I realized Phantom of the Opera is a totally nutty film when the electric guitars started up.
Okay, so I know the musical is hardly historically accurate. For one thing, they didn't sing Andrew Lloyd Webber back then, but I'm willing to exercise an enormous suspension of disbelief with musicals. Still, when the Phantom, that musically-obsessed dude, started rowing Christine to his lair and the electric guitars chimed in, well, all I could think was: talk about being ahead of his time. No wonder Christine is all gooey and enthralled: he's an early member of Kiss!
Which doesn't mean that the movie isn't a hoot and a half. For one thing, the Phantom is young and super attractive, which always floats my boat (in fact, he is so attractive, when Christine pulls off his mask, you sit there going, "Huh? So the guy has a bad sunburn--what's the prob?") For another, you've got Minnie Driver and a huge cast of thousands overacting all over the place (Minnie Driver is always fun). And there's a scene in a graveyard (a solo that, like most second act songs, goes on FOREVER) and a sword fight and that big chandelier (I always pictured it as falling straight down; I must say the film's version of a slowly descending side-ways catastrophe is much more impressive) and lots of pounding chords. Not to mention the lair and the water and all the grids. Kind of like what Titanic could have been if James Cameron hadn't wanted you to feel bad for the 3rd class passengers.
I watched most of it with the French audio on and French subtitles. It made absolutely no difference that I couldn't understand 2/3rds of the lines. The dubbed voices are good, but the English (or rather, British) singers have a couple of things going for them. The singer who plays Christine has a vibe/depth to her voice that I always thought lacking in Brightman. (She seems fundamentally tougher than Brightman, and she is, thank goodness, wearing a lot less blue eyeshadow.) The Phantom has this kind of shouting baritone (kind of like if Richard Burton had sung opera). His French dub is actually a better singer, but the English singer sounds like he is hocking spit before every line. It's a lot of fun.
The whole thing is fun. Big music! Smoke! Fire! Collasping chandeliers! Electric guitars! Lots and lots and lots of candles! Masks of various sizes and shades! Big, billowy dresses! Like many Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals, the music substitutes for depth. I mean, come on, there's the Phantom's past (which is interesting) and the Phantom's own opera (which is interesting) and the Phantom's relationship to Mme Giry (which is really interesting) and instead, you get a lot of singing. *Sigh.*
However, there's something to be said for creating a psychotic, sunburnt, shouting, musically-obsessed guy in silly dress (which he wears rather well) and then, getting audiences to watch him for two hours.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Dead Presidents
I just finished Assassination Vacation, Sarah Vowell's memoir of visiting the many, many markers, tributes, statues, plaques, houses, museums, dead body parts, parks, etc. etc. dedicated to three assassinated presidents: Lincoln, Garfield and McKinley. Vowell plays the voice of Violet on The Incredibles, and her writing has the same deadpan humor as, well, her voice. If you have The Incredibles, there is an interview with Vowell on the DVD, which is actually where I put together the book title and the author for the first time.
It is well-worth reading, with a slight caveat. Depending on your perspective, you may find Vowell's political comments amusing or annoying. I fall somewhere between the two. She has a political perspective that I usually associate with very, very young liberals, a kind of dot-to-dot thinking that places all "good" behavior on a political continuum. I've met (youngish) liberals, for instance, who associate liking Harry Potter, as an example, with being liberal, non-religious and disagreeing with creationists. Because of course ALL Republicans hate Harry Potter, attend church on a daily basis and despise Stephen Jay Gould. Seriously, there's a lot of people out there who make those kinds of categorizations. I've met a number of them in the academic environment. They scare me a bit. I find it a difficult to understand how a grown person wouldn't have lived long enough to know that it is possible to find, on this earth, a liberal, pro-life, anti-capital punishment, environmentalist person who voted for Reagan, hunts, hates Harry Potter, loves Van Gogh and Peter, Paul & Mary, adores the Yankees, never watches television, supports the war in Iraq and shops at Walmart. Oh, yes, that person does exist! (It isn't me; I adore television.)
Vowell comes across as falling in the my-entire-life-falls-along-a-political-continuum category. But she's rather endearing, mostly because she has "transparency." That's my latest favorite political word. I'll probably end up getting as sick of it as I am of "ideological" and "imperialistic," but right now, I really like "transparency." Transparency means that the writer (or politician or whoever) shows you all their cards, tells you where they are coming from and where they are going and what devices they will be employing. Like a statistician who explains the methodology behind her statistics before she presents them.
In this case, it means that Vowell knows she's making political quips all over the place. And she's very unfront about where she's coming from. And she's a good writer. Which always excuses a great deal. She uses a particular kind of writing style that I've always been rather jealous of. She gives you the background to each of the assassinations and to the assassins themselves in-between visiting various sites, but she doesn't necessarily do it in any particular order. It's an informal approach to the subject that looks effortless--oh, yes, this person is just gabbing away--but in fact takes a great deal of ability. A sort of well-crafted formlessness.
And Vowell does give the reader a good understanding not only of what happened and why but why this particular person at this particular time. What was going on in Booth's head? Guiteau's? Czolgosz's? It isn't so much Criminal Minds' profiling stuff as it is contexualization. Where they were and what they may have felt and who else was around them. She also does an excellent job introducing the reader to the strange culture of artifact conservation (basically, people will conserve anything and everything) and explaining why we, ourselves, are fascinated. And you learn more about Garfield than I bet you ever learned in high school.
So I recommend it, if you don't mind the partisanship. In general, I read P.J. O'Rourke (and that's it) for my political commentary. If political sidetracks garnish a memoir, history or biography, they had better be excusable, and in this case, they very nearly are. (And people who agree with her will, of course, be enchanted.)
It is well-worth reading, with a slight caveat. Depending on your perspective, you may find Vowell's political comments amusing or annoying. I fall somewhere between the two. She has a political perspective that I usually associate with very, very young liberals, a kind of dot-to-dot thinking that places all "good" behavior on a political continuum. I've met (youngish) liberals, for instance, who associate liking Harry Potter, as an example, with being liberal, non-religious and disagreeing with creationists. Because of course ALL Republicans hate Harry Potter, attend church on a daily basis and despise Stephen Jay Gould. Seriously, there's a lot of people out there who make those kinds of categorizations. I've met a number of them in the academic environment. They scare me a bit. I find it a difficult to understand how a grown person wouldn't have lived long enough to know that it is possible to find, on this earth, a liberal, pro-life, anti-capital punishment, environmentalist person who voted for Reagan, hunts, hates Harry Potter, loves Van Gogh and Peter, Paul & Mary, adores the Yankees, never watches television, supports the war in Iraq and shops at Walmart. Oh, yes, that person does exist! (It isn't me; I adore television.)
Vowell comes across as falling in the my-entire-life-falls-along-a-political-continuum category. But she's rather endearing, mostly because she has "transparency." That's my latest favorite political word. I'll probably end up getting as sick of it as I am of "ideological" and "imperialistic," but right now, I really like "transparency." Transparency means that the writer (or politician or whoever) shows you all their cards, tells you where they are coming from and where they are going and what devices they will be employing. Like a statistician who explains the methodology behind her statistics before she presents them.
In this case, it means that Vowell knows she's making political quips all over the place. And she's very unfront about where she's coming from. And she's a good writer. Which always excuses a great deal. She uses a particular kind of writing style that I've always been rather jealous of. She gives you the background to each of the assassinations and to the assassins themselves in-between visiting various sites, but she doesn't necessarily do it in any particular order. It's an informal approach to the subject that looks effortless--oh, yes, this person is just gabbing away--but in fact takes a great deal of ability. A sort of well-crafted formlessness.
And Vowell does give the reader a good understanding not only of what happened and why but why this particular person at this particular time. What was going on in Booth's head? Guiteau's? Czolgosz's? It isn't so much Criminal Minds' profiling stuff as it is contexualization. Where they were and what they may have felt and who else was around them. She also does an excellent job introducing the reader to the strange culture of artifact conservation (basically, people will conserve anything and everything) and explaining why we, ourselves, are fascinated. And you learn more about Garfield than I bet you ever learned in high school.
