple of years ago, and yet it seems as if people still think it's hogwash. They don't understand how a guy with a bad body, or someone who doesn't run fast, can be a major league baseball player. They don't understand how the sacrifice bunt is a wasted play (that the probability of a run scoring from first base with no outs is significantly statistically higher than a player on second base with one out) or how, for the most part, stealing is statistically too risky a play to warrant indiscriminate running -- no matter who the player is. Again, this is about tradition. We grew up playing this game, we grew up watching this game, and so many things that we took for granted -- usually because some ex-ballplayer who is now the announcer says it's so -- are being questioned. But the numbers don't bear out those plays. It is conservativism at it's worst, being afraid of technology because they refuse to see anything is broken at all.
Perhaps the worst of these nay-sayers is, amazingly enough, someone who has admitted he's actually never read the book: Joe Morgan. Now Morgan was a phenomenal player (or so I'm told; I never saw him play, but seeing how he's in the Hall of Fame and the numbers are there, I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt), but he's a terrible broadcaster. This despite the fact that he's the number one baseball analyst for ESPN. What makes him so terrible is that he has no concept about why things happen in the games. He has a love for "little ball," and yet when he points to a successful "little ball team" (such as the 2005 White Sox), what he inevitably ignores is their tremendous "big ball" numbers and amazing pitching. If you pointed out to him that the same team, with the same philosophy, performed poorly the next season, he has no answer for that. Most importantly, though, is that although he hasn't read it, he still feels he has the right to comment about it. And his comments are wrong.
To observe how wrong he is, read one of the better sports blogs on the internet, Fire Joe Morgan.
The funny thing is, I had bought into the ideas espoused in Moneyball before actually reading it. When they were explained to me, they simply made sense. How could they not: they were backed up with numbers. The numbers were backed up with success. Yes, as Morgan gleefully points out, the A's have not won a World Series with their philosophy, but they have reached the playoffs a number of years with players people consistently belittle -- something must be working. Too, there can only be one champion each year, and it's not always the case that the best team in the regular season wins it all. But somehow winning division titles isn't enough for Joe, and yet he'll praise managers with losing records (because they play the game "the right way"). Reading the book was like having gravity explained to you by Newton -- it felt like I was getting the inside scoop from the man himself.
If you want to understand the numbers behind baseball, read this book. If you want to understand why some teams do better than others, regardless of payroll, read this book. If you want to learn more about Billy Beane, the A's general manager (who did not write the book), Scott Hatteberg, Josh Brown, Nick Swisher, or Chad Bradford, read this book. However, if you want to maintain your belief in baseball as being flawless, do not read this book.
You will not understand it or you will be defensive and resistant to it. Either way, it's not the book for you.
It’s always a bit joyful to rent a movie and find that, more than not sucking, you might actually have come across a pretty decent film.
When The Lookout was being promoted for the theatres, I remember thinking to myself: that looks like an okay movie. It seemed like a slightly odd vehicle for Joseph Gordon-Levitt (as I only really know him from “3rd Rock from the Sun” and Ten Things I Hate About You) because it was definitely a move away from the comedy and/or teen roles he had taken previously. That said, I didn’t go see it in the theatres because a) I live in New York, and movies are fucking expensive and b) if I am going to go see a movie, I want to get the bang-for-my-buck, so to speak: I want to see movies that either utilize the big screen and surround-sound (action, sci-fi, martial arts, etc.) or is so culturally important that I feel it’s imperative I see it immediately (like Superbad, for instance). The Lookout didn’t seem like that kind of movie.
Part of the problem, as I see it, concerning the movie’s success was that the title and trailers seemed to imply something about the movie that wasn’t really central. Gordon-Levitt is barely a lookout in any part of the movie (except, maybe, if you consider that he lives with a blind man, played by Jeff Daniels). The trailers also never mention that Gordon-Levitt’s character, Chris, is mentally handicapped throughout most of the movie. This is such a huge factor in the story, and yet the movie was never sold with that being prominently displayed. Instead, it came across as a crime-thriller, perhaps a bit film-noirish, but not exactly über-innovative. Good, but not “fresh.”
But the movie is “fresh.” Gordon-Levitt’s handicap is the result of a decision he made that went wrong, so there is both sympathy and distance from him as a character. He plays it both charmingly and as an asshole, making the character feel complete and adding tension to pretty much every scene. The most important feature, though, is his difficulty with memory and sequencing (placing things in a narrative order), and this plays out – as my one friend mentioned, repeatedly during the movie – in a very Memento-like way. Similar manipulations from other characters, similar needs for memory devices, all come together in similar ways in both movies. And yet, The Lookout, in not being about remembering the past, but instead coping with the present, provides a completely different take.
Besides Gordon-Levitt, there’s a great performance by Matthew Goode, a British actor who plays American Tough to perfection. Like any good villain, he’s both menacing and charismatic as Gary Spargo, and although it’s obvious from the beginning that he’s using Chris for his handicap and his job at the bank, there’s nevertheless a bond that he creates between the two that sucks you in.
