Waking The Cynical Giant
Reflections on Occupy Wall Street
On a spectacularly crisp October Saturday, my friend and I stumbled on the Occupy Wall Street demonstrators in Washington Square Park in the heart of Greenwich Village, New York City. A diverse and vocal group well escorted by police officers, we welcomed them to the park with many others, applauding their spirit and sentiment. Behind me a voice said, “Wow, if this doesn’t wake up America, what will?” Struggling to contain my laughter, I turned casually to eye the speaker. He was a young white guy, maybe 20. I am 42.
I support the cause of Occupy Wall Street. I find it to be a social cause more than an economic one; philosophical more than political. Still, I struggle to rectify my desire for its success with my knowledge of the state of our society.
The diversity of the protest participants force me to believe that all aspects of this dysfunctional republic are being called to task, including it’s broken democracy. As confirmed in Jane Mayer’s recent article “State for Sale” in The New Yorker, the recent deregulation of corporate financing of candidates is allowing wealthy conservative activists to spend millions of dollars to buy elections all over the country. This may sound crass, but statistical analysis of elections over the past decade shows that nine of 10 are won by the candidate that spends the most money. Only now it will be the candidate that has the most money spent on his behalf. The line between wealth and influence is no longer made of smoke. It’s solid and a powerful motivator for Occupy Wall Street.
That sounds quite political and it seems as if Campaign Finance Reform would be high on the protestors’ agenda, yet those participating still insist there is no agenda. Pundits believe the movement could evolve into some sort of “Liberal Tea Party” but that opinion seems short sighted: So far this movement recognizes that another cog in a broken system is not the solution.
Still, walking away from the park and on to our evening of movies, dinner and the theatre I am starkly aware of the Sisyphean task of protesting without an objective. What am I, or any of the thousands of people in the park or those watching on TV supposed to do? Throw our voter registration cards out the window and yell, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore?” People like me, who value the cause, are impotent. What of the massive majority of people who don’t even know the events are happening?
I’ve been that young man behind me. I’m a Midwesterner now (and was raised here), but I went to college at NYU, the campus of which surrounds that very park. Without demonstrations, I stood in virtually that same spot and amazed at the possibilities of youth and New York and education. I have believed that the world was thinking what I was thinking and that justice, along with the fundamental human values of caring and human kindness were pinnacle in the way people lived their lives.
Since then I have realized this isn’t the case. I may be a lonely voice saying it out loud, but I’m not the only one who believes it. When billionaire Warren Buffet came to my town to dedicate a tract of low-income housing he helped finance, his quote was, “What else is money for but to make life better for those who need it?” Two days later the quote was mocked by an editorialist who called him a fool for wasting a tiny fraction of his massive fortune.
My cynical laughter toward the awe struck student was sincere. Try as people might, we are simply too overwhelmed by the basics of living for ourselves to dedicate much of our lives to helping others. We all are encouraged and justified to “give what we can.” This brings a primary ironic motivator of the Occupy Movement to light: We’re not asking for much. For the ultra rich to fight to the death to protect a few percentage points of their wealth is unfathomable to the socially conscious. According to a New York Times article “The Charitable Giving Divide” published August 20, 2010, households making less than $25,000 annually give away 4.7% of their incomes, higher than any other income bracket. It is a percentage that gets smaller as incomes get higher.
Still, as evolutionarily selfish creatures, we’re hard pressed to perform acts that don’t somehow benefit ourselves. And this brings to light a second, volatile, irony: Speaking for myself as a believer in the distribution of wealth, I’m not asking you to give the money to me. I don’t think anyone in the park that day was asking for that. What the protesters are shouting about is a long held, seemingly fabled, concept: The Social Contract. It seems impossible to believe the elite classes are unable to recognize the value of investing in the well being of the general population. Marginalizing and emaciating people to the point of desperation is not good for business. Healthy, educated, enthusiastic, vital populations propel growth. Just ask the Greeks. I’m aware of one economic counter argument to this point; the growing middle classes of China and India will save us. Well, you’d better plan on moving there, because America is society based on brash violence and angry rebellion. The “survival-of-the-fittest” policy of the elite may eventually make their homeland unlivable.
An apolitical movement is still a movement. Though they won’t (or can’t) put their “demands” into a simple form there is still something to be said and heard from this growing chorus. When an undefined movement grows exponentially in such a short time, there must be a truth within it somewhere. I believe the call to arms is fundamental and heartfelt. As I said, I believe it to be cultural and personal. I think the beleaguered masses are looking around and saying, “Please care.” Or, more crudely, “Please care about more than the bottom line.” We all want to believe that the people in positions of power are just that, people. Surely the Citizen Kane myth doesn’t apply to everyone with wealth and power. Are they just as overwhelmed as the rest of us about what to do on behalf of those in need or are there this many people in the world without heart, conscious or even sound emotional and spiritual guidance? The Occupiers want desperately to find the tin man’s heart.