So I recommend it, if you don't mind the partisanship. In general, I read P.J. O'Rourke (and that's it) for my political commentary. If political sidetracks garnish a memoir, history or biography, they had better be excusable, and in this case, they very nearly are. (And people who agree with her will, of course, be enchanted.)
Friday, January 27, 2006
Angsty Detectives
And the award goes to . . .
Inspector Alleyn
Many people would pinpoint Lord Peter Wimsey as the angstiest detective of all time, but Lord Peter's angst is fairly localized. He feels angst about the end of cases, the part where people get arrested and hanged, etc. etc., but up till that point, he enjoys the whole detection process. On the other hand, Alleyn always feels vaguely embarrassed or conscience-striken about having to interview people or read through the deceased's correspondence. He apologizes when he makes deductions; he gets all remote when people bring up his book on criminology. I believe Marsh watered some of these affectations down in later novels, but there are times, reading Alleyn mysteries, that I ponder, Why on earth don't you do something else!? At least, Wimsey likes quizzing people, snooping into their personal affairs and coming up with fantastic solutions. (For an even less angsty version of Wimsey check out Kate Ross' Julian Kestral.)
The most marked aspect of angsty detectives is that, brooding romance heroes aside, angst is very high maintenance. As P.D. James said once about Dagliesh getting married, "Who would do the laundry?" That's how I feel whenever I watch Inspector Morse. He's always so glum, and his passions are always so romantic--what a lot of work! The women in his life always find out some really, really good reason why they can't stick around, and can you blame them? I suppose some women like the idea of being a romanticized, ideal figure, always sought after and desired by an unhappy man looking for perfection; I find it all rather tiring.
Which brings us to the winner of the non-angsty detective award . . .
Well, other than Miss Marple, who wins hands-down, no question, my favorite male non-angsty detective is Charles Parker (Wimsey's Scotland Yard link).
Charles Parker is a far better sidekick than Hastings or Watson (although Watson of the short stories wasn't as simple-minded as he ended up being played; the whole point of Watson's "I don't get it" was to magnify Holmes' genius to the reader. But in fact, the good doctor was very astute and besides, he did have his own profession). Parker makes no pretense to great imagination, but he does know that he is diligent. He works hard. He likes his job. He is tolerant and careful. He admires Wimsey, but unlike Fox (Alleyn's side-kick) or Grant's side-kick, he doesn't hero-worship Wimsey. In fact, he thinks Wimsey is rather lazy and would never make a good detective because he wouldn't do the leg-work. Parker also has the wonderful ability to take people exactly as they are without feeling compelled to change his moral or ethical standards in order to do so. He is the most refreshing character in all detective fiction, and I've always been a little in love with him. So much matter-of-fact equanimity is always attractive. (I like C.D. Sloan of Aird's novels for much the same reason.)
Concerning Miss Marple and her descendents, I am more sympathetic of female angsty detectives, so long as the angstiness doesn't descend into "the blame game." (Evil society, evil men, blah, blah, blah.) I like Harriet Vane, P.D. James' Cordelia Gray and Charlaine Harris' two latest female detectives (she writes supernatural detective stories). There are numerous NUMEROUS detective stories in which the female detective--who often owns some kind of store--ends up with two gentlemen admirers, and I don't mind them so much, although I get tired of the books. If the author hasn't figured out by book four which guy the heroine ends up with, I begin to suspect idle fantastization on the author's part rather than the development of a fully-rounded character. Just make up her mind already!
Naturally, on my list of well-rounded, non-angsty, non-blame-game female detectives, Mma Ramotswe heads the list! I like McCall Smith's Isabel Dalhousie as well; she is more analytical than Mma Ramotswe but still relentlessly honest and never willing to excuse herself.
So, while I don't like pandering to male angst, I don't much like pandering to female angst either. As Harriet Vane pointed out, "We all indulge in a little self-pity, but nobody likes to be patronized and pitied." Or something to that effect.
Inspector Alleyn
Many people would pinpoint Lord Peter Wimsey as the angstiest detective of all time, but Lord Peter's angst is fairly localized. He feels angst about the end of cases, the part where people get arrested and hanged, etc. etc., but up till that point, he enjoys the whole detection process. On the other hand, Alleyn always feels vaguely embarrassed or conscience-striken about having to interview people or read through the deceased's correspondence. He apologizes when he makes deductions; he gets all remote when people bring up his book on criminology. I believe Marsh watered some of these affectations down in later novels, but there are times, reading Alleyn mysteries, that I ponder, Why on earth don't you do something else!? At least, Wimsey likes quizzing people, snooping into their personal affairs and coming up with fantastic solutions. (For an even less angsty version of Wimsey check out Kate Ross' Julian Kestral.)
The most marked aspect of angsty detectives is that, brooding romance heroes aside, angst is very high maintenance. As P.D. James said once about Dagliesh getting married, "Who would do the laundry?" That's how I feel whenever I watch Inspector Morse. He's always so glum, and his passions are always so romantic--what a lot of work! The women in his life always find out some really, really good reason why they can't stick around, and can you blame them? I suppose some women like the idea of being a romanticized, ideal figure, always sought after and desired by an unhappy man looking for perfection; I find it all rather tiring.
Which brings us to the winner of the non-angsty detective award . . .
Well, other than Miss Marple, who wins hands-down, no question, my favorite male non-angsty detective is Charles Parker (Wimsey's Scotland Yard link).
Charles Parker is a far better sidekick than Hastings or Watson (although Watson of the short stories wasn't as simple-minded as he ended up being played; the whole point of Watson's "I don't get it" was to magnify Holmes' genius to the reader. But in fact, the good doctor was very astute and besides, he did have his own profession). Parker makes no pretense to great imagination, but he does know that he is diligent. He works hard. He likes his job. He is tolerant and careful. He admires Wimsey, but unlike Fox (Alleyn's side-kick) or Grant's side-kick, he doesn't hero-worship Wimsey. In fact, he thinks Wimsey is rather lazy and would never make a good detective because he wouldn't do the leg-work. Parker also has the wonderful ability to take people exactly as they are without feeling compelled to change his moral or ethical standards in order to do so. He is the most refreshing character in all detective fiction, and I've always been a little in love with him. So much matter-of-fact equanimity is always attractive. (I like C.D. Sloan of Aird's novels for much the same reason.)
Concerning Miss Marple and her descendents, I am more sympathetic of female angsty detectives, so long as the angstiness doesn't descend into "the blame game." (Evil society, evil men, blah, blah, blah.) I like Harriet Vane, P.D. James' Cordelia Gray and Charlaine Harris' two latest female detectives (she writes supernatural detective stories). There are numerous NUMEROUS detective stories in which the female detective--who often owns some kind of store--ends up with two gentlemen admirers, and I don't mind them so much, although I get tired of the books. If the author hasn't figured out by book four which guy the heroine ends up with, I begin to suspect idle fantastization on the author's part rather than the development of a fully-rounded character. Just make up her mind already!
Naturally, on my list of well-rounded, non-angsty, non-blame-game female detectives, Mma Ramotswe heads the list! I like McCall Smith's Isabel Dalhousie as well; she is more analytical than Mma Ramotswe but still relentlessly honest and never willing to excuse herself.
So, while I don't like pandering to male angst, I don't much like pandering to female angst either. As Harriet Vane pointed out, "We all indulge in a little self-pity, but nobody likes to be patronized and pitied." Or something to that effect.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Courting Alex
The first episode of Courting Alex was a huge disappoinment. I never realized how much difference Thomas Gibson (Greg before he became a stern-faced profiler on Criminal Minds) made. Jenna Elfman is a great comedienne. She deserves a good straight man. Unfortunately, her leading man on last night's sitcom did not come up to scratch. There's something a bit off when the (only) really funny scenes are between the heroine and her geeky dates, and the scenes between the heroine and the hero just fall flat.
The impressive thing about Dharma & Greg was that although Greg played the straight man, he was never played as silly, and he never broke character. (Actually, there are a lot of impressive things about Dharma & Greg including the psychology; it is entirely believable that Greg would "rebel" against his parents by marrying this impulsive chick who then turns out, what do you know, to be rather more like his own mother than her own. And it is entirely believable that Dharma would decide that her soul mate is a man who can give her the stability she never thought she had, and in some ways really didn't have, in her own home.)