Jeff Daniels, playing Chris’ blind friend Lewis, also does a good job, although a little clichéd at times. His mentor/protector/comic relief role is perfect for Daniels, and yet I was not completely certain if the character was perfect for the movie. It provided a grounding point for Chris – the family when his own family seems so distant – but there was something about him that didn’t seem to mesh with the overall story. Perhaps it’s simply their age difference that gives off an odd vibe. The biggest detriment, though, are two of the bigger characters in the movie: Luvlee, played by Isla Fisher (of Wedding Crashers fame), and Bone, played by Greg Dunham (a newcomer). Dunham plays the character well, as the dark, mysterious killer who has almost no lines but provides the murderous can-do spirit that Gary needs to keep everyone in line. The only problem is: who the hell is he? Nothing ever gets explained about him – such as how Gary knows this guy – and while he adds a bit of creepiness to the movie, he also detracts from some of the realism. He’s almost too ghoulish to be believable.
With Luvlee, there’s much the same problem. Used by Gary to lure Chris into the scheme, her biggest moment is when she is confronted by Lewis. Unfortunately, we never get a resolution to that confrontation. We see Chris in bed, listening, but the closest we get to him approaching Lewis about the conversation is when he tells Lewis he’s moving out. Worst of all, though, the director keeps showing us Luvlee and Gary being somewhat intimate (affectionate?) whenever Chris isn’t around and yet this relationship is never explained. In fact, about two-thirds into the movie, Luvlee leaves, and we never see or hear from her again.
Still, on first viewing, there’s enough to keep your attention. You do get wrapped up in story and in the way the director sets up the scenes. It was only later, as the credits rolled, that I was left wondering about the girl. Bone, although perhaps not as used as a shotgun-above-the-mantle should be, is generally explainable, and so in the end, you get a unique twist on the bank heist movie. It is dark, it is character driven, and quick enough to help you get past any hang-ups you might be formulating. Ironically, despite its short length, there is an awful lot of time spent on development, which is an overall plus.
I’m glad I didn’t see it in the theatre, and I don’t think there’s enough replay value to own it, but I definitely recommend you renting it.
I think the hardest part of any writing endeavor will always be the ending. Say what you will about the importance of introductions, the presentation of information – the opening moments – are relatively easy. It doesn’t take much to get a reader interested. For the most part, the fact that they’ve opened the book is generally enough for at least a couple of pages. Obviously you then need to develop something, but again, as readers, we’re generally pretty easy to please.
Remember, I did say “relatively.”
If you think about it in double-entendre terms, it’s not that hard to get to some sort of climax (Note: guy writing this). It is the afterwards (the Afterward, if you will) that is so often disappointing. While the author is patting himself on the back for bringing off the plot to spectacular fruition, the reader is left thinking: are we done? It takes a great writer, like a great lover (I wasn’t sure if you were with me on my double-entendre train), to make sure all parties involved are satisfied.
What I’m presenting you was not a great lover.
In the world of literary accomplishment, it’s usually quite an honor for a British (Commonwealth) writer to be on the short-list for the Man Booker Prize. Essentially an English Pulitzer, it’s also a bit high on its own pretensions. Case in point: Mister Pip.
This is not a bad book. I want to make that clear right now. Lloyd Jones does something imaginative with the post-colonial genre, namely, re-appropriate a classic, canonical text to serve as both a plot-device and centering point for the novel. For those of you not quite on the allusion wave-length, Mister Pip is referring to Philip Pirrip, or Pip, from Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations.
The story is about an island somewhere in the South Pacific where the people live in what begins as peaceful semi-isolation. Although not completely disconnected (Mathilda, the young girl who is the narrator, mentions her father, like many other men, have gone to Australia to work), they are basically unconcerned about what’s going on around them. Much of that could be because of our narrator being so young, but the picture we get is a peaceful, happy community.
But then war comes. War brings an end to power, an end to packaged food, and an end to medicine. In their place, it brings the beginning of a school led by Mr. Watts, a.k.a. “Popeye,” the lone white man left on the island. Admitting that he’s not the greatest teacher, Mr. Watts does his best impression of Danny DeVito in Renaissance Man and decides to read to them. Instead of Hamlet, however, Mr. Watts reads Great Expectations.
This is the clever part. This is where the allusions and juxtapositions take place, just as the misinterpretations and word-play (as he tries to explain difficult words to the children who have no context for the world of Pip) come alive. This is the post-colonial moment at its best, where West meets Other, and a new world comes alive.
Yet, it’s also a forced moment, especially as it gets carried out as you move along in the story. When the redskins come and demand to meet Mr. Pip, it seems preposterous that they couldn’t explain the situation even without the aid of the book as proof. It seems equally odd that, with the information, the redskins – with their clearly superior technology – could easily find out about Charles Dickens if they were really so concerned. Perhaps we’re supposed to assume the cruelty of the redskins (and, I have to admit, I’m lost as to who Jones is referring to here), but I think that’s assuming a great deal on his part. The motivations that lead up to the problems are not very believable.
