Didion

I’ve been listening to a podcast called TimesTalks. It is from the NYT company and is meant to be tony — the person introducing the players always seems a bit awestruck. The interview I’ve been listening to is one conducted by Joe Lelyveld with the writer Joan Didion. Lelyveld did just about all you could do at the Times before retiring, ending his career as Executive-Editor (if I remember correctly) and even then it wasn’t enough, as the Times had to “steady the ship” after the debacle of Howell Raines’ editorship and brought him back briefly.

Lelyveld is an Old World type, courteous, well-spoken, intelligent, never overwrought. He is the man the New Yorker was written for, the old New Yorker. He is a man who is used to people hanging on his every word — Lelyveld had power. This is not a good trait in an interviewer: the assumption that people are rapt with your every utterance can quickly become tiresome. Rather than have formed questions, he launches into a stumble of words that eventually may land on an interesting query. This lassitude leaves you feeling irritated with his self-indulgence; at the same time, he is a man who is comfortable and relaxed with himself — which cues the audience with that same ease. Take your pick as to how to react.

Didion won the National Book Award for her account of her grief and attempt to cope after two disasters in her life, happening very close together in time. The shocking sudden loss of her very bright and talented husband, John Gregory Dunne, and an agonzing death of a beloved adopted daughter, which over a period of two years involved three major hospitalizations. All within a short period of time, she lost the anchors of her life. She and her husband, both writers, were scarcely apart over a period of many years.

I am practically at the end of the one hour and fifteen minute interview and there is little that has come out that is of much interest. With subject matter so compelling this is surprising. Didion herself is withheld as a person, somewhat mincing in manner. In combination with Lelyveld’s lack of focus it might be that she couldn’t say things that were within her capacity.

Her book, reportedly, is a distanced, somewhat clinical account of her feelings. That distance is said to be very effective in communicating the deep impact on her life of the traumas she suffered. She offered little insight in the interview — the one thing she read that did have resonance was written by Emily Post in her 1922 book of Etiquette. To show you how insightful and emotionally acute Post was in her book — a time when people died at home and the audience addressed had servants — here is an extended excerpt:

Chapter XXIV

Funerals

At no time does solemnity so possess our souls as when we stand deserted at the brink of darkness into which our loved one has gone. And the last place in the world where we would look for comfort at such a time is in the seeming artificiality of etiquette; yet it is in the moment of deepest sorrow that etiquette performs its most vital and real service.

All set rules for social observance have for their object the smoothing of personal contacts, and in nothing is smoothness so necessary as in observing the solemn rites accorded our dead.

It is the time-worn servitor, Etiquette, who draws the shades, who muffles the bell, who keeps the house quiet, who hushes voices and footsteps and sudden noises; who stands between well-meaning and importunate outsiders and the retirement of the bereaved; who decrees that the last rites shall be performed smoothly and with beauty and gravity, so that the poignancy of grief may in so far as possible be assuaged.

CONSIDERATION FOR THE FAMILY

Persons under the shock of genuine affliction are not only upset mentally but are all unbalanced physically. No matter how calm and controlled they seemingly may be, no one can under such circumstances be normal. Their disturbed circulation makes them cold, their distress makes them unstrung, sleepless. Persons they normally like, they often turn from. No one should ever be forced upon those in grief, and all over-emotional people, no matter how near or dear, should be barred absolutely. Although the knowledge that their friends love them and sorrow for them is a great solace, the nearest afflicted must be protected from any one or anything which is likely to overstrain nerves already at the threatening point, and none have the right to feel hurt if they are told they can neither be of use nor be received. At such a time, to some people companionship is a comfort, others shrink from dearest friends. One who is by choice or accident selected to come in contact with those in new affliction should, like a trained nurse, banish all consciousness of self; otherwise he or she will be of no service—and service is the only gift of value that can be offered.

FIRST AID TO THE BEREAVED

First of all, the ones in sorrow should be urged if possible to sit in a sunny room and where there is an open fire. If they feel unequal to going to the table, a very little food should be taken to them on a tray. A cup of tea or coffee or bouillon, a little thin toast, a poached egg, milk if they like it hot, or milk toast. Cold milk is bad for one who is already over-chilled. The cook may suggest something that appeals usually to their taste—but very little should be offered at a time, for although the stomach may be empty, the palate rejects the thought of food, and digestion is never in best order.