Frankly, Jenna Elfman just isn't surrounded by that good a cast. I like Dabney Coleman; I think he is hilarious in You've Got Mail. But Dabney Coleman can't do all the work. Dharma & Greg had two sets of extraordinarily gifted and funny actors as the parents. Also, the writing was better. It's too bad, since Jenna Elfman deserves another hit.
The impressive thing about Dharma & Greg was that although Greg played the straight man, he was never played as silly, and he never broke character. (Actually, there are a lot of impressive things about Dharma & Greg including the psychology; it is entirely believable that Greg would "rebel" against his parents by marrying this impulsive chick who then turns out, what do you know, to be rather more like his own mother than her own. And it is entirely believable that Dharma would decide that her soul mate is a man who can give her the stability she never thought she had, and in some ways really didn't have, in her own home.)
Frankly, Jenna Elfman just isn't surrounded by that good a cast. I like Dabney Coleman; I think he is hilarious in You've Got Mail. But Dabney Coleman can't do all the work. Dharma & Greg had two sets of extraordinarily gifted and funny actors as the parents. Also, the writing was better. It's too bad, since Jenna Elfman deserves another hit.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
American Idol ponderings
Okay, here is the thing I don't get about American Idol.
But first, I'm going to back up.
I watched American Idol last night. It's a show I watch now and again. Mostly, I avoid it because I don't like watching real people being criticized on television. I don't much care to watch fake people being criticized either, which is why I tend to avoid watching shows like Everybody Loves Raymond. But there's a kind of fascination with pure awfulness and whatever Simon will come up with to say to pure awfulness, like listening to Dr. Laura rag on someone. So I watch American Idol now and again, and last night, it became patently clear to me what Simon will tolerate and what he loathes.
He will tolerate nervousness. He will tolerate people trying hard. And he will tolerate a degree of good-natured goofiness. He dislikes it when people choose songs outside their vocal range (look, it's another Whitney Houston choice). He dislikes people who think they can sing and can't and want to argue with him about it. And he really dislikes people who think they can sing and can't and argue with him because he just doesn't understand what absolutely special people they are. (Last night, one of the "I'm so special/I tried so hard" types was arguing with Simon, and he said, "Oh, okay, well, NOW you can sing.")
So, this is pretty obvious, right? And I figure that if you decide to compete on American Idol, you would probably be familiar with the show. You would know that this is how Simon behaves. You would probably even agree with him most of the time. It doesn't necessarily follow, but I would think it would be very difficult to get through three seasons and NOT, at least, find Simon mostly amusing.
So, this is what I don't get: say, you're a fan of American Idol, and you've watched the last three seasons, and you know how Simon behaves and what just ticks him off, and you even have agreed with him when he lambasts the goofy, awful singers. You sniggered. You said, "Oh, man, what losers." And now, it is your turn. Wouldn't it occur to you, at some level that perhaps, just maybe, you might be one of those goofy, awful singers Simon berates? I mean, wouldn't it? It's not like it didn't happen last season or anything.
I can, vaguely, understand someone with no singing ability or experience deciding to go in just for a lark. I can, vaguely, understand someone going in with the hopeful expectation that Simon will say, "Oh, yes, you are the best we've heard." I cannot fathom going in there and--knowing the set-up of the show--being surprised and hurt and so, so upset when Simon says, "You're not a good singer. This is a waste of time."
At this point I have to thank my parents for all those piano and instrument lessons they made me take. I don't have a great ear myself (one reason I don't talk about music a lot on this blog), but I have been trained. I can recognize flat singing when I hear it. I can recognize when people miss notes. I know why Simon passed the little cowbody, with his magnificent nervousness, despite the mistakes he made. I can't always hear the mistakes. There're some singers come in and they seem okay to me. But I can compare them to other singers, on the show, at church, and I know they aren't THAT good. Better than me isn't much of a criterium for success. And I don't get why the folks who try out can't recognize this. We're all better singers in our baths than we really are in public life, but if you really loved music and listened to it all the time and enjoyed it, wouldn't you recognize the basic underlying excellence of Julie Andrews or Jewel or, good grief, even American Idol stars. Wouldn't you hear it? Wouldn't you at least guess?
People seem to believe, at some Horatio Alger level, that singing is just, you know, intuitive and you don't have to be trained or sing in a band or in choir or, even, golly, sing a lot or anything, yet still can have this residual ability lurking inside you; someone just has to offer you a big old contract and that ability will burst--burst, I say--out of you. Which is weird. Any talent needs to be exercised, improved, worked on. Even the little cowbody was passed, I think, only because Simon couldn't think of any other way for the guy to get training. Do people believe "I'm fabulous even if I don't do anything about it" about painting and writing and sculpture and cooking? Even Picasso had mentors. But singing--which is comparatively harder to master without some underlying ability--seems to belong to this "I'm good but nobody knows it" mentality.
And I don't get it.
But first, I'm going to back up.
I watched American Idol last night. It's a show I watch now and again. Mostly, I avoid it because I don't like watching real people being criticized on television. I don't much care to watch fake people being criticized either, which is why I tend to avoid watching shows like Everybody Loves Raymond. But there's a kind of fascination with pure awfulness and whatever Simon will come up with to say to pure awfulness, like listening to Dr. Laura rag on someone. So I watch American Idol now and again, and last night, it became patently clear to me what Simon will tolerate and what he loathes.
He will tolerate nervousness. He will tolerate people trying hard. And he will tolerate a degree of good-natured goofiness. He dislikes it when people choose songs outside their vocal range (look, it's another Whitney Houston choice). He dislikes people who think they can sing and can't and want to argue with him about it. And he really dislikes people who think they can sing and can't and argue with him because he just doesn't understand what absolutely special people they are. (Last night, one of the "I'm so special/I tried so hard" types was arguing with Simon, and he said, "Oh, okay, well, NOW you can sing.")
So, this is pretty obvious, right? And I figure that if you decide to compete on American Idol, you would probably be familiar with the show. You would know that this is how Simon behaves. You would probably even agree with him most of the time. It doesn't necessarily follow, but I would think it would be very difficult to get through three seasons and NOT, at least, find Simon mostly amusing.
So, this is what I don't get: say, you're a fan of American Idol, and you've watched the last three seasons, and you know how Simon behaves and what just ticks him off, and you even have agreed with him when he lambasts the goofy, awful singers. You sniggered. You said, "Oh, man, what losers." And now, it is your turn. Wouldn't it occur to you, at some level that perhaps, just maybe, you might be one of those goofy, awful singers Simon berates? I mean, wouldn't it? It's not like it didn't happen last season or anything.
I can, vaguely, understand someone with no singing ability or experience deciding to go in just for a lark. I can, vaguely, understand someone going in with the hopeful expectation that Simon will say, "Oh, yes, you are the best we've heard." I cannot fathom going in there and--knowing the set-up of the show--being surprised and hurt and so, so upset when Simon says, "You're not a good singer. This is a waste of time."
At this point I have to thank my parents for all those piano and instrument lessons they made me take. I don't have a great ear myself (one reason I don't talk about music a lot on this blog), but I have been trained. I can recognize flat singing when I hear it. I can recognize when people miss notes. I know why Simon passed the little cowbody, with his magnificent nervousness, despite the mistakes he made. I can't always hear the mistakes. There're some singers come in and they seem okay to me. But I can compare them to other singers, on the show, at church, and I know they aren't THAT good. Better than me isn't much of a criterium for success. And I don't get why the folks who try out can't recognize this. We're all better singers in our baths than we really are in public life, but if you really loved music and listened to it all the time and enjoyed it, wouldn't you recognize the basic underlying excellence of Julie Andrews or Jewel or, good grief, even American Idol stars. Wouldn't you hear it? Wouldn't you at least guess?