But even with all that, it’s still not a bad novel. Like so many teaching stories, the best moments are the interactions between the students and the teacher. It is only after the violence, the supposed climax, that the reader is left questioning what the deal is with this book. For if the climax was abrupt, then what follows is practically lethargic. After the violence (which isn’t graphic, and therefore not exactly shocking), I just have no more “me” to give except that I know there’s only a few more pages, so I might as well finish. That’s not what I would consider a great recommendation.
Too many things happen that don’t help resolve the climax. The flood – it’s either too symbolic or too cheesy; I can’t decide. Mathilda going to visit Mr. Watts’ home in Wellington – accomplishes little by means of explanation. The reunion with her father is probably designed to be anti-climactic, but it feels even less important when on top of everything else. The one thing that maybe works is that Mathilda feels the compulsion to make her life’s work Dickens. After the connection she makes with the book and the impact it had on her life up to her escape, this makes sense.
I just had stopped caring at that point.
Because, the story wasn’t about Mathilda. It was the story of the island, and, to a lesser degree, Mr. Watts. Mathilda was the narrator and the focalizer, but she wasn’t the protagonist. Not until the very end, after all the other protagonists were left to the wayside, does she become the most important person in the book. Maybe that’s something neat or interesting to do with a novel, but I have to say it leaves me unsatisfied because Jones ends up concluding a story that isn’t the same one that we read.
If you have to choose a book to read, stick with the inspiration, and leave Mister Pip to win its award.
In a world that is dominated by a President, it is odd that we have turned away from our long-standing reliance on precedent. America is, if anything, a traditional country, one that adheres greatly to a concept of history, legality, and documentation. Even during that radical moment when some of the greatest minds of the time gathered together in Philadelphia, they were not attempting something so radical that it was, to them, necessarily treasonous. They were simply trying to come together to proclaim their rights as Englishmen, and, when that failed, proclaim their rights as humans. That is the American tradition, and that is the precedent I’m calling for today.
Just like the Declaration of Independence, what the American people is demanding for is not exactly a dissolution of ties, but rather a codification of grievances that make it clear exactly why we can no longer tolerate the current situation.
It is partially our own fault. Like it or not, we put this President into power. Oh, you might say “I didn’t vote for him,” but you also didn’t rally against him. Was John Kerry the banner to take into battle? No, of course not. How can you draw out voters if it looks like a non-decision? No, the ballot box has been a dismal failure in this regard. Just look to the results of the 2006 Congressional elections. The Democrats, riding the dissatisfaction, took both the House and Senate, only to sit on their hands. And I’m not talking about the war. Say what you will, but the war is almost a non-issue right now, because the war is a problem with no clear-cut solution. We have tied a Gordian Knot centered on Baghdad, and no legislative process will create a positive result.
That is not to say that the Democrats didn’t (don’t) have options. The House – the branch most directly connected with the populace (at least in theory) – has the powers it does because of that tie. The first, and essentially the most powerful, is the power of the purse. Cut off funding, end the war. It really would be as simple as that. But the problem is that this is portrayed as a political solution, which paints it as distasteful. It doesn’t take a genius to oppose such a plan with an “abandoning the troops” attack-campaign. What it does take is a genius – a leader – to do it anyway. To rally his troops in Congress to take control of what the Constitution gives them control over. But that person was no where to be found. Rhetoric gets you elected. Bold moves rarely get you re-elected.
The other power is even more stigmatized, and that is because it has only been used for purely political reasons. Both Andrew Johnson and Bill Clinton were impeached not because they had committed “high crimes and misdemeanors,” but because the opposition saw an opportunity and used the system to try to exploit it. This is not the case today. Bush has broken the law. He has broken it knowingly – and flaunted it – or unknowingly, meaning he’s been criminally negligent. The NSA wire-tapping alone is a cut-and-dried example of him illegally suspending habeas corpus and violating both the Fourth and Fifth (and some might argue First) Amendments. And yet, because of the perceived political nature (and the unfortunate reality that “political” is almost entirely bereft of positive meaning today), no one is brave enough to put it to a vote. It’s not as if, like two years ago, the Republicans controlled the Ways and Means Committee, thus shelving any such call. It is the Democrat’s Congress, and they have failed us in their pledges from a year ago.
So what’s that leave? Precedent.
Just like the Continental Congress, or the militias at Lexington and Concord, or even the saboteurs of the Boston Tea Party, it is time for civil disobedience.
But not protesting. Protesting is simply standing and talking. It is not action. We are past talk. We are past petition and bargaining. We are past all that, because they are rusted weapons in our ever-depleting arsenal. If a political problem can not be solved in a political manner, then it is incumbent on the people – it is not only our right, but our duty – to secure what has been taken from us.
