The Monsters and the Critics

Are you not entertained?

A few days ago, I got the year end issue of the magazine Entertainment Weekly for all their Best-of lists. And I couldn’t believe my eyes. I hadn’t even heard of most of the Best movies of the year, and in the Best music list, I frequently could not distinguish between the artist name and the album name. Now, I consider myself a pretty with-it person; I like to know what’s going on in the world at all levels. I used to read Entertainment Weekly religiously, but stopped recently. Still, I watch a moderate amount of television and spend a fair amount of time on the Internet, including on the review-compiling site www.rottentomatoes.com. Despite my tuned-in status, I had not heard of such movies as Waltz with Bashir, Gomorra, Trouble the Water, Happy-Go-Lucky, Man on Wire, Momma’s Man, The Edge of Heaven, The Class, or Tell No One. Have you ever heard of these? Apparently all these films were released in 2008, but they probably played at only one theater in New York. They are foreign or just insufferably “indie” (a topic for another day). The only remotely recognizable movies on the list are The Dark Knight and Wall-E. So what do these lists mean?

These lists suggest to me the ever widening gulf between “art” and “entertainment.” Artistic movies are reserved for a select few in New York and Los Angeles, while the rest of the country, we stupid imbeciles in the backwaters of the other 48 states, is only good enough for such crap as Mamma Mia and Kung-Fu Panda. Why do we have to have such a large distance between art and entertainment?
I definitely appreciate high-brow art, but I also enjoy Will Ferrell comedies as much as the next person. Back in undergrad, my jaw dropped as professors callously dismissed Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings as being only—oh the horror—popular. These people had built their jobs and lives on analyzing art that belonged to the exclusive province of Ivory Tower academics. The millions of copies of Harry Potter sold obviously meant that it did not deserve academic attention. If so many lowly commoners like it, then obviously it must be idiotic.
But it doesn’t have to be this way. Art and entertainment can exist within one another perfectly well. Exhibit A: Shakespeare. Shakespeare is now the pinnacle of artistic achievement in English-language literature, and yet he packed theaters in his day. Maybe the audiences came just to see bodies strewn across the stage at the end of Hamlet. But somehow Shakespeare found a way to appeal to both queens and illiterate peasants, providing art and entertainment at the same time. Exhibit B: the Beatles. The Beatles achieved unprecedented popularity while raising pop music to the level of art.
And actually, I think that art should aspire to also entertain, and entertainment should aspire to become art. And I think that the best music, film, and literature has elements of both art and entertainment and functions on multiple levels. I could write papers on Peter Jackson’s King Kong. But I could also just sit back and enjoy the show of it. We should not have to make such an all-or-nothing choice between being monsters, those members of the public who wouldn’t know art if it came up and sat on their heads, or critics, those discerning snobs who turn everything into an intellectual exercise. We should be both at the same time.
So who is responsible for the growing disparity between art and entertainment? Is it further evidence of the dumbing-down of America? Is it a massive conspiracy by elite snobs to keep the rest of the population downtrodden and deprived of enlightening art? Have audiences just become lazy in not demanding fulfilling art and entertainment? I don’t know, but when a magazine titled Entertainment Weekly includes on its list a movie that it describes as a “hybrid form of an animated, autobiographical documentary” about Israeli army service, something doesn’t fit.

I borrowed the title of this post from Professor Tolkien, who published an essay called "the Monsters and the Critics." His monsters referred to the ones in Beowulf.

Beatles for Sale: A Re-evaluation

So I'm still working out how to put music and stuff on here, so for the time being, just Youtube it. Meaning, go to Youtube and enter "Beatles for Sale album."
I recently had the need for some good break-up songs of the “you done me wrong” variety. I set about creating a playlist for my I Pod. Scrolling through my vast library of songs, I found myself looking carefully over the songs on the album Beatles for Sale. I put several songs from that album into my playlist because they had just the right melancholy tone I needed. This led me to listen to the album start to finish. Beatles for Sale has always been pushed into the Beatle background and considered just a “filler”—a crazed record company demands a new album by Christmas and the Beatles desperately compile a lot of covers from their live show and some half-assed, hastily written originals. But I’ve always loved Beatles for Sale, and I think it represents a crucial step in the Beatles’ body of work.
Beatles for Sale came out toward the end of 1964 as the record company needed some new Beatle material to capitalize on the Christmas market. This puts it in between the album representing the height of Lennon-McCartney collaboration and Beatlemania, A Hard Day’s Night, and the album that represents the major turning point in maturation and Lennon-McCartney separation, Help. Coming between these two masterpieces, Beatles for Sale doesn’t get much attention. I will have to sometime put down my thoughts about Help and how Help represents the crucial transition from mop-top pop perfection to the mind-blowing artistic achievements of Rubber Soul and Revolver. But that is a story for later. If Help represents the big transition, then Beatles for Sale represents a mini-transition. John Lennon would get into full Dylan-mode on Help, but it is on Beatles for Sale that he first calls himself a loser. In 1964! Take that Beck!
Beatles for Sale is a nice little country album. The two Carl Perkins covers contribute to that vibe, but so