People seem to believe, at some Horatio Alger level, that singing is just, you know, intuitive and you don't have to be trained or sing in a band or in choir or, even, golly, sing a lot or anything, yet still can have this residual ability lurking inside you; someone just has to offer you a big old contract and that ability will burst--burst, I say--out of you. Which is weird. Any talent needs to be exercised, improved, worked on. Even the little cowbody was passed, I think, only because Simon couldn't think of any other way for the guy to get training. Do people believe "I'm fabulous even if I don't do anything about it" about painting and writing and sculpture and cooking? Even Picasso had mentors. But singing--which is comparatively harder to master without some underlying ability--seems to belong to this "I'm good but nobody knows it" mentality.
And I don't get it.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Pride & Prejudices
There's a lot of them out there right now. I haven't yet seen the most recent version that was released into theatres nationwide (it didn't last very long here in Portland; I'm not sure why since everyone I talked to who saw it liked it). In any case, the 2005 version is a retelling of the original in the original setting, and for the purposes of this post I am more interest in contemporary-set versions.
The two contemporary versions I have seen recently are Pride & Prejudice (2003), based in Provo, Utah (I will refer to it as LDS 2003) and Bride & Prejudice (2004), based (partly) in India. In both cases, a culture has been chosen that has strong expectations/institutions surrounding courting, marriage and its meaning to the family. It isn't just the implied rules of courtship and marriage which can be found in sitcoms like Friends. In both movies, there are external cultural rules at work. This is important if you want retellings that are faithful in spirit to the original, if not faithful in their settings.
In both cultures, there are omnipresent rules about dating at work. There's more freedom than in the original; there are no parental figures at all in LDS 2003; in Bride, the parents are a much larger part of the story (and the mother is a perfect Mrs. Bennett) but the kids date without chaperones. The point is, they do date: they go to dances and to the beach; they participate in active (modernized) rituals that arise from their culture. They aren't just going to bars to pick up people or get picked up; the latter is more of an implied custom while the former has an end in view.
The family, oddly enough, is more omnipresent in Bride. Mormon parents are definitely a part of the whole courting/dating expectation, but in LDS 2003, the roommates (who are not sisters) take the place of the parents. In Bride & Prejudice, however, the parents are to the fore and amusingly enough, the tradition of dowries and arranged marriages makes it possible for the mother to be much more forthright than Mrs. Bennett ever is. The "Mr. Collins" of Bride is a distant relation from L.A. who has come over to India to get himself a wife since girls in L.A., he says, are too independent. And nobody pretends that there is any other reason for him being there.
On the other hand, the Mr. Collins of LDS 2003 must be mentioned; he is the "I had a vision that you should marry me" Mormon guy and is perfectly rendered. There's a scene where he stands up in church and bemoans modern girls who don't know their role in life. Elizabeth imagines throwing a hymnal at him. She restrains herself; instead, the bishop gets up and whispers in Collins' ear, "That's enough. Sit down." Maybe you have to be Mormon to appreciate it, but it's pretty good stuff.
The "Darcy" in both cases is from another country, and it is his "otherness" that causes the problems, not his class. In LDS 2003, he is British and scornful of American bookstores. In Bride, he is American and clueless about Indian customs. In both cases, his rudeness is caused by his inability to appreciate the "natives," which is an interesting twist on the original and neatly avoids the problem of the original. Superiority based on class is a trifle more difficult to swallow in our day and age than in Jane Austen's time. (In both cases, he remains rich . . . hmmmm.)
And in both cases, Mr. Darcy beats up Wickham, which says something, I don't know what, about modern women. In the original, he just shows up and fixes Lydia's life; in the A&E version, he shows up and glares at Wickham (after fixing Lydia's life). In LDS 2003 and Bride, he gets into a punching fest with the bad guy.
In both cases, "Lydia" is rescued before she "falls," which points to differences between Jane Austen's time and now. I think one difference is that in Jane Austen's time, the act of sex was insignificant compared to loss of reputation; it doesn't matter whether Lydia slept with Wickham or not, her character is lost irregardless. So, you know, she might as well sleep with him. Also, too, in Jane Austen's remorseless way, Lydia is forced to pay for her mistake; well, Wickham is, by being forced to marry Lydia. (It's doubtful whether Lydia could have done any better.) But in LDS 2003, Lydia is chased down to Las Vegas and prevented from marrying a bigamist. And in Bride, an extremely youthful Lydia (Lucky) is chased down before Wickham can seduce her (2004 Lucky is played as a flirt but an innocent one; she really doesn't see any of this coming.)
In both movies, Wickham is immediately recognizable. In LDS 2003, he is the Jack Mormon guy who lives just far enough inside the strictures of the culture to get dates and persuade girls that he is "the one," but not enough inside it to care about loss of reputation and not enough outside it for his lack of standards to be obvious. In Bride, he is the laid-back guy who backpacks around India and really digs the culture but also happens to be unreliable and totally amoral; he will seduce a 15 year old just because she happens to be there. All in all, Darcy seems more difficult to portray, which may be an unfortunate commentary on dating in our culture or just the unfortunate experience of women in today's culture. On the other hand, the "Bingley" character in both is so well-portrayed that not all dating experiences can be that bad. (Everyone has met at least one Bingley.) In both movies, he is played by an actor who strikes you as effortlessly sweet, somewhat innocent, bright without being super smart, gregarious and completely agenda-less.
Both movies do tend to lag. The A&E version was five hours long for a reason. When you try to squash all the elements of the story into one two-hour film, well, it's good stuff, but it tends to leap about disjointedly. Remember, in the original, at least a year passes between the beginning and the end. You try to do that in a movie and it just seems kind of schizo. The LDS 2003 version is more uneven, but the pacing of Bride isn't helped by the fact that it is a musical. In some ways, it is very clever (the opening song is great), but in other ways, it means taking a long plot and making it even longer. They could have cut at least two of the songs. (I tend to think that about musicals in general, and I like musicals.)
All in all, my great insight on all this is that rules of culture are not necessarily bad things. Sure, we could have a John Lenin world without religion or rules or government or law or institutions or whatever. (Actually, it probably isn't possible.) But who wants that? Give me cultural insitutions and all the rules and problems and graces they bring with them and then give me the art surrounding those cultural insitutions and I'll considered myself far, far better off.
The two contemporary versions I have seen recently are Pride & Prejudice (2003), based in Provo, Utah (I will refer to it as LDS 2003) and Bride & Prejudice (2004), based (partly) in India. In both cases, a culture has been chosen that has strong expectations/institutions surrounding courting, marriage and its meaning to the family. It isn't just the implied rules of courtship and marriage which can be found in sitcoms like Friends. In both movies, there are external cultural rules at work. This is important if you want retellings that are faithful in spirit to the original, if not faithful in their settings.
In both cultures, there are omnipresent rules about dating at work. There's more freedom than in the original; there are no parental figures at all in LDS 2003; in Bride, the parents are a much larger part of the story (and the mother is a perfect Mrs. Bennett) but the kids date without chaperones. The point is, they do date: they go to dances and to the beach; they participate in active (modernized) rituals that arise from their culture. They aren't just going to bars to pick up people or get picked up; the latter is more of an implied custom while the former has an end in view.
The family, oddly enough, is more omnipresent in Bride. Mormon parents are definitely a part of the whole courting/dating expectation, but in LDS 2003, the roommates (who are not sisters) take the place of the parents. In Bride & Prejudice, however, the parents are to the fore and amusingly enough, the tradition of dowries and arranged marriages makes it possible for the mother to be much more forthright than Mrs. Bennett ever is. The "Mr. Collins" of Bride is a distant relation from L.A. who has come over to India to get himself a wife since girls in L.A., he says, are too independent. And nobody pretends that there is any other reason for him being there.
On the other hand, the Mr. Collins of LDS 2003 must be mentioned; he is the "I had a vision that you should marry me" Mormon guy and is perfectly rendered. There's a scene where he stands up in church and bemoans modern girls who don't know their role in life. Elizabeth imagines throwing a hymnal at him. She restrains herself; instead, the bishop gets up and whispers in Collins' ear, "That's enough. Sit down." Maybe you have to be Mormon to appreciate it, but it's pretty good stuff.
The "Darcy" in both cases is from another country, and it is his "otherness" that causes the problems, not his class. In LDS 2003, he is British and scornful of American bookstores. In Bride, he is American and clueless about Indian customs. In both cases, his rudeness is caused by his inability to appreciate the "natives," which is an interesting twist on the original and neatly avoids the problem of the original. Superiority based on class is a trifle more difficult to swallow in our day and age than in Jane Austen's time. (In both cases, he remains rich . . . hmmmm.)