So what do I propose? After reading Garret Keizer’s essay “Specific Suggestion: General Strike” in the October issue of Harper’s, I was inspired. His call for a general strike – a power of the purse that we can actually effect – seemed both radical and yet beautiful in its simplicity. And yet, even Mr. Keizer seems to admit that to organize such a strike would be a logistical nightmare. It’s not so much that it would be painful to go through, but that to spread the word, and put it into effect just doesn’t seem feasible. I enjoy the sentiment, but I just can’t see it happening. It requires too much from too many people to all do the same thing, and for a country not inclined to vote, such a political action screams of idealism. Coupled with the mutterings of communism and socialism, and you might be surprised how those concepts still bring a rise out of people. What I’m offering is akin to the strike, but much easier to do.
All you have to do is nothing.
Or rather, a specific nothing: don’t pay your taxes.
Let April 15 roll around, and don’t send in your W-2’s or your 1040’s. Don’t gather your receipts and don’t stress out about being audited. Simply don’t.
Because here’s the thing: it’s not so much the cutting off of funds (although there is a bit of that, most of us get our taxes taken out of our paychecks already). It’s more the logistical nightmare it creates for the government. Think of the economic chaos the potential of not receiving the taxes the government planned on (banked on) collecting. Do you think China, which holds a great deal of our debt in their banks, would not rumble about calling in the loans? Do you think the stock markets wouldn’t shudder at the possibility? This is pure supply-and-demand. In its beautiful irony, it is a free-market solution to a problem predicated on free markets.
The best part about it is that it is the threat that works. And it doesn’t rely on the entire population, either. If one percent of the population didn’t send in their taxes, the problems would be enormous. If ten percent didn’t, it would be catastrophic. Now imagine the entire Democratic Party got their act together? Or the cities of San Francisco, New York, Seattle, Los Angeles, and Portland? There’s simply no way they could possibly muster the man-power to do anything about it. The reason it's feasible, too, is because people don't want to pay their taxes in the first place. By relieving them of a chore they don't want to do, you make it easy for them to act on it. During the Civil Rights movements, they boycotted racist businesses.
I say lets boycott our criminal government.
Sure, they could say that we are only hurting ourselves, that they will have to cut funds from education and health care. But that is a lie. Because all they need to do is sell one of our fighter jets to whatever lovely dictator we want to keep in power (Saudi Arabia has a nice, poetic feel, doesn’t it), and we can keep our programs going. Or we could call in all those no-bid contracts that don’t seem to producing what our tax money (our tax money) is paying for. In the end, though, it doesn’t matter. Yes, there might be hardship. Civil disobedience is not about comfort. But it is about results. The fact of the matter is that, although it’s wonderful to look towards the future and say “One more year and he’s gone,” it’s the same as saying “I’m going to just going to let this disease run its course.” Does that make sense, when you can, with a little effort, take some medicine? Moreover, is it prudent to think the disease will run its course? I’m not sure about you, but I’m not willing to bet my future on it.
It’s been a while, hasn’t it folks? (Anyone who knows who originally rapped that lyric gets a prize).
I apologize. It’s not easy being me: so much demand, so little time.
All lying aside, I’ve got a lot to say, but perhaps not the most time to say it in, so these might come off as a bit condensed today.
To begin, let me discuss what will undoubtedly be the most quoted movie on college campuses this year. I’m of course speaking about War.
Actually, I’m talking about Superbad, the latest installment from producer Judd Apatow, the man who brought us The 40-Year-Old Virgin and Knocked Up. I haven’t seen Knocked Up, but I hear it’s very good. I have seen the other two, and I think they might be two of the funnier movies ever made.
That said, I will hold off placing Superbad on the uber-pedestal for just a second. Why? Because, let’s face it: we’ve seen this movie before. As funny as it is, as clever as it is, this is by no means an original story. Let’s see, where else have I seen a teen sex-comedy that get’s interrupted by a series of wacky adventures?
How about:
Dazed and Confused The Trojan War Can’t Hardly Wait Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle Hell, you could probably throw Go into the mix, too.
The fact is, the one-night-to-make-it-happen shtick is all well and good, but it is not exactly a genius move. No matter what, though, those comparisons (and really, watch The Trojan War, Dazed and Confused and Harold and Kumar and tell me you don’t see similarities with Superbad) are rather arbitrary when it comes down to the fact that Jonah Hill is a hilarious clown and Michael Cera might possible be the most perfect Everyman since Michael J. Fox. Hell, Fox was probably more obviously charming than Cera; Cera’s gift is that he is disarming.
And then he talks nonchalantly about porn while eating his breakfast.
Still, the best parts of the movie revolve around the cops and McLovin. Although definitely more implausible than any other aspect of the movie, the relationship between the three works so well, and the ultimate reveal in the bedroom makes it come back down to Earth enough to work.
Personally, I’d recommend The 40-Year-Old Virgin over Superbad. The chest-waxing scene might possibly be the single funniest scene in American cinema – not sure why I’m singling out “American” cinema, but maybe it’s because so many foreign films come across as unintentionally funny (see Bollywood for examples). But it is also a poor comparison to make. Yes, I believe in the body of Apatow’s works, one outshines the other, but these are both incredibly funny (and funny because they generally “real” – the comedy comes from believing in the characters as being legitimate) movies. I’m sure once Knocked Up comes out on DVD, I’ll say the same thing about it.