It sounds paradoxical to say that those in sorrow should be protected from all contacts, and yet that they must be constantly asked about arrangements and given little time to remain utterly undisturbed…

Saving The Left From A Trendy Segment Of Itself

Post-modernism will often seek validation through false associations with science. Physicist Alan Sokal pointed out the foolishness.

From wikipedia, about the Sokal Affair:

Curious to see whether the postmodern cultural studies journal Social Text would publish any submission which “flattered the editors' ideological preconceptions”, Sokal submitted for publication a grand-sounding, but nonsensical paper entitled “Transgressing the Boundaries: Toward a Transformative Hermeneutics of Quantum Gravity”…The journal did publish it, and Sokal then revealed the hoax in the journal Lingua Franca…

Alan Sokal:

My goal isn't to defend science from the barbarian hordes of lit crit (we'll survive just fine, thank you), but to defend the Left from a trendy segment of itself. Like innumerable others from diverse backgrounds and disciplines, I call for the Left to reclaim its Enlightenment roots.

Crash and Burn

Writer/director Paul Haggis was the victim of a car jacking and this led to his thinking about “who the kids were” who did it. In his 2004 movie Crash, a very well-crafted movie, made in 35 days, he moves in a 36 hour time span through a TV version of different layers of Los Angeles society. Seamless, very well-acted, with a snappy Mamet-like feel for dialogue, and superb editing, the movie is compelling.

The dubious coda of the movie, presented contradictorily at the outset, is that we need to crash into one another just to feel something. The real message of the movie is that if we stub our toes our most likely reaction is a stream of racist invective; just under the surface we are ugly as sin. For the most part it is white liberals who are the most despicable in the movie — this is no doubt the reason it won three Oscars and numerous other awards; it makes the Hollywood community smugly feel it is courageous in self-criticism, willing to take a hard look at itself. The fact that this hard look is via stereotype and convention passes like a breeze over their privileged heads. The real truth is that Hollywood would sell its sister in its lust for profits. Hollywood is indifferent to issues of race and class, except as they can be exploited.

NPR Discusses Balance

Today, the hushed, rolling hills of NPR were mildly disturbed by the gusts of an actual, real semi-lively discussion about balance in journalism. The driving force was NPR’s man, Jeffrey Dvorkin, humorously denoted as an “ombudsman“, who is prone towards hysterically defensive arguments, played out in his head, using straw-men as targets, then making the turmoil manifest in speech, as he boldly goes where no man has gone before, swinging wildly with sophomoric slogans that never land.

I will say Dvorkin did make sense in one thing: his saying that interviewing bad guys has an effect that approaches validation. I wonder if the NYT is aware of this? They endlessly and sympathetically interview families of Palestinian murderers — often ignoring the families of the victims.

Jeff Jarvis, who actually sounds like an adult with a brain, felt that full disclosure is necessary for journalists. Dvorkin said self-revelation is an issue “only if you raise” personal experience as an issue; Dvorkin is weak on parsing language — it is the connotation part that escapes the man.

Christopher Hitchens said on Fox News not long ago that “most journalists are not very bright”. Bright people don’t conduct themselves like corporate ciphers seeking access at any moral cost. Also, with the novelistic range given journalists today, where the color of language is used to engage the reader/viewer, there is a moral ground to contend with, that any creative intelligence fully understands. If you say more than who what where when, how do you say it? Do you own the slant you are giving the story by that very color? Most journalists, given this extra power to try and be expressive, will always fall back on claims of objective reporting when criticized for the slant; they are dense to the implications of their choices of words and facts, to their elisions and dependent clauses — they whisper in your ear, but don’t want to admit it.

The Dogs Were Barking, The Monkeys Clapping

If you could put the Steve Martin and Dan Ackroyd of the old SNL — the Wild and Crazy Guys combo, with their fractured pseudo-Eastern European dialects, (remember their “Czechoslovakian vacuum cleaner”, that looked like a 55 gallon drum with a clothes drier hose?) — and insert them into a Klezmer band, give them too much beer, and then put them on a small stage, you’ve got Gogol Bordello — the world’s greatest maniac band.