And in both cases, Mr. Darcy beats up Wickham, which says something, I don't know what, about modern women. In the original, he just shows up and fixes Lydia's life; in the A&E version, he shows up and glares at Wickham (after fixing Lydia's life). In LDS 2003 and Bride, he gets into a punching fest with the bad guy.
In both cases, "Lydia" is rescued before she "falls," which points to differences between Jane Austen's time and now. I think one difference is that in Jane Austen's time, the act of sex was insignificant compared to loss of reputation; it doesn't matter whether Lydia slept with Wickham or not, her character is lost irregardless. So, you know, she might as well sleep with him. Also, too, in Jane Austen's remorseless way, Lydia is forced to pay for her mistake; well, Wickham is, by being forced to marry Lydia. (It's doubtful whether Lydia could have done any better.) But in LDS 2003, Lydia is chased down to Las Vegas and prevented from marrying a bigamist. And in Bride, an extremely youthful Lydia (Lucky) is chased down before Wickham can seduce her (2004 Lucky is played as a flirt but an innocent one; she really doesn't see any of this coming.)
In both movies, Wickham is immediately recognizable. In LDS 2003, he is the Jack Mormon guy who lives just far enough inside the strictures of the culture to get dates and persuade girls that he is "the one," but not enough inside it to care about loss of reputation and not enough outside it for his lack of standards to be obvious. In Bride, he is the laid-back guy who backpacks around India and really digs the culture but also happens to be unreliable and totally amoral; he will seduce a 15 year old just because she happens to be there. All in all, Darcy seems more difficult to portray, which may be an unfortunate commentary on dating in our culture or just the unfortunate experience of women in today's culture. On the other hand, the "Bingley" character in both is so well-portrayed that not all dating experiences can be that bad. (Everyone has met at least one Bingley.) In both movies, he is played by an actor who strikes you as effortlessly sweet, somewhat innocent, bright without being super smart, gregarious and completely agenda-less.
Both movies do tend to lag. The A&E version was five hours long for a reason. When you try to squash all the elements of the story into one two-hour film, well, it's good stuff, but it tends to leap about disjointedly. Remember, in the original, at least a year passes between the beginning and the end. You try to do that in a movie and it just seems kind of schizo. The LDS 2003 version is more uneven, but the pacing of Bride isn't helped by the fact that it is a musical. In some ways, it is very clever (the opening song is great), but in other ways, it means taking a long plot and making it even longer. They could have cut at least two of the songs. (I tend to think that about musicals in general, and I like musicals.)
All in all, my great insight on all this is that rules of culture are not necessarily bad things. Sure, we could have a John Lenin world without religion or rules or government or law or institutions or whatever. (Actually, it probably isn't possible.) But who wants that? Give me cultural insitutions and all the rules and problems and graces they bring with them and then give me the art surrounding those cultural insitutions and I'll considered myself far, far better off.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
More About Popular Culture & Academe
I'm reading a lot of books about spectator response, reader response, popular culture, etc. etc. and I've reached the conclusion that one reason academics like Marxist theory so much is because (1) it gives them something to say and because (2) they honestly don't believe artistic productions are worthwhile unless said productions are changing people and/or society. Nobody is really devoted to Marxism these days, but they can't give up the ideology (hee, hee) that artistic productions are just riddled with icons: that every word, image is a by-product of the dominant culture (which it probably is) and therefore, academics can remove every word, image, icon from the production, examine it separately and learn all kinds of clever things about the production's culture and then, get all steamed up how racist and sexist and capitalist everything is. You may think that show, commercial, book is innocuous but it isn't! (Picture sinister villain twirling mustache.)
I am writing an entire thesis about why I think this approach misses the point. (We're talking heading for Seattle and ending up in Jerusalem here.) And one way in which I think this approach misses the point is something I've mentioned earlier, which is that academics make people too right-brained on the one hand (open to all the underlying meaning to all these words, images, icons, etc.) and too left-brained on the other hand (not as good as academics about seeing the overall context of the images) so if a man watches a show where a woman wears skin-tight black leather, he is receiving an image that objectifies women, but he won't just say, "That's a movie," he will go right out and treat women as objects.
Now, academics who really, really, really want all this popular culture stuff to be okay will argue that the man isn't getting an image that reinforces the dominant culture's concept of women as objects BECAUSE, in fact, the show was written by a woman and the image is REALLY reinforcing female sexuality and power. So presumably the man will go out and respect women. Which just proves that you can prove anything you want when you actually ignore performance.
What I mean by performance is what happens when you put all the images and icons together. Academics who go in for iconic explanations insist that putting everything together is, like, soooo naive. They're always writing sentences along the lines of, "Well, of course, how people respond to the show has SOME merit but we all know that that's just too childish and ignorant of them. We have all these fancy labels so we must be right to insist that there are all these underlying messages that we can apply the fancy labels to." But labels are, Meier-Briggs aside, just labels.
I back performance. For instance, take a romance. Old-school feminists say romances are sexist because the heroine is always hoping to be dominated by the masterful hero and then, voila, she gets dominated. New feminists claim that romances assert female sexuality, etc. etc. I say, Could you people stop being so obsessed with your STUPID icons and look at what is actually happening?
What is actually happening is pretty straight-forward. 9 out of 10 romances, the male viewpoint is included alongside the female viewpoint. So you get to listen to the heroine think, "I wish he would put his big, strong hands on me," and you get to listen to the hero think, "She's so beautiful, I've got to get my hands on her silky skin," and if haven't laughed yourself sick because the writing is so bad (and one is, I contest, allowed to think writing is bad without being an elitest; just because something is trite and silly doesn't make it unconsumable: take Captain Crunch), you will notice that as the reader you have become complicit in the act of domination, which is a fancy way of saying that although it might be rape in real life for a man to seduce a woman who keeps saying, "No, no, we mustn't," in a romance it isn't rape because you, the reader, know she is complicit.
In other words, IT'S FICTION, and most readers are both left-brained and right-brained enough to figure that out. If the readers are entirely right-brained, they will live in the fantasy as fantasy; if they are entirely left-brained, they will take the characters as literal individuals without consuming any iconic meaning, but only academics want readers to be left-brained (literal) and right-brained (susceptible) in just the right ways to make the academics' point.
I am referring here to academics who write pseudo-Marxist, sociological blather about popular culture. There ARE academics who write intelligently about popular culture, they're just rather difficult to find.
I am writing an entire thesis about why I think this approach misses the point. (We're talking heading for Seattle and ending up in Jerusalem here.) And one way in which I think this approach misses the point is something I've mentioned earlier, which is that academics make people too right-brained on the one hand (open to all the underlying meaning to all these words, images, icons, etc.) and too left-brained on the other hand (not as good as academics about seeing the overall context of the images) so if a man watches a show where a woman wears skin-tight black leather, he is receiving an image that objectifies women, but he won't just say, "That's a movie," he will go right out and treat women as objects.
Now, academics who really, really, really want all this popular culture stuff to be okay will argue that the man isn't getting an image that reinforces the dominant culture's concept of women as objects BECAUSE, in fact, the show was written by a woman and the image is REALLY reinforcing female sexuality and power. So presumably the man will go out and respect women. Which just proves that you can prove anything you want when you actually ignore performance.
What I mean by performance is what happens when you put all the images and icons together. Academics who go in for iconic explanations insist that putting everything together is, like, soooo naive. They're always writing sentences along the lines of, "Well, of course, how people respond to the show has SOME merit but we all know that that's just too childish and ignorant of them. We have all these fancy labels so we must be right to insist that there are all these underlying messages that we can apply the fancy labels to." But labels are, Meier-Briggs aside, just labels.
I back performance. For instance, take a romance. Old-school feminists say romances are sexist because the heroine is always hoping to be dominated by the masterful hero and then, voila, she gets dominated. New feminists claim that romances assert female sexuality, etc. etc. I say, Could you people stop being so obsessed with your STUPID icons and look at what is actually happening?