If the movement fails, and the cynic in me says it must unless it escalates to place where public outrage comes into play (violence against the protesters; exposure of massive corruption trying to squash the movement; massive corporate cultural shift – similar to what the CEO of Starbucks coffee is trying to initiate; radical transition in government policy before or after the next election) it could be the last bastion of a disaffected population. The next step might be out self-preservation by individuals, corporations and, perhaps through succession, states. Only a massive mood shift by the public can counteract this progression, but that’s a mighty big, soundly sleeping giant who dreams pessimist dreams. Can anything wake it? And is merely waking it enough or must a new vision be presented, accepted, implemented and succeed? What else cures the cynic? Signs, slogans and sleeping in the park?
The Big Cheese
“Homage” is a tricky category. Gus Van Sant remade Alfred Hitchcock’s masterpiece Psycho in 1998 and called it an homage. Turns out is was a nearly shot-for-shot rip off of the original that, fortunately, fell flat. Pixar does a great job of putting subtle, clever references within its films to pay homage to artists, pop culture and films. This is a lesson DreamWorks Animation should study as it prepares to bash us over the head with camp in the world of Shrek. Seinfeld used homage as comedy. Truth be told, I felt I increased my cultural IQ by 20 points when I finally saw Casablanca in college. Suddenly I understood myriad references from books, television and movies.
Clearly J.J. Abrams feels he is sitting at the right had of God at the helm of his new summer popcorn flick Super 8 and, with Steven Spielberg producing, he probably did literally sit there. The result is a fun summer film sure to charm many audiences and earn plenty of money for everybody. Saying it is a study in what occurs when a writer/director at the top of his game teams with a film making legend to produce brilliance would be overstating it, to say the least. In fact, the two seem to have fallen in love with each other’s weaknesses and are exploiting them in the name of homage.
Simply put, it’s summer of 1979 and a group of middle school boys are working hard on a home movie. Only two of the five have a backstory, but that’s okay in a summer film. The make-up/sound/special effects boy is our hero; he with the recently deceased mother. The diamond-in-the-rough leading lady is his love interest with a father somehow connected to the tragedy. The other characters are “bossy exposition” “comedy relief” and “moral compass/wimp.” While filming a scene at the local train depot (uh, huh. Remember how popular train travel was back in the old days?), the kids witness the crash of a train which happens to be the property of a top secret Air Force project. A monster is unleashed. Creepy events ensue followed by all out havoc. Since this is a modern film about an older time, this is all rushed along over the course of about three days.
When it comes to summer fare, Spielberg’s weakness is schmaltz. We all know he’s got some kind of father complex and in Super 8 he’s provided not one, but two lost fathers to root for/cringe from. Just as one teenage character is explaining to his friend why the hero of his homemade movie needs a wife (“To provide story.”) we are forced to realize Abrams and Spielberg are trying to move past standard summer action fare by providing a dead mother/wife and a struggling father/son (and father/daughter and father/father) relationship. This may seem clever to the screenwriters, but it’s really just pandering.
Abrams brings plenty of over the top visuals and effects to the screen. His best tributes to his mentor are in the understated, tense moments where only sound and ominous harbingers (dogs running through a scene; the unnoticed rattle and hum of a mysterious object) make the audience squirm. But one of Abrams flaws is his desire to provide drama in the form of action and not really knowing how to justify it. His train wreck is epic, seemingly beyond the bounds of time and space. Then, as a true homage to the ridiculousness of summer schlock, we find the kids’ getaway car has somehow survived in near perfect condition, in spite of being parked right next to the train depot which was demolished by a flying boxcar. Late in the film our heros must cross the town which has become a literal war zone, replete with explosion after explosion. Why? Well, just to clear things up an unknown Air Force officer shouts into his radio, “Our weapons are all short circuiting and misfiring!”
But Abrams greatest weakness are his endings and endings are hard, especially with all these explosions to justify. Now the Abrams/Spielberg kludge reaches its epiphany while J.J. gives in completely to tugging the heart strings. Symbolically and literally father (and father) and son must let go of their past while simultaneously providing the very last bit of metal that completes our nemesis’ ErectorSet project and allows his freedom. He was, after all, just scared, alone and hungry. The monster, I mean. He just wanted to go home. You know, like another Spielberg alien you might remember (though this one is much less cuddly). You can see how this all becomes great big ball of Spielberg cheese.
I don’t mind a good, silly summer blockbuster. Just don’t set it in 1979 in order to claim all your references, rip-offs and just plain lunacy are an homage to anything but the heyday of Hollywood making big money from summer time flicks.
In Praise Of Mono-Tasking
The Kindle (or Nook, or iPad) will not kill the publishing industry. In fact, it may be the thing that saves the publishing industry. Retail bookstores may be in danger; but I’m not convinced of that just yet (A friend tells me the foot traffic in brick and motor stores can be directly correlated to the number of ebook downloads made. I mean, you have to browse for books somewhere!). Let’s start there.
And let’s continue by announcing that I love my Kindle. I’m a book reader and I have gotten my books from the local public library for many years. I love the library and frequent them weekly. I take my kids. Indianapolis recently renovated their main library and it’s a virtual shrine to information. I hang out there to get focused on writing (see below). I check out books and videos for the whole family. I use their internet when my computer crashes … and now I am buying books for my Kindle. Buying what I was borrowing for free! Just because I love the convenience, format and features of my new, electronic toy.