At least that was how it felt last night when I saw them on Jimmy Kimmel. They were so good they made me laugh with pure pleasure. It was a circus of dada energy and meaningless joy. They do what many in the fine arts try to do, mixing all sorts of influences into a nutbrain mix. But Gogol Bordello is without pretension in their performances — they lose it, (or seem to, they are actually great musicians), for the fun of it. In the Kimmel appearance they performed Never Young, in which one of the women falls backward as Eugene Hutz, the lead singer, supports her, she shouts maniacally, on cue. Then Hutz, with a goofball Commissar mustache, goes out into the audience, and performs the same trick, this time with the middle-American audience, all now standing. The women in the audience drop back, one by one, into Hutz’ arms, and shout on cue. How can you beat that? This group of maniacs has taken old-time rock and roll to a new level of ecstatic, riotous joy. Check out their Gypsy Punks album — especially terrific.

Gogol Bordello

Anglo-Mania

I was never much a fan of England as opposed to some other furreigner locale but after Sense and Sensibility and a heavy dose of the extremely likable Emma Thompson, who was a principal player in the movie — and then listening for several hours to a science podcast emanating from “the Eastern Counties”, called The Naked Scientist, (don’t ask me why, I have no idea), I am beginning to like the blokes.

The movie: Sense and Sensibility is a chick movie. It is better than PBS, but no great shakes. It is worth a lookee though because of the Emma. Thompson adapted the Austen novel for the screen and did a wonderful job. The commentaries, particularly the one with Emma T, is particularly involving. She is a bright, talented woman and as the Associate Producer says in his commentary with Ang Lee, “everyone on the set loved her”. She emanates a generosity of spirit and human warmth. I suspect she is one of those blessed with parents who made her feel worthwhile, loved. I’ll probably read some horrendously contradictory facts — but until then I’ll assume she has a sense of security as a person, a trust in herself and the audience, that communicates and must come from childhood affirmation.

The podcast has an English doctor and woman scientist talking science. I just listened to one from which the following was gleaned:

• In the Amazon there are clumps of trees that are all similar. That is unusual in this poster-locale for diversity. It turns out the ants that live in these areas kill the trees they don’t like to nest in by climbing to the top of the stems, nipping a hole with their mandibles, and dumping some formic acid down the hole. The inhabitants of the forest call the areas Devil’s Grove. They have stories to explain the unusually singular vegetation.

• The reason bees don’t sting when you smoke a hive is that they are genetically programmed to engorge with honey to protect the treasure of the hive at the first sign of fire and hence are nearly tipsy with their bloat.

BigTime TeeVee

BigTime TeeVee has announced that the brittle Katie Couric will replace gentleman Bob Schieffer at CBS Evening News and it is further speculated that Couric’s slot at CBS’ morning Today show will be filled by the oily Meredith Vieira. This is important because it is important to the networks. It is particularly important to CBS, which has been in the ratings cellar and is desperate. Twenty-two minutes of formula writing and received notions as to what is newsworthy delivered with the deep caring that anchors are noted for — usually translating into a paternalistic (soon to be maternalistic) drawn out syllable at the end of a manipulative “touching story”. Schieffer was really good, I’ll be sorry to see him go; many agreed, he bumped viewer-ship in the short time he was there. These human logos for huge corporations, which is what the anchors are, devolve in their real world significance, to what the English call them: news readers.

Ride With the Devil

Ang Lee’s brilliant 1999 movie Ride With the Devil is the best movie we have seen in months. The success of this movie, an understated study of human behavior and social alliances in dire times, is inexplicable except by saying, as you would about the success of a great football team, it’s the chemistry. Everything worked, the acting, the brilliant script, the shaping of the scenes. There are quiet moments that are stunning in the layers of reaction they evoke. There is a sculpted quality to each player in the drama, all three-dimensional individuals, all swept up, like corks in a storm at sea. Of particular note was Jonathan Rhys Meyers as the sociopath Pit Mackeson. The actor reveals with his reptilian stare the true heart of the terrorist, all too familiar these days in news clips — a madman set free of social constraints by the roiling waters of wartime, attempting to cloak his psychosis in a cause to which he is thoroughly detached.

This is Ang Lee’s Grand Illusion, a movie about the inevitability and necessity of change in the social order.