In another medium, we enter the audio realm. Some of you may have heard of the “feud” between 50 Cent and Kanye West. If you haven’t, here’s a quick summary:
Both albums came out on September 11 (it’s a Tuesday; albums come out on Tuesday; don’t think too much about the significance of the date), and before they did, 50 Cent said that if Kanye sells more albums than him, he (50) would retire.
Before the albums dropped, I implored people to go out and buy Kanye’s album. Not because I think 50 Cent is a bad rapper (which I do), but more because I wanted 50 to be a liar – and have nobody care.
Let’s face it: do we really believe when celebrities say they are going to “retire?” Heck, even athletes, people who have physical timelines on their careers, have reneged on retiring: Michael Jordan and Roger Clemens are two of the more prominent examples. More close to home for 50 is Jay-Z, who after his phenomenal Black Album, announced his retirement, only to come out a few years later with the rather un-spectacular Kingdom Come.
The point is, a guy named 50 Cent should know it’s all about the money. As such, if you know you can sell millions of dollars worth of records, there’s no way you’re going to walk away from that because of a “bet.” Especially if it takes seemingly little effort on your part (more on this in a moment) to create said album. Mr. Cent, no one is buying your bravado.
The fact remains that I also think he’s a bad rapper (I think I might have mentioned this before). In rap, there are certain things I think make someone successful. First and foremost are beats. Except for the single “In da Club,” not one of his singles really strikes me as having incredible hot beats. Some of them are “all right,” but nothing jumps out at me as being “ooo, I have to download that.” Right after beats, you have flow. Some might say lyrics would go here, but flow, being a musical element, is more about initial connection than lyrics. The first time you hear a song, you normally don’t “hear” all the lyrics. You are too busy absorbing the beat, absorbing the hook, to be truly immersed in the words. Flow, the rate and syncopation of the wording, is something a bit more tactile and elementary. 50’s flow is rather mundane. Yes, I’ve heard him rap relatively fast (relative to Twista or Big Pun, for instance), on the single “She Wants It” for example, but because his voice is slurred and monotone, it comes off as lacking emotion, and therefore a sense of speed.
And clearly voice is an important component, too. With his lazy sound (resulting from being shot a few times), you wonder how into the words he’s singing he really is. Which brings us to lyrics. Perhaps I’m overly sensitive here, but rap should be about word play. Simply rhyming is for Dr. Seuss. The ability to craft clever phrases, to write those “Oh!-lines” (as in “Oh shit! Did you hear that?”), helps separate the boys from the men.
50 simply doesn’t do any of this for me. Yes, “In da Club” was a hot song. But I’m pretty sure if I had Dr. Dre giving me one of his greatest all-time beats, I could write a Number One single.
Seriously.
If you doubt this, take Jay-Z’s last hit, “Show Me What You Got.” Listen to that song (with the amazing Just Blaze beat), and then listen to Li’l Wayne freestyle over it.
Wayne kills it.
Which leads me to Kanye’s album.
Kanye, if you don’t know, was a producer before he became a rapper. After his first album, College Dropout, came out, though, no one doubted the guy could rap. His own great beats, combined with good flow, clever lyrics, and catchy hooks created a unique and exciting sound.
And an ego to match.
But he followed up on his success well, and his second album, Late Registration, was equally as good, if not in some cases better. His ability to wrap the intelligence, hubris, and humor all together combined well with an oddly preppy persona to turn him into a superstar.
Which might be why Graduation, his third album, doesn’t achieve the same greatness. I think he kind of mailed it in. Now, I’m sure he’ll say it’s a great album, but, with all due respect, he would be kidding himself. It starts off well, giving you single-quality songs for pretty much the first half. And then, all of a sudden, it’s like the music stops. Not the album, but the musicality of the songs. By the time you get to a good beat again, you’re wondering what has been happening, and then you hear the lyrics, and it’s essentially Kanye alternating between giving Jay-Z the finger and giving him a blow job.
All of this makes me feel like maybe I’m doing a disservice to 50 Cent. But no, I think I’m right in saying you shouldn’t buy his album.
I just don’t think you should buy Kanye’s, either. Download “Stronger,” “Can’t Tell Me Nothing,” and “Champion,” and save yourself at least 10 dollars (depending on where you buy music and/or download it).
To take a little turn to the audio left (or right, there’s nothing inherently symbolic about which direction the turn is), there is one musical moment that struck me as being very well done.
Now, as I expect titters from the immature amongst you, remember: I like it anyway.
That said, I just wanted to mention that I saw Justin Timberlake’s “FutureSex/LoveShow” on HBO, and it was amazing.
I’m not being hyperbolic here. It is “amazing.”
Timberlake, as a performer, is a cornball. He’s a ham, he’s goofy, and he’s kind of a dork.