What is actually happening is pretty straight-forward. 9 out of 10 romances, the male viewpoint is included alongside the female viewpoint. So you get to listen to the heroine think, "I wish he would put his big, strong hands on me," and you get to listen to the hero think, "She's so beautiful, I've got to get my hands on her silky skin," and if haven't laughed yourself sick because the writing is so bad (and one is, I contest, allowed to think writing is bad without being an elitest; just because something is trite and silly doesn't make it unconsumable: take Captain Crunch), you will notice that as the reader you have become complicit in the act of domination, which is a fancy way of saying that although it might be rape in real life for a man to seduce a woman who keeps saying, "No, no, we mustn't," in a romance it isn't rape because you, the reader, know she is complicit.
In other words, IT'S FICTION, and most readers are both left-brained and right-brained enough to figure that out. If the readers are entirely right-brained, they will live in the fantasy as fantasy; if they are entirely left-brained, they will take the characters as literal individuals without consuming any iconic meaning, but only academics want readers to be left-brained (literal) and right-brained (susceptible) in just the right ways to make the academics' point.
I am referring here to academics who write pseudo-Marxist, sociological blather about popular culture. There ARE academics who write intelligently about popular culture, they're just rather difficult to find.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
The Problem of Finding Problems
Recently I was reading a book about misandry. Misandry is the equivalent of misogyny except that misandry is about the hatred of men (the gender, not "men" as in "people--that's misanthropy) rather than the hatred of women. And I think the people who wrote the book have a point but like most points, they kill the horse they rode in on. It was while I was reading this book (Spreading Misandry: The Teaching of Contempt for Men in Popular Culture by Paul Nathanson and Katherine K. Young) that I decided that academics are totally clueless when it comes to popular culture.
As I mentioned, the book has a point. What bothers the writers are all those sitcoms where the husband (the doofus) does dumb things and then the wise, noble, untouchable wife instructs him in the right way of doing things. I think that sort of thing is annoying too, personally, and always have. I also agree with the writers who point out that that when Dan Quayle made his remark concerning Murphy Brown, he was (rather voraciously) attacked (on and off the show) but no one ever addressed his actual complaint: what does it say about society's attitude towards men when a woman can have a baby with a man but then deliberately (politically) exclude him from the baby-raising process? (The furor over Dan Quayle is one reason why I think liberals are going to have a hard time making hay out of the various Republican debacles lately; they claim to be better--kinder, wiser, nobler--than other muckracking politicians and then they spend all their energy sneering at the opposition rather than making cogent arguments; a few days ago on PBS, Mark Shields was practically foaming at the mouth he wanted to bash Bush so bad. There's lots of bashable stuff out there right now, but in comparison to David Brooks, who was willing to criticize Bush but wanted to keep to the issues, Shields just came across as, well, a Bush-basher.)
Anyway, I thought the writers of the above book made a good point about Murphy Brown. But then the writers turned to Home Improvement, and I just sighed because it was the typical academic take-the-argument-to-the-farthest-point-and-watch-it-crash-and-burn approach. Or, rather, watch it go ploop.
Their point was that Home Improvement uses the doofus husband and lecturing wife format, which, yes, it kind of does. But they miss a major factor: the show is about Tim.
That is, the lecturing wife stuff is peripheral. Tim Allen remains the central and constant image of the show. The camera follows him. He acts. He performs. He changes. Whatever is said pales in comparison to what you see on the screen, what you experience when you watch the show. And this is why I think academics are sincerely moronic when it comes to popular culture. They think that language (the script) or icons (specific images--Tim has his shirt off: that means . . . ) beats out performance. But it doesn't. Whatever Jill might say to Tim at the end of every episode, Tim keeps the camera, he controls the action. The dialog might say that Tim isn't responding to his family the way he should (lecture, lecture, lecture). The camera says differently.
But you can't ever argue with academic types, who are so sure that there's all this iconic ideological (ahhhh, I hate that word; I'm so sick of that word!) stuff going on that only academics can recognize (and they have to tell the rest of us poor ignorant slobs, who don't know we are being brainwashed by society's dominant narratives--ahhhh, ahhhh, ahhhh. These people never seem to wonder maybe if they are the ones preaching the so-called dominant concepts, and the rest of us are ignoring them. It's like environmentalists, who continue to behave like beleagured victims despite the fact that today, as a sub, I showed a ecology movie to a bunch of 7th graders that went on and on and on about the greenhouse effect and acid rain and so on and so forth. But the moment environmentalists admit to being the status quo, they will have to question themselves--ha ha).
Anyway, the authors argued that mostly women watch Home Improvement, therefore they must be watching to reinforce their hatred of men (and the belief in the perfection of women).
Now, think about this for a second: the logic goes something like--
Mostly women watch Home Improvement.
Women only identify with women.
The main woman on the show is Jill.
Women are identifying with Jill.
Jill lectures Tim.
Women identify with Jill lecturing Tim--therefore,
Most women want to lecture their husbands.
Because most women want to lecture their husbands, they think their husbands are buffoons.
Because they think their husbands are buffoons, they think all men are buffoons.
Because they think all men are buffoons, they are misandric.
Wow--there's like a billion assumptions there. Well, are least three: one, that women automatically identify with other women; two, that women think their husbands are buffoons because they want to lecture them; three, that a woman's opinion about her husband is the same as a woman's opinion about men in general.
It isn't just the misandry folks who argue like this. Let's try that argument from the feminist angle.
Many men watch some-movie-where-things-blow-up-and-the-guy-rescues-the-gal-and-she-falls-into-his-arms.
All men identify with men.
The main character in the movie is male.
The male character rescues the women (who is capable of rescuing herself, darn it all!).
Men are identifying with the male character--therefore,
Most men want to rescue women and have them fall into their arms.
Because most men want to rescue women and have them fall into their arms, they think women are helpless.
Because they think women are helpless, they are chauvinists.
Let's try a little non-academic thinking:
Mostly women watch Home Improvement
Tim Allen is funny
Most women have a sense of humor
Boy, that's a lot easier!
I have more to say on this subject but will save it for a later time.
As I mentioned, the book has a point. What bothers the writers are all those sitcoms where the husband (the doofus) does dumb things and then the wise, noble, untouchable wife instructs him in the right way of doing things. I think that sort of thing is annoying too, personally, and always have. I also agree with the writers who point out that that when Dan Quayle made his remark concerning Murphy Brown, he was (rather voraciously) attacked (on and off the show) but no one ever addressed his actual complaint: what does it say about society's attitude towards men when a woman can have a baby with a man but then deliberately (politically) exclude him from the baby-raising process? (The furor over Dan Quayle is one reason why I think liberals are going to have a hard time making hay out of the various Republican debacles lately; they claim to be better--kinder, wiser, nobler--than other muckracking politicians and then they spend all their energy sneering at the opposition rather than making cogent arguments; a few days ago on PBS, Mark Shields was practically foaming at the mouth he wanted to bash Bush so bad. There's lots of bashable stuff out there right now, but in comparison to David Brooks, who was willing to criticize Bush but wanted to keep to the issues, Shields just came across as, well, a Bush-basher.)
Anyway, I thought the writers of the above book made a good point about Murphy Brown. But then the writers turned to Home Improvement, and I just sighed because it was the typical academic take-the-argument-to-the-farthest-point-and-watch-it-crash-and-burn approach. Or, rather, watch it go ploop.
Their point was that Home Improvement uses the doofus husband and lecturing wife format, which, yes, it kind of does. But they miss a major factor: the show is about Tim.
That is, the lecturing wife stuff is peripheral. Tim Allen remains the central and constant image of the show. The camera follows him. He acts. He performs. He changes. Whatever is said pales in comparison to what you see on the screen, what you experience when you watch the show. And this is why I think academics are sincerely moronic when it comes to popular culture. They think that language (the script) or icons (specific images--Tim has his shirt off: that means . . . ) beats out performance. But it doesn't. Whatever Jill might say to Tim at the end of every episode, Tim keeps the camera, he controls the action. The dialog might say that Tim isn't responding to his family the way he should (lecture, lecture, lecture). The camera says differently.