Sure, the thing feels good in my hand and it holds lots of data. The battery seems to last forever (I’m three novels in and still only barely see the battery meter depleted.) It can be online in a second and download whatever book my friend is recommending at lunch in an instant. I could read my New Yorker magazine on there the day it hits the newsstands, instead of the six days later it takes to arrive in my mailbox (willing to let my current subscription run out before doing this). The annotation and reference features are way cool … someday I’ll be back in a book club and really put those to use.
But I’ll be honest, what the Kindle does for me is overcome a personality flaw (or is it a cultural pressure?). There are many, many choices of what to do with my time. Nobody knows this better than a writer. Sit me down in front of the computer to plink out a blog post or research venues for my plays and just watch the awesome combination of technology and procrastination. After sorting through my email (nothing important) and I am certain to check Facebook, where I can be brought up on the dining habits of my “friends” and relish in music videos of my past (posted by my peers) and profane lyric poetry of today’s top acts (posted by the younger generation). I have an impressive fake farm and I am the champion of some really pissed off birds (green pigs stole their eggs, you see). Sometimes I even write … or you wouldn’t be reading this.
Perhaps for my birthday I will get an iPhone where all of these distractions will be at my fingertips twenty four hours a day!
When I open my Kindle, however, I read. Oh, I’ve discovered there are games to be downloaded, but I’m not going to do it. Since I got the thing for Valentine’s day, I’ve read four novels. Books that have been on my list for a very long time. One from the library, one I got as a gift for Christmas (the very funny “How I Became A Famous Novelist” … highly recommended) and two that I actually purchased! If the book world can get me to buy content at $10-$12 a pop – and, by the way, content that costs them virtually nothing to create – they are going to be okay.
Like every industry, publishers, distributors and retailers must adapt the the new world. And we authors must do the same. Look for my book, Answer The Call: What To Do When Spirit Arrives To Transform Your Life to appear available for download soon. No traditional publisher wants to invest the money to put it on paper, but I think it’s worth the bytes it’ll be transmitted on.
Kiss Kiss; Bang Bang
“Amazing Granite Countertops!”
“All Granite Upstairs And Down!”
“Beautiful Granite Just Updated!”
Looking for a house is one of the greatest test of man’s inhumanity to man. We all understand the ads are overstated, misleading and front work to get you through the door before you autopsy the place with the best home inspector you can afford. Whether building or buying these days, there is one feature that seems required, won’t be inspected and, somehow, inexplicably, causes people to go all atwitter. The feature is granite counter tops. The hype is a lie.
Few people seem to be willing to take on the huge granite juggernaut … but your bold critic steps where few dare. Plus, I am protected by the mere title and concept of this blog. So I will say it, “Granite is a waste of money. It is a pain in the ass to own. It is not suited for households where the kitchen is actually going to be used often and then made clean and presentable each day.” In other words, though builders and decorators and empty-nesters may tell you it’s a must, ignore them.
Let’s count the reasons, bearing in mind that I didn’t even pay (directly) for the things. The fact that you can replace your regular counter tops something like five times and still break even on the cost of granite doesn’t even figure in at this point!
They are loud. Pans bang; glasses tink; plates bonk; pots bong; keys clink; silverware clatters; bowls ring. Since granite is harder than anything you’re about to put on it, it won’t absorb the impact. No matter how gentle you are (and how often is your six year old concerned about that?) there is still a great deal of noise coming from these counters. It doesn’t help that we have a small television mounted under the counter. The speakers point forward and down. The sound bounces perfectly off the counters and far beyond into the house.
They are cold. I understand that if I was big into making candy and fudge from scratch my granite counter tops would be ideal for cooling, rolling and working the hot sugar. Other than that, they are big, cold rocks lining the kitchen. Maybe the cool is nice in the summer and perhaps good for where you live. Here, it gets cold in the winter and I like to turn the heat down when not in use (and at night). When the furnace is cranking away, bringing us back to life in the morning you can just feel the rock holding on to the cold.
They are hard to clean. The upside is you can scrape anything off with a chisel if need be. Otherwise, think of those cold sheets of rock holding on to most everything they touch. Previously viscous substances harden and cling. So, I try to be neat. Still, when you are fixing three meals a day (about) and snacks and the rest, it would be nice to be able to pull a rag across the surface from time to time and be done. But granite doesn’t wipe up and look great. Granite needs to be polished, not just wiped. It’s never just an easy swash; it’s chemicals and cloths and wiping.
Supposedly I can do anything on these counters and they won’t destruct, but you know what? I had regular counters for the first three quarters of my life and managed to keep them nice. I cook a lot. Sometimes big projects, but mostly just every day getting people fed cooking. I’ll take my good ole decorative, quiet, clean counters any day!
So you want to be a writer … and not live in a van down by the river.
My daughter wants to be a writer. I don’t want her to end up living in a van down by the river. This is my concern, and one I am not passing on to her just yet. I think it would be cool to have a successful writer in the family. I like writing, I’m in favor of it as a means of communication and changing the world. Maybe you can tell this because I have a blog. Maybe not.