But that’s only when he’s not singing and dancing. Because boy can that kid sing, and boy can that kid dance.
It’s one thing to say: Oh, he was in ‘N Sync, so he’s just a studio musician. Everything is doctored. I hate to disillusion you, but he is a seriously talented person, and his live performance proves that.
What works for him so well is that he doesn’t sing outside himself. In other words, he knows his limitations, and he doesn’t try to go past them. That’s not to say he has a ton of limitations to begin with, but it just shows how he has brought himself to be technically sound with is craft.
Perhaps just as impressive is the fact that, in addition to singing and dancing, he also plays three different instruments. Granted, how high the levels on his particular instrument was (as compared to those of his band) is left to be seen, but it certainly looks like he’s playing the right notes (if you look at where his fingers are in relation to the two other guys when he’s playing the keyboard-guitar – that’s right, he rocks out on the keyboard-guitar – and you’ll notice they are all playing the same keys).
More than that, though, it’s simply the fact that his two solo albums have some fantastic songs on them. Whether it was him or others who wrote them is beside the point: he performs them well. It also helps that he’s clearly having a good time on stage. He’s not just “going through the motions.” He definitely has chemistry with the dancers, with the band, and with his background singers. The people click, the music is good, and everything seems to work.
My only complaint is that, knowing the show was going to be on HBO, and the fact that it was performed in New York, wasn’t there any way he could have gotten T.I. and/or Clipse to come do their verses on “My Love” and “Like I Love You,” respectively? I know he doesn’t have them on the tour, but it’s not unheard of to have special guests show up – and you have to think HBO might be willing if it makes the show better. Maybe they were busy, though. Still, it would have made a great show even greater.
So, if you feel the need, check your man-hood at the door and watch this concert. Remember this: guys used to go to Michael Jackson concerts. That’s what this is like, in that Timberlake is an artist of that caliber. Sure, he appeals to the ladies, but should that stop you from enjoying a good show? Because if that’s your argument, than by the same token you wouldn’t watch a movie with Brad Pitt in it, including Fight Club (a male-oriented movie if there ever was one).
And that’s just super gay.
I only wish he would have sung “Dick in a Box” . . .
I’d like to finish on a short but serious point:
I have not read everything you have. I have not seen all the same movies as you. I have not been to all the museums you’ve been to.
This does not make me a bad person. In fact, I’ve probably read many books, seen many movies, and viewed numerous pieces of art that you’ve never experienced. What this means is not that either one of us is deficient in our cultural attainments, but rather that there is so much out there to explore and enjoy and discuss.
So, the next time you are talking with someone and when a book is brought up that they haven’t read, don’t get exasperated. Don’t act shocked. Because it’s not that big of a deal. I haven’t not read it to spite you; I simply haven’t read it. It doesn’t mean I won’t read it. It’s just that at this moment in time, my life-path has diverged from yours.
This is a good thing. We should all be different. In the end, if it’s meant to be a meaningful relationship, we’ll find other commonalities. If not, we can just be two people who haven’t read the same things. But, again, it’s not that big of a deal. It happens.
It’s strange when you grow up with so much going on. The Chinese have their infamously mis-translated quote about growing up in “interesting times,” and for most of my life I had been blessedly able to avoid that curse. But those ubiquitous planes, those no-longer towers made life interesting, much like the Holocaust made Europe “interesting” sixty years ago.
This was all after the fact, though. Before all the excitement, my life was the product of a political dichotomy that too often plagues the over-informed. Or, rather, those with delusions of knowledge. When I was little, I had been pegged as gifted, and although unaware such a peg would fit, I nevertheless accepted the title. It’s a nice feeling, being singled out for something good. Also, how else could I explain how emotionally disturbed I was? Insomnia and nightmares, hallucinations and daymares.
Sensitive, I believe they called it. They did tests to find answers, but I was never privy to the actual results. Odd, crying, and alone, I wondered why I wasn’t a normal kid, all the while never considering myself abnormal. Yet there I was, absorbing facts without context, formulas without theory. As most precocious youth are wont to do, I disseminated my knowledge with aplomb, startling (or amusing – you can never be quite sure with adults) those around me. More often than no, it wasn’t “How do you know that?” but “Why do you know that?” Because it was fascinating. And, because the delight of thinking you “know” is a powerful narcotic. Huge ego and low self-esteem is an odd combination, and yet it somehow found a home in me. It was unsettling and appealing.
That’s how politics struck me – not as in that’s how I perceived politics, but how I was brought into that world. In my first, great moment with politics, I was a seven-year-old trying to choose between Bush and Dukakis. Never mind the fact that I had no idea why I would take on such an endeavor: it was simply something we were doing in our second-grade class. Sure, I vaguely comprehended the importance of the President. He was the big guy, the most important man in the country. As far as I knew, he created the laws and ran the government. As far as I knew, Reagan was a great man, and Bush or Dukakis would be the next great man. The more I think about it, second-grade is probably the perfect moment to enter politics, because the decisions are arbitrary, much like how elections seem to work today.