But you can't ever argue with academic types, who are so sure that there's all this iconic ideological (ahhhh, I hate that word; I'm so sick of that word!) stuff going on that only academics can recognize (and they have to tell the rest of us poor ignorant slobs, who don't know we are being brainwashed by society's dominant narratives--ahhhh, ahhhh, ahhhh. These people never seem to wonder maybe if they are the ones preaching the so-called dominant concepts, and the rest of us are ignoring them. It's like environmentalists, who continue to behave like beleagured victims despite the fact that today, as a sub, I showed a ecology movie to a bunch of 7th graders that went on and on and on about the greenhouse effect and acid rain and so on and so forth. But the moment environmentalists admit to being the status quo, they will have to question themselves--ha ha).
Anyway, the authors argued that mostly women watch Home Improvement, therefore they must be watching to reinforce their hatred of men (and the belief in the perfection of women).
Now, think about this for a second: the logic goes something like--
Mostly women watch Home Improvement.
Women only identify with women.
The main woman on the show is Jill.
Women are identifying with Jill.
Jill lectures Tim.
Women identify with Jill lecturing Tim--therefore,
Most women want to lecture their husbands.
Because most women want to lecture their husbands, they think their husbands are buffoons.
Because they think their husbands are buffoons, they think all men are buffoons.
Because they think all men are buffoons, they are misandric.
Wow--there's like a billion assumptions there. Well, are least three: one, that women automatically identify with other women; two, that women think their husbands are buffoons because they want to lecture them; three, that a woman's opinion about her husband is the same as a woman's opinion about men in general.
It isn't just the misandry folks who argue like this. Let's try that argument from the feminist angle.
Many men watch some-movie-where-things-blow-up-and-the-guy-rescues-the-gal-and-she-falls-into-his-arms.
All men identify with men.
The main character in the movie is male.
The male character rescues the women (who is capable of rescuing herself, darn it all!).
Men are identifying with the male character--therefore,
Most men want to rescue women and have them fall into their arms.
Because most men want to rescue women and have them fall into their arms, they think women are helpless.
Because they think women are helpless, they are chauvinists.
Let's try a little non-academic thinking:
Mostly women watch Home Improvement
Tim Allen is funny
Most women have a sense of humor
Boy, that's a lot easier!
I have more to say on this subject but will save it for a later time.
Saturday, January 7, 2006
Angel v. Spike
I was reading one of my Christmas presents this morning, a collection of essays about Angel & Buffy, and decided, Hey, I've got some opinions about all this stuff. While the shows were going on, before I started this blog, I would exchange e-mails about the episodes with two of my brothers. Below is an e-mail that I wrote regarding Angel v. Spike during the last season of Angel (with some editing).
My comparison between Angel and Spike continues below. This is an e-mail from the same season (the episode where Angel and Spike are chasing after the goblet of something or other).
Crazy Spike with a soul was fun but ultimately not different enough from Angel. And Spike is intrinsically different from Angel. If you were to compare them to Old Testament people, Spike would be Jeremiah and Angel would be, oh, Saul before he went nuts. Something like that. That is, Angel is the noble guy who fights. He's interested in redemption but he isn't particularly theology-minded. Which is less of a contradiction than it sounds.Note: the (non)use of Spike during the last season of Buffy really bugged me. I thought he was given precious little to do except stand around. Actually, I wasn't a huge fan of the last season of Buffy at all. Yes, yes, I know people who thought the seasons got better and better for both Angel and Buffy. I don't, and I agree with Peter Beagle who thinks that Angel gained this wacky soap opera baroque quality. I pretty much skipped the middle of Angel, and only watched the last season because it was the last season. Which doesn't mean that it still wasn't better television than a lot of other stuff out there. But I HATED the lighting in the last season.
Angel's "disillusionment" always seemed a practical extension of his personality. And his adoption of a fatalistic, Norse-like idea of the universe (there's nothing beyond this life but we fight the good fight anyway) is also in keeping with his warrior ethic.
Spike is the visionary. But he's not an Isaiah type visionary. He's a Jeremiah type visionary. The guy who can cut through all the gobbledygook to the center. It came off trite but Spike's statement last night that he could see the poetry in how to kill the bad guy was dead-on accurate. There's an episode back in early Buffy where Spike comes back to town after being dumped by Drusilla. He runs into Angel and Buffy who are pretending to "just be friends," and he knocks down their explanations, bang, bang, bang. Later, Buffy says, "Spike can figure it out, for some reason."
(The episode where Spike explains to Buffy why slayers die is another great example of this.)
This is what makes Spike Spike. Spike is Jeremiah saying, "Don't be stupid. The Babylonians are stronger than you." And then watching everyone around him doing the exact opposite of what he suggests and self-destructing.
The difference is, Angel will adopt disillusionment as a way of dealing with life, but I'm not sure it matters much to Angel. His "theology" is secondary to his behavior, as it is with most people. But Spike, I think, is, while not a believer, a man who will keep worrying at the framework of things. In his head at least. He isn't a reader, and Angel is. He is a poet, and Angel likes Manilow. This works. As character development, it's ripe for exploration.
For instance, Angel's redemption has no religious foundation whatsoever. He feels guilty. That's enough. He doesn't like to hurt people. That's enough. But Spike, in my personal estimation, would have been more prone to go at his redemption (if he decided even to pursue it) from the point of view of theology—why and what for and what does it mean and so on and so forth. He won't stand for anything shallow or insincere but he would be more likely to take it to pieces, and he would go at it harder. The inconsistencies upset him more. Angel tries and gets bitter and gets over it and keeps going. I don't think Spike has that kind of personality. Angel is, say, Zeus and Spike is, say, Eros or Loki or a dozen other tricksters who undermine things precisely because the moral discrepancies bugged them.
So, I would have liked to have seen Spike take his getting a soul from a more religious angle. Get all priestly (in fact, a priest Spike would be a hoot). He wouldn't have to keep up the intensity for longer than one season of Buffy. He could relax a bit. But it would have been far more interesting than Spike moping around soulfully after Buffy. It would have been much better if he'd come back and the business about having a soul so consumed him that Buffy just lost relevance.
But maybe not, since Spike has always been a closet romantic.
My comparison between Angel and Spike continues below. This is an e-mail from the same season (the episode where Angel and Spike are chasing after the goblet of something or other).
The fight sequences between Spike and Angel went on a bit long, but they were still very cool. Truth is: watching two guys beat the crap out of each other is sexy stuff. I don't mean Texas Ranger type beating. That's not sexy. That's just pathetic. But the whole Henry IV/Hotspur thing: "Hi, we don't like each other, but we're both reasonably honorable so let's hack each other to death with swords." And then they fight and get all bloody and one of them falls over and croaks out, "You have all the honor, comrade" and dies.I want to add here that the episode where Andrew shows up with the slayerettes (the episode with the crazy slayer) is another good instance where Angel's experience of pain comes up against Spike's relative youth (both in terms of years and in terms of years with a soul). Spike doesn't really grasp until that episode how bad badness can be; he hasn't understood what exactly he should be feeling guilty about. He wants to argue that he isn't that person anymore and that he sacrificed himself to save the world and come on, why SHOULD he care. He wants his beer and skittles life. He doesn't really know how to cope with his new persona. This does fit into my earlier analysis. Angel, who has already been through all this, has accepted a role/position/lifestyle that makes sense (to him). But Spike is bothered by the logic of the whole thing. Which doesn't mean he won't end up being a hero who cares about others, but his way of getting there will be a lot more confusing, unsteady and querulous than Angel's (really, think Jeremiah). As Peter Beagle says, "I like them both. I care about them . . . But I worry about Spike." (His article is in Five Seasons of Angel edited by Glenn Yeffeth.)
That is very sexy. And, yeah, the whole male bonding thing can be fairly sexy too. Not sappy male bonding a la Beaches. Home Improvement type male bonding.
The cleverest of the clever bits was the whole Angel vs. Spike thing. The clever part was that the arguments played on the Angel fan versus Spike fan arguments that I hear about from my Buffy friends. Personally, I like 'em both, but there are definite followings amongst the fanbase and definite (and vocal) opinions about who Buffy should end up with. The whole exchange played on that and it looks like the writers will go on playing with it for this Season. There's a tongue-in-cheek aspect to it that I find very amusing.