How then, to explain to a nine-year-old what writing is? What it feels like? What passion comes from the art of writing and what peril lies in expressing it? How to help her understand everyone can write, and many people can write well, but brilliant writing requires brains, heart, courage, inspiration and toil? I want her to be brilliant at something. Maybe writing is it … and, what if it isn’t and the mind numbing business side of artistic endeavors crushes her spirit? Well, she could end up living in a van down by the river.
But first things first. How to explore writing. Into our lives came a delightful film from Ghibli Studios called Whisper of the Heart. Ghibli is an amazing animation studio in Japan whose films are being re-released in America via the Walt Disney Company, under the guidance of executive producer Steve Jobs (Toy Story, Up, etc.). In case you’ve missed other titles from this studio, I can highly recommend Spirited Away which won the 2003 Academy Award for Best Animated Feature and Ponyo which was in theaters before moving to DVD. All provide family friendly fare with true depth, insight and multiple meaning (a good start for describing brilliant writing, by the way).
Whisper of the Heart is the most conventional of the films I’ve watched from Ghibli, considering most of it is a charming, honest teen romance. Far from the cliched crushes and whimsy of Hollywood teen flicks, Whisper provides such an accurate portrayal of teens my daughter turned to me at one point and said, “Kids should show this to grown-ups; to help them understand what we are feeling.” High praise indeed!
Main character Shizuku is a romantic and a reader. When she notices every book she has checked out at the library has Seiji’s name, she enters into a small fantasy about how he could be her dream boy. By chance they meet and soon are testing the waters of young love. Seiji is a violin maker and he has a chance to go to Italy and see if he can be a brilliant one. Young Shizuku has great fits of self-doubt, certain her ordinary life will never impress the young boy. Pushing past her insecurities, she decides to pursue her own passion as well. It’s an effort to impress him, and herself, with her writing. She dives into her quest, shoving school work and friends aside (lessons in dedication here; and later resolved with lessons on responsibility).
Meanwhile, the owner of an antique shop has provided the inspiration for her story, and the inspiration for her work. Using a wise and accessible metaphor involving a geode, he points the young writer toward brilliance within that must be found, polished and treasured. He also has a statue of a cat, called The Duke, to guide her. Now comes the real magic, which is what we’ve been waiting for in a Ghibli movie. Suddenly we are inside the writer’s mind, being chided, encouraged and praised by said cat, now the main character in her writing. Listen carefully, however, for it is not the girl’s fiction the Duke is guiding us through; it is the process of writing itself. “Take the first step … a leap into the unknown … the current of the wind in your heart will guide us … how will we get over that huge hurdle? We’ll just do it!” In and out of the fantastic emotions of writing, we soar alongside the Duke and Shizuku. It’s the closest metaphor for fine writing I’ve seen.
Upon completion of her project, Shizuku has promised the shop owner first right to reading. When she brings it, she is nervous, terrified, anxious and exhausted. She can barely contain her apprehension and waits, on the porch in the cold, while he reads it that instant. His response is supportive, true and honest. She’s a writer … and she has more work to be done to find the gems inside her. All of this is true to the writer’s experience. All beautifully presented in the film.
Sure, there’s some delightful adolescent love and a sturdy ending. When it was over, I wanted to ask my daughter for three pages in review, to see if she understood the many layers being presented. If she does, perhaps she can get an early start on the writing and, eventually, learn the ins and outs of being a professional. After all, I don’t want her living in a van down by the river.
Curtain Rises. Actors feign emotion. Curtain Closes.
I’ve seen seeing some local theater lately. This is a challenge for me because I am, and my wife will attest, a theater snob. I knew this was the case years ago when, exiting the Majestic Theater after seeing Phantom of the Opera I uttered the uppity phrase, “It’s just not the same without Michael Crawford.” I know, ugh, right? But let me say that I have seen really crappy professional productions in the highest of places (Sting in Three Penny Opera on Broadway ranks as the worst I have ever seen, anywhere), and I have seen brilliant productions in tiny places. Being a writer adds and detracts to the experience because it calls on me to recognize form and function (good) and then be disappointed when the production doesn’t meet what the writing is calling for (bad).
But, in amateur theater more than anywhere else, it must be said: The director is to blame. Having coffee with a prospective director a few months ago he told me this about his method:
“We spend a lot of time, a whole week at the beginning, without the script or the lines. We just study character. I ask questions about who they are, whey they have been, etc. Once they get that, the rest is pretty much just directing traffic.”
I wince at the memory. Let’s take a play like Proof for example. Simply put, a young brilliant mathematician is concerned about her own mental health after bearing witness to the madness of her equally brilliant father. In this one sentence there is a lot of character to study, absorb and project. The actress I saw did an admirable job. The director, on the other hand, put forth that her conclusions about the character were the same from beginning to end. Now, Proof is a brilliant, Pulitzer Prize winning play. Suffice to say it includes one of the fundamentals your tenth grade English teacher taught you: Your characters should grow, evolve, learn and transform during your work.