For some reason, I took a flyer on Bush. It might have had something to do with my parents’ politics, but if so, the message must have came to me subliminally. I can’t recall my parents being excessively or overtly political during that election – or really any election throughout my childhood – so I have a feeling it was more a matter of having to make a choice and going with Bush. Far more likely than my parents influence was the fact that my best friend at the time – a boy significantly more “gifted” than myself – found his allegiance sitting with Dukakis. Well, as we were not only friends but friendly rivals, my opposition to the Governor from Massachusetts seemed inevitable.
Besides, I had read Bush’s lips and was pretty sure “no new taxes” was a good thing, even at the age of seven.
Is that how one becomes political? Is that how one sets their flag on Right or the Left? I remember my decision to root for the Yankees was directly tied to my older brother’s belief in the Mets. But are politics and sports the same thing? Can one simply flip a coin and adhere to a platform, like choosing a sports team to support. It seems ridiculous.
Four years later, though, my mind more developed (sixth grade!) and my understanding slightly improved, I was once again barking “Bush!” What’s the economy to a sixth-grader? “Recession” is a buzz-word you hear in passing and although you know it is a negative, compared to the subtle patriotism, the ingrained respect for the Presidency, there was no contest. How could it be? At that age, when questioning authority is still at odds with a conservative Catholic upbringing, wasn’t the man who stopped Saddam Hussein worth much more than a governor from a state whose chief industry is poultry farming? It was around this time that I could see a pattern emerging and my decisions, if not consciously Republican, were certainly find themselves pointing in that direction.
As I grew older and information came – and was understood – more readily, my politics definitely coalesced to the point where I didn’t think it would be possible for me to not identify as Republican. Foremost in this was probably the emergence of my father’s political opinions. As I got more interested in the process and policy, dinner-table discussions brought out a pragmatic Republican: a card-carrying NRA member who wanted little government interference in daily affairs, lower taxes, and a social welfare program based on need but doled out for merit. As a young person, despite the apparent trappings of a Long Island suburbanite, I could still realize that we were a working-class, lower middle-class family. Both my parents didn’t go to college – not for lack of opportunity or ability, but rather for the desire to begin a family.
Did that one decision radically change how I was to perceive the political situation in our country? My father was too young to worry too much about being drafted into Vietnam, so his was the first generation who almost universally lived without war-experience. A generation that was learning that high school no longer guaranteed a great job; that college was slowly making itself known as a way to reach middle class – if not upper classes – that produced results much quicker than simple hard work. It wasn’t that one couldn’t find work, or even a good job, out of high school, but the world was definitely moving progressively towards a college-based work-force, coinciding quite nicely with the export of manufacturing jobs in favor of a service-based economy.
College also exposed the sons and daughters of the World War II and Korean War veterans to an experience almost universally dedicated to a liberal education. College had long been an “out” for those against the war, and many professors were active in establishing minds that id not simply adhere to a status quo: the government was not placed on a pedestal; the First Amendment was regaining its primacy. (Please realize that I am not denigrating those who went to college instead of war – or feel I’m suggesting that all students went to college to avoid the war. This is just a common conception of the time period by those of my generation, for good or for ill).
If this meant opportunity for those exposed to that mindset, it also was an exposure to a guilt-complex so inherent in liberal policies: Why should we retain our wealth when others go without? Yes, we worked hard, but do our efforts equate to being well-off, when others are in poverty?
This is a noble sentiment, but it seems to be a natural off-shoot of a specific lifestyle. Take, for example, the other side of the coin: The working class man who feels he has done what was necessary to achieve what he has. Through labor, through the Puritan work-ethic, he has been able to carve out a slice of the American dream. Who, then, is the government to tell me I have to give my money to someone who hasn’t worked as hard? Nothing was handed to me, and now you want me to give away my efforts, to the detriment of my own family?
Is that greed? Or is that a logical rationale? Is it cold and compassionless, as it seems Conservatives are so often called?
These are excellent and valid questions. I would have to think race certainly plays its role – you get a job at the factory (or these days, office) where you old man worked, because they think his good traits run true. It probably just so happens being white led to that situation in the first place. I would also say that starting-social status also plays a role. Poor people aren’t necessarily poor because they don’t work hard; they are poor because of a confluence of factors that all add to a lack of opportunity and inability to find a way out.
But try explaining that to someone who went from working two crap jobs so that he could support his family. To him, there is a pride in his ability, as well as the idea that, Hey, if I can do it, can’t everyone? This may seem illogical, but I’m sure you can name at least one person you know like this: a self-made man or someone who lifted himself up by his bootstraps.
Does that a conservative make? While I’m not convinced it’s the only factor, I’m fairly certain it was that philosophy which aided my affiliation with the Right.