I also thought the dialog worked on several levels. Spike's romanticism was played out effectively but more importantly I think it gave Angel a bit more depth, ambiguity-wise. The line that Angel, as Angelus, gives Spike, "You can take all you want, but nothing is yours" is reflected in Angel's "good" self. Just like Spike wanted the cup to get back at Angel as well as for the meaning it would give his life, I think Angel's warning, while partly given to dissuade Spike, was honestly meant. He's still trying to dish out to Spike the same advice: there're no automatics; there're no guarantees just because you have a soul. Angel, older and wiser, learned this the hard way. And I thought it worked effectively to illuminate the differences between the two.
Thursday, January 5, 2006
I Finally See The Matrix
With my new 27" TV, I decided to (finally) see The Matrix. (And considering that it was in widescreen, this was a correct decision. Widescreen on my old 19" was like watching ants on a plain: haul out the binoculars!) Here are my thoughts:
1. It was less complicated than I had expected. Due to the mystique surrounding the films, I had imagined something more along the lines of Lan (truly strange anime with all kinds of unrealities and multiple dimensions). In comparison, The Matrix has one of the most straight-forward plots I've ever seen. Far less complicated than your average French film. And much less depressing!
2. It's the sort of film that Keanu Reeves does very, very well. No emoting necessary, but he has a kind of introverted, wide-eyed uncertainty that, in this film at least, hasn't blossomed into full-blown angst. I also prefer Reeves shaved to unshaved. With hair, albeit short, he just looks like Keanu Reeves, a kind of icon in his own right. But without hair, you can see what truly elegant bones the boy has--possibly one of the reasons he gets parts so consistently. (I have also decided, based on absolutely no evidence whatsoever, that Reeves is a really, really, really nice guy, and people just love giving him parts and working with him on films, which is why he can walk into just about anything, including parts that, unlike Neo, are not cut out for him.)
3. Despite having seen Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, I still thought The Matrix's 1990s version of the slow Kung Fu stuff was really cool, but then I'm easily impressed. I'd expected the film to be far, far, far more violent than it actually was. Which may mean that I've entered the ranks of the desensitized, but really, CSI has more violence and sex per episode (and far more implied violence and sex). There's something to be said for a film where the thing you remember best (as everyone does) is not the dead bodies, but the cascading bullet casings from the helicopter.
4. I guessed the a-ha moment. And it still impressed me. It took Neo awhile, but then I have the benefit of the film's popularity (and subsequent discussions) and lots and lots of Star Trek. Of course, the characters in Star Trek never think three-dimensionally or other reality at all, but they talk about it a lot. Despite having guessed the a-ha moment, it was still very satisfying to see it (something which academic writers about popular culture never seem to understand and which I will address in a different post). I felt the same thing about Aliens. That's the second Aliens, not the first Alien, which I will probably never see. Aliens scared the bejeebees out of me, and Alien is apparently scarier. In any case, I knew how Aliens would end, more or less, and it was still satisfying, "cathartic," Artistole would say.
So The Matrix was worthwhile and not a bad way to break in a new TV. I'm not sure that Neo would be as sympathetic a character, however, once his introverted wide-eyed wonder crossed into introverted self-prophetic assurance. But then Dune suffered from the same problem.
1. It was less complicated than I had expected. Due to the mystique surrounding the films, I had imagined something more along the lines of Lan (truly strange anime with all kinds of unrealities and multiple dimensions). In comparison, The Matrix has one of the most straight-forward plots I've ever seen. Far less complicated than your average French film. And much less depressing!
2. It's the sort of film that Keanu Reeves does very, very well. No emoting necessary, but he has a kind of introverted, wide-eyed uncertainty that, in this film at least, hasn't blossomed into full-blown angst. I also prefer Reeves shaved to unshaved. With hair, albeit short, he just looks like Keanu Reeves, a kind of icon in his own right. But without hair, you can see what truly elegant bones the boy has--possibly one of the reasons he gets parts so consistently. (I have also decided, based on absolutely no evidence whatsoever, that Reeves is a really, really, really nice guy, and people just love giving him parts and working with him on films, which is why he can walk into just about anything, including parts that, unlike Neo, are not cut out for him.)
3. Despite having seen Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, I still thought The Matrix's 1990s version of the slow Kung Fu stuff was really cool, but then I'm easily impressed. I'd expected the film to be far, far, far more violent than it actually was. Which may mean that I've entered the ranks of the desensitized, but really, CSI has more violence and sex per episode (and far more implied violence and sex). There's something to be said for a film where the thing you remember best (as everyone does) is not the dead bodies, but the cascading bullet casings from the helicopter.
4. I guessed the a-ha moment. And it still impressed me. It took Neo awhile, but then I have the benefit of the film's popularity (and subsequent discussions) and lots and lots of Star Trek. Of course, the characters in Star Trek never think three-dimensionally or other reality at all, but they talk about it a lot. Despite having guessed the a-ha moment, it was still very satisfying to see it (something which academic writers about popular culture never seem to understand and which I will address in a different post). I felt the same thing about Aliens. That's the second Aliens, not the first Alien, which I will probably never see. Aliens scared the bejeebees out of me, and Alien is apparently scarier. In any case, I knew how Aliens would end, more or less, and it was still satisfying, "cathartic," Artistole would say.
So The Matrix was worthwhile and not a bad way to break in a new TV. I'm not sure that Neo would be as sympathetic a character, however, once his introverted wide-eyed wonder crossed into introverted self-prophetic assurance. But then Dune suffered from the same problem.
Tuesday, January 3, 2006
Chase
The remarkable thing about the character Chase on the TV show House is that he isn't entirely sympathetic. Despite his pretty-boy looks (which are constantly commented on by House), he is far less innocent that he appears. Not that he is evil, only very self-serving. Which doesn't negate the complication of his having contemplated entering the priesthood. The result is a fully complex human being, whose motivations and opinions aren't entirely objectionable.
He is a difficult character to like, however, and yet he never passes the line into the utterly dislikable. I think this is due mostly to House himself, who keeps Chase's baser instincts in check by calling Chase on what he does and harassing him endlessly about it. More than that, since House--who acts as the moral center of the show--tolerates Chase, the audience is persuaded to tolerate Chase.
For instance, in the episode where Chase is being questioned for "killing" a patient, House takes a fall. He does it in his usual grumpy, cynical way so at first you don't realized how much House hasn't protected himself. In large part, this is due to House's honest evaluation of his part in the situation--he didn't tell Chase about his father and thus left Chase open to the shock of sudden knowledge--and also to House's leadership style, which is to protect those under him (House's refusal to fire any of his people, not even, at first, Chase, says a great deal about his personality; he would prefer to deal with his interns himself than feed them to the wolves).
A complex, not fully likable yet watchable character is difficult to pull off. I've never been able to get into Everybody Loves Raymond because the characters are SO horrible to each other. They cross the line for me and becomes unbearable. Everyone has different tolerance levels in this regard. I've never cared for meanness as its own excuse, which is, I suppose why Chase remains so remarkable a character to me.
He is a difficult character to like, however, and yet he never passes the line into the utterly dislikable. I think this is due mostly to House himself, who keeps Chase's baser instincts in check by calling Chase on what he does and harassing him endlessly about it. More than that, since House--who acts as the moral center of the show--tolerates Chase, the audience is persuaded to tolerate Chase.
For instance, in the episode where Chase is being questioned for "killing" a patient, House takes a fall. He does it in his usual grumpy, cynical way so at first you don't realized how much House hasn't protected himself. In large part, this is due to House's honest evaluation of his part in the situation--he didn't tell Chase about his father and thus left Chase open to the shock of sudden knowledge--and also to House's leadership style, which is to protect those under him (House's refusal to fire any of his people, not even, at first, Chase, says a great deal about his personality; he would prefer to deal with his interns himself than feed them to the wolves).
A complex, not fully likable yet watchable character is difficult to pull off. I've never been able to get into Everybody Loves Raymond because the characters are SO horrible to each other. They cross the line for me and becomes unbearable. Everyone has different tolerance levels in this regard. I've never cared for meanness as its own excuse, which is, I suppose why Chase remains so remarkable a character to me.
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