Unfortunately, if the director doesn’t call for character development beyond the first week of rehearsal, and, simultaneously, believes that once you’ve got the character you’re done, well, what you get is flat characters. The opening scene of the play is a dialogue between the father and daughter. She is outside a party taking place inside; celebrating her birthday as a matter of fact. Self ostracized, her father inquires about her state of mind. This is a theme of the play. Unfortunately, if the director has decided that her worry and concern for her own mental health is her primary character trait, she will appear concerned and worried for the entire play. There is no friendly, fun banter between her and the father and there is no Bang! surprise when, after a few minutes, we discover the father is dead. This seems almost natural, given her morose state. The writer’s intent in thwarted. The audiences misses out. Pity. Blame the director.
Or a play like Wit, another Pulitzer Prize winner. Here a brilliant but solitary and harsh professor of 17th Century Poetry has been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Again, that’s a lot of character to develop. An amateur actress taking on this role has a ton of work to do, compounded by a dizzying array of technical jargon (medical) and academic blather included in the lines. A daring amateur will do well to get all the words in the right order, not to mention hitting the emotional chords of a woman in the throes of aggressive chemotherapy (the actress I saw was great at both these things). And so, when the scenes shift from the present time in the hospital to flashbacks of her young adulthood and/or professional diatribes she must be directed to understand she is not the same character in these instances as she is on the hospital bed! One long session of character development at the start robs the writer’s intent of showing a varied, complex character throughout.
And so, when the characters near that moment of dramatic climax (and even in wordy, intellectual character pieces like these there is a climax to the writing) it is up to the director to push their actors to the brink. Maybe they aren’t skilled enough to pull it off internally, but the fact they have been shoved into the moment, even if it requires giving a line reading by the director, must be evident to the audience. In Wit the line is from John Donne’s Holy Sonnets (I hadn’t heard of them either, but the play does a nice job of educating us). Famously recognizable it is, “Death, be not proud.” The punctuation of this line and its myriad interpretations are a theme throughout. So when, nearly dead, the lead character declares the line in defiance of the timid, weak interpretation she was taught in her youth (some ninety minutes before in the play) she must wrench our guts with her new understanding. The line must ring in the head of the audience member. Perhaps the actress can’t convey every facet of the emotion, but she should be directed in such a manner that honors the writer and stuns the audience.
This all assumes the director believes theater is more than just emotions on stage. It requires him or her, as the person deemed responsible for every element of the event, to have a grasp of the depth and complexities of the writer. These two examples are brilliant works and base audiences will connect with the emotions. But plays that win prizes are complex and are written with precision, consternation and intent. A prize winning scriptwriter can tell you at least one reason why every line is in the work, and probably two reasons (sometimes three). The director, therefore, must understand these just as well, even if they don’t have the writer as a resource and even if their actors don’t have the time, inclination or talent to discover it themselves. That is, in fact, why the director is held responsible; he is to know everything about everything and communicate it to those around him while they toil to perfect their individual contributions.
Fashion Forward; Stale Food
Early in the marginal 2006 movie “The Devil Wears Prada” the plucky upstart heroine says to the catty fashion executive, “Who cares!?” This allows for a brief but important monologue which explains to the audience how the high dollar, haute couture world of fashion applies to daily life. This ridiculous moment (someone who would ask such a question would never have gotten the job in the first place; the notoriously bitchy executive would never have allowed her to stay on after asking) survives the editing room because it allows the film to reach across a credibility gap and engage the viewer enough to stay with the film. After all, who does care about high fashion?
Enough people care to have made Project Runway a hit for both the Bravo! TV Network, where it originated, and Lifetime where it has settled after an arduous lawsuit between the creators (no less than Heidi Klum and the Weinstein brothers) and NBC. For it’s eighth season, which concluded this week, they have tweaked the format and managed to provide a lifeline to a genre of professional competition reality television, an area dominated by cable and these two channels in particular (with a strong nod to Food TV). Rather than pit amateurs doing tasks the everyman could accomplish (eating bugs or chasing taxis or losing weight), these shows demand cast members talented in their field.
Project Runway is succeeding while its competitors, in particular Top Chef (and its kin Top Chef: Just Desserts), are fading because of two specific production choices. The first was the important, improbable yet brilliant decision to include nearly fifteen uninterrupted minutes of the judges’ deliberation on who would be crowned the winner of the current season. Judged reality competition typically excludes the viewer because producers and directors shy away from the “talking heads” portion of the deliberation. There are highly edited collages of what the judges think, but rarely a concerted effort to help the viewer understand why specific decisions are reached. That the two finalists this season offered such a contrasting viewpoint helped feed the discussion, but producers should thank Lifetime for allowing them two hours to include the discussion; while patting themselves on the back for including it, even limiting the popular “reunion” part of the show in its favor. I know little about fashion; only what seems attractive to me. Educating me on the difference between Mondo’s highly stylized vision and Gretchen’s ready-to-wear appeal is smart because it engages the casual viewer. (I don’t have to describe their clothes. You can assume enough just from their names.) The underlying question (Is this a show about haute couture or off the rack fashion?) remained unanswered throughout the season and choosing Gretchen muddles the issue more … and yet now the viewer is engaged in the question itself.