But then I went to college. And I found myself in a situation where as much as it pained me to listen to, I heard the liberalism nonetheless. The anti-Bush rhetoric. The anti-American sentiment. The anti-Imperialist project. It seriously irked me. For starters, I was at a public university. I also found it ironic to be asked to approach things like literature and history objectively when clearly what I was hearing was not. As this progressed, I found myself being that guy who questioned professors – and amazingly learned something because of it.
As I started to really get into politics (the end of high school; beginning of college), I had always found myself arguing with my friends on their decidedly liberal ideas. In that manner, I thought it was obvious that I was conservative. But when I started to grapple with my professors (who, for all their “faults” politically, were incredibly smart), I started to understand that maybe it wasn’t so much that I was conservative, but rather that I was predisposed to want to challenge concrete opinions. And that’s when I realized: politics are opinions. Again, a simple idea, but one I don’t think too many of us are consciously aware of. We see politics as a black-and-white thing, and that was bothersome. It wasn’t that my friends were arguing for liberal policies, but that they were positive that said policies were absolute.
In the end, I did receive a liberal education, but in the sense that I learned so much and in variety. With my friends, I was Conservative, but with my father, I was most certainly Liberal. Together, I was using the adherence of those around me to hone my own opinions (politics) to try to figure out which policies actually made sense. With my friends, I tried to point out that their notions about Red Staters were usually built around stereo-types – and generally false. I was amazed by how often supposedly open-minded people were so narrow in their ideas and use of generalizations. With my father (and brother), it was the opposite. I was perplexed by their adherence to policies that didn’t seem to mesh with the morals that he has always espoused. He isn’t cold or compassionless in any sense. But his politics are based on a rationality, a common-sense approach that indicates that big government doesn’t work.
Which is what I’ve always thought, myself. But I’ve learned that while on a whole it probably isn’t a good thing, large government can have positive effects, as long as kept reasonable (a requirement almost impossible to attain, I’ve noticed).
What I never thought, though, was that one should disrespect our elected leaders. Naïve, I know – and quite probably hypocritical, considering the way Republicans treated (and I might add, to a degree, rightly) Clinton – but I always had a strong aversion to the way people railed against Bush, Jr. It just seemed wrong to me that someone could actively take shots at the President of the United States. So when I recently read someone who compared Bush to Stalin, Hitler, and (ironically) Saddam, my immediate response was to scoff. But was I right?
I think, all-in-all, I was. And yet there are many similarities that are worth pointing out: a highly charismatic, almost ego-maniacally obsessed leader who ignores public opinion to run roughshod over civil liberties, both home and abroad. But he’s never engaged in an active campaign of genocide, and so, despite the similarities, I find it a little egregious to compare him (faults and all) with those three despicable people. This, in turn, makes me have to side with someone I don’t necessarily want to be associated with. As I recently pointed out to one of my friends: “Why do you make me have to defend these people?!”
I am certainly not (I’m not sure if I ever was, but I’d be willing to say “no longer”) a fan of Bush. I will say this: He sent Colin Powell to the U.N., and we all thought Saddam had weapons of mass destruction. However poorly he managed 9/11, however poorly he spoke (speaks) in public, as long as I thought he was telling the truth (and come on – it was Colin Powell!), I was willing to respect the office. It is only after-the-fact, where everything that emanated from that office was tainted, did my mind change. But the fact is: my mind changed. And it changed because the facts (literally) changed.
That’s what has been so frustrating, though (yes, the lies have been frustrating, but I’d say that’s a given). No, what has bothered me so much is that I’ve always felt I’m arguing against brick walls. Politics has become a faith for so many people, that to question their beliefs is not an intelligent discussion, but a personal affront. Just as Christians can not stand alternate theories about Jesus (or the dissemination of alternate gospels), both Liberals and Conservatives cling to their ideals with a zeal approaching dogma. You hear about a separation of church and state: well, for so many, the state is the church.
Am I a Conservative? Probably not. But I’m also certainly not a Liberal. I’m sure one could call me a moderate, but what would such a label mean? In the end, I hope that I can eschew these kinds of labels. Like most, I wish to be open-minded – although I know that most of my open-mindedness can only occur in hindsight. Shouldn’t that be the way, though? Doesn’t it make more sense to “sleep on it” or “let cooler minds prevail?” I think so. That’s why, if I had to label myself, I’d say I am a pragmatist. A realist. Because I like to explore the options, play Devil’s advocate, and then discuss solutions. To me, any other approach is the equivalent of dream-talking. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what our system was designed to do.
I began this essay talking about the Twin Towers. I’m going to end it with them too: Go beyond Ground Zero. I’m not saying forget the day – I would never (could never) suggest that. But we have allowed a single moment in time stagnate our society. Name a single major policy that has come about that isn’t tied to 9/11 in one way or the other. Moreover, consider that all the inaction is similarly tied in. If individual people can be narrow-minded in their person politics, and that’s harmful, then what is the result of a political system that has narrow-mindedly adhered to a single notion? If you allow me the hyperbole, our political parties have been co-opted by the terrorists. I’m not sure if that will open up any minds, but I do hope it will open some eyes.