Versions of Top Chef have a much more difficult problem. Taste-o-vision has yet to be invented and so we can only guess at the quality of the product being presented. Only true “foodies” can fully envision the tastes. The stoic and rarely effusive panel of judges don’t help at all. They are either too proud or too jaded to provide us with emotional evaluations of the food, so we watch them spread praise or scorn with little understanding of why. Perhaps they need a naive idiot savont to join the cast. Someone who will jump up and down when they taste something spectacular, ask silly questions about technique and wretch when it is warranted. (For the record, I am not endorsing Kathy Lee Gifford who, during a challenge a few seasons ago objected to a flavor so strongly she spit the bite into the sink on live television.) Nevertheless, Top Chef will have to find a way to incorporate into their production a way to engage the viewer in the discussion. I was fortunate last month to visit Tom Colicchio’s New York restaurant Craft. A deceptively simple dish was placed before me that, from the first bite, redefined fine food for me. Layers of exciting flavor, both standing out and melding on the pallet at the same time overwhelmed me. Now I understand what he is looking for (and maybe tasting) as a judge. I imagine a shrinking percentage of the show’s audience has the opportunity to have this experience, mostly because they are out working very hard to afford such a treat.
And so, cooking shows must depend on the personalities of their contestants to carry the day. Here, again, Bravo! is failing. Understandably, they are stuck between a rock and a hard place: They must find cast members talented enough to impress the food conscious viewer while also creating the right balance of personality to create drama. Except this season of Top Chef: Just Desserts has tipped the scale too far in both directions. The unfortunate casting of a group with the Emotional Quotient of a junior high cheer leading squad has made it nearly impossible to find someone to care about based on personality. (One member of the “it” crowd called the others “Team Loser.” Another contestant was disqualified early on after having a mental breakdown of some sort. That’s the actual, physical mental breakdown. Not the one earlier where he simply melted into a pool of hysterical tears after failing to complete a dessert that was a tribute to his sick “Mommy.”) More vexing, however, is that none of these people really have anything but ego at stake. Talented they are, as illustrated by their current positions of Executive Pastry Chef (most), Pastry Shop Owner or successful caterer. But their success removes any high stakes from the competition. Last season of the savory version of the show had a redeeming winner as he was the only one who could look into the camera and say, “I need this more than these other guys. I have nothing going on. I need this break.” Suddenly, somebody the audience can cheer for instead of shaking their heads in disgust at their boorish and bratty behavior.
This emotional tie has stayed consistent with Project Runway. From the start of each season we see the talent of the cast (for the most part). Some of them are even successful in their communities or fields. But all seem eager, sometimes desperate, for the breakthrough opportunity the show provides. Producers got “lucky” this year because dramatic story lines appeared left and right, including an HIV+ man going public with his status on air and a woman (the eventual winner) who was so down on her luck she had lost her partner and home between tapings. Perhaps the fashion industry is more ripe for this type of eager, unproven talent. Or perhaps the casting agents of Top Chef don’t feel they can risk the integrity of the show by including someone who might make major mistakes on the plate. Frankly, I was looking forward to the pastry competition precisely because I know the challenge of sugar work. Contestants are required to work an exacting craft with nary a recipe. I was primed for dramatic failure. (And, again, I’m not advocating for the casting of third tier talent that line up and take the abuse of Gordon Ramsey in a show that focuses almost none on creativity and is merely a stage for his rage.)
At the least, Top Chef could allow for miked contestants and behind the scene footage that an extra thirty minutes of air time has allowed Project Runway to include. So long as they do a better job of casting than this year’s flighty pastry chefs, some friendly, informed banter (often more revealing than the canned face-front interview provides) might add a great deal. If switching to Lifetime allowed producers to expand and include these facets and bridge the gap between the professional ether and the casual observer, every penny spent on legal fees was worth it.
“I am the master of my-” (for better or worse)
Each year there is a film that critics and award show judges can’t leave alone, in spite of how truly awful it is. This year, joining the likes of such trash as “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” and Peter Jackson’s “King Kong” there is “Invictus.” Clint Eastwood directed this tale of South Africa in the day of Nelson Mandella, using the true life story of the country’s rugy team (and eventual triumph in the Rugy World Cup) as metaphor for nationalism. Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon star. It’s been nominated for 3 Golden Globe awards, and several others. Most are for acting, but many are for Best Director which implies the film is well put together.
Trouble is, the film fails on pretty much every level.
It’s a bad historical drama because it does very little to portray the true depth of racism and hatred that permeated the country before the end Apartheid. The film jumps from the release of Mandella from prison in the first scene (a single snide, racist remark provides the racial context here) to his election as President before the credits are over. Though I lived though this time of history, I was uniformed by this film about the depth of injustice perpetrated by whites over blacks in South Africa for many years. There’s some tension here and there, but if it’s to be a film about the history and end of hatred, it is lost.
It’s a bad biographical drama because Freeman is given so little to do. The depth of Mandella’s presidency is displayed only in the context of rugby. His grace toward whites is on display, but the film shows so little of the man actually leading it becomes hard to root for him as a cultural icon of our time. There are some indications of a painful home life, but these are not explored well – more like stereotypical inserts to try to get us to care. Freeman apparently does a good imitation of the man (who realy knows?), but is given no particular acting challenges. Perhaps the stunningly, agonizingly slow cantor of his speech is true to life, but it doesn’t make a good choice for a director who’s picture (already too long) is being drawn out by the spaces between his character’s words. Eastwood’s choices are so poor that he allows a lengthy dialogue between Mandella and his assistant in which he pledges to memorize the name of each member of the team as a sign of good will and later, once meeting them, we see him shaking hands, calling a few by name and saying, “Good luck, son” to the rest.
It’s a bad sports movie because the sport is not well explained, the team is not well developed, their struggle is poorly depicted and their triumph understated. Until the trophy was presented, I honestly thought the championship game was a semi-final. The thuggish enemy opponent is clearly drawn and easily defeated. If the team itself overcomes obstacles they are hard to pin down. Damon, in the role of team captain, may also be playing true to life, but the character he is portraying is frightfully undramatic. Twice he is to carry the emotion of the team along and both times he simply mutters a single line like, “So think about that” and walks out of the room! When in the huddle and we think he will forcefully and emotionally evoke the title poem, he does not. Unfortunately, Damon is to be the heart and soul of the film, but;
It’s a bad inspirational movie because it literally drops the sentiment off to the side. At one point the uncouth rugby team travels to the prison where Mandella was unjustly incarcerated for years, only to treat the side trip as a blythe walk through a museum. There is no great weight here. Matt Damon has visions of Mandella’s character but is stoic (either by choice or direction) and doesn’t have much to say. There’s no enlightenment visible in his face – and we don’t even see the other team members’ enough to decide. The theme of the movie, therefore, is supposed to be transferred to us later in the film as Damon looks out over the city at dawn, supposedly contemplating his big sporting challenge only to reveal he’s been thinking about the awesome heart of President Mandella. It’s a non sequitur to say the least.
And speaking of that – how do you give a best directing nod to someone who edits in a helicopter sequence in which the president is going to visit the team to wish them good luck (again!) which pops on the screen like a shampoo commercial, complete with rock anthem. It’s as if the song is by his daughter-in-law and he promised to stick it in there “somewhere.” The rest of the soundtrack is jazz (him playing piano, I presume), yet jammed in here is this odd sequence. Oh, and he doesn’t say the player’s names this time, either.
It’s a bad thriller. Going in you might not think it was meant to be, but Eastwood spends so much time with this subplot and its characters that there must be something going on. Bodyguards are constantly meeting, exclaiming, fretting and arguing about the President’s fate. But no threat actually arrives. Has no one in charge of award nominations noticed one of the stupidest sequences of the year is in this movie? As the big game is about to begin, he cuts to the interior of an approaching jumbo jet and tries to get us to believe the rogue pilot is going to dive bomb the stadium. Cue the rousing music! Sequentially cut to the faces of the body guards looking alarmed but unable to act! Cut back to the plane! Then the unsuspecting Mandella! Ugh! So pat and quiet possibly the worst visual effect of the year when the plane has a near miss (I mean laughable the way that plane looks like it was pasted in there using my MacPro’s hard drive). The film could have lost this entire side line and it would have been 3o minutes welcomed on the cutting room floor. A simple scene depicting the tension between the white and black members of the guard early; then a scene of them 75 minutes later playing rugby in the yard is all that’s needed from them!
It’s a bad nationalistic movie, because the tensions of the country are never well depicted nor resolved. The best sequence in the film (though also cliche) is when the brutish rugby players must set aside their goals (apparently they really are eager to win, we just never get to see this) and enter the slums to teach children about the game. Here are the shots of the whites and blacks coming together through sport. And, apparently, the repressed blacks did rally around the all white team during the World Cup. Eastwood’s shots of this phenomenon are so lame, so static and still so bizarrely separatist. If there is unification besides the fact that everybody jumps up and down at the same time, it is lost on us.
So, how do you embrace a movie that tries to be so much and fails. In my opinion you don’t. In fact, you shouldn’t be honoring it at all, nor spending money or time to see it.
The Opposite of Shallow
On the way to a movie with my daughter (8 years old), I find myself in an interesting discussion. We’re listening to the soundtrack of the musical Wicked, one of her favorites having seen the show and performed a number as part of her most recent stagecraft class. She wonders why it’s funny when Elphaba, having been described as “exceedingly unusual and peculiar and all together nearly impossible to describe,” classifies her roommate Glinda as merely “Blonde.” In the best way I can, we talk about stereotypes, what they are, what they mean and why we don’t prescribe to them in our daily lives (though they can make for good literature).
Prior to leaving the house, I read a brief review of our movie, Where The Wild Things Are. In sum, it says the movie is clever, “but not very much happens.” We settle in and off it goes. An adaptation of the classic Maurice Sendak book, the film shows frustrated, emotional Max charging through his house, being ignored by his sister and acting out for his mother before running out of the house, finding a boat and sailing away to the island of the wild things. Director Spike Jonze says he decided to depict the monsters as emotions. On the surface perhaps not much happens, yet we are invited to go deeper.
The film is an amazing depiction of youth. The emotions bared by tiny Max on an intimate level are echoed on a grand scale by the monsters. It is tender, telling, emotional, and scary – a meditation on the perils and joys of being a child.
We need to begin to value the joys of depth. Nothing in this world is as it seems on the surface. When exposed to art (high or low), if you consider the work to be simple and basic please remember layers of decision making were required to agree that it should appear simple and basic. There’s depth in the process, even if it isn’t in the result. Every moment, wink, piece of clothing, prop and watchband is put there on purpose.
Every public move, every political decision, most every dollar spent, every moral, ethic, establishment, premise, promise, desire and promotion – especially promotion – is multi-layered, examined, considered, tested and rendered by a team. There are 300 million people in the United States, seven trillion in the world. To move forward on any venture with an aspiration of reaching, pleasing or understanding them all is a fool’s errand. The diversity of our world is staggering. Find the niche you can serve and serve them well – aspiring for mass fame and fortune is the dream of a bygone era.
The exception that proves the rule is love. There are no facets, layers or degrees. If you believe there are, you are doing it wrong. Your relationships may vary – all the while you either love or you don’t. That’s not shallow – that’s deep.
Eat At Joe’s
When I was a young man living in New York City, I lived about three blocks from the best pizza in the world. You don’t have to take my word for it; Joe’s Pizza – at the time on the corner of Bleeker and Carmine, now a few doors north at 7 Carmine – has long been called the best by many. It appeared in another smarmy GQ article on the subject just a few months ago. It is considered the real deal in a world of Famous Ray’s and The Original Famous Ray’s and The True Original Famous Ray’s. The sauce of this pie is so particular, when you get to the crust end of the slice and are only getting bread and sauce it doesn’t taste quite right. What I mean is, the sauce is the perfect compliment to sauce and cheese. If one is missing, the balance is off.
So you understand it is with a very high standard that I enter a place like “Za” – 801 Broadripple Avenue – the new home of “New York Style” pizza in my town. The storefront is the right demeanor for this kind of pie and the hours clearly cater to the drunk nightclub scene (open to 4am Wednesday through Saturday); lunch only one weekend day. The demeanor of the guys behind the counter seem to fit as well. Friendly, but more interested in business than anything else.
I had to get “a slice” (that’s cheese only) and something called “A Slice Of Goodness” (red and green peppers, red onions, prosciutto in addition to the sauce and mozz). The slices are big enough to fold in half and you can always get cheese, peperoni and whatever the special of the day is. I visited during the week and the place seemed a bit slow (I drew the employees inside from a break with my arrival). This leads to the reheated pizza slice, which is commonplace around the world I suppose. The danger, of course, is ending up with the “mall slice.” That is, the slice that has been sitting in the window for around three hours and now is getting heated through, much to the dismay of the crust, in particular. This crust held up well, the reheating adding just the right bite. I don’t know how long ago the slice had been fresh, but it was the last one of it’s kind. Za is keeping their pies in a warming oven, not just under glass at the counter. I suppose this means the heating was just to crisp the crust, but I couldn’t really tell the difference. The sauce is excellent, subtle and fresh tasting. The peppers stood out as the freshest flavor, as I would expect at this time of year. The menu said prosciutto was featured, but it was hard to find. I dug around to look and found a few shavings, certainly not enough to provide a flash of flavor I expected. The whole thing goes down fast, easy and filling. And I was sober.
Twenty years is a long time, but I remember being able to poke around my college digs and drop $2.10 on the counter for my “slice and a coke” at Joe’s. I was just back there in August of this year and the price had increased, to a mere $4.25. Joe’s is a world famous dive, residing in some of the most expensive commercial real estate in the world, and I can get a lunch for four-and-a-quarter. Why, then, must I feel ripped off being charged $4 for just the slice in little ole’ Indy? (Okay, the chalkboard says $3.50, but the to-go menu says $4.50. I split the difference.) Add a second piece and a drink and I’m almost to $10. What this world needs is a good meal under $4 and a pizza joint should be able to pull this off!
For starters, let’s bring back the small fountain drink. I guess if you handed a 12 ounce cup to a guy in the Midwest he might punch you in the jaw for insulting his masculinity. But if you only charged him $0.45 for the thing he might not. I worked in food service once. I know the margin on those soft drinks (astronomical, in case you didn’t know) is supposed to be the bread and butter. But the restaurant business has become greedy. $1.50 for 24 ounces at Za is reasonable compared to other places, but still absurd. Hey, Joe’s doesn’t provide the fountain out front for refills, either. But nobody complains when they get change back from a $5 bill. And when your main product is pizza, where the margins are already crazy high, you should be looking for ways to get people to talk about your store. Sure, the pizza is good – maybe worthy of comparison to the best pizza in the world even if it can’t possibly measure up – but if you want to make friends in Broadripple Village, I suggest you open for lunch, drop the prices in half and start cranking out those pizzas so fast they can’t possibly need more than the slightest toasting when ordered.
Of course, this is America. There are (drunk) suckers born every minute. And plenty of P.T. Barnums to take advantage of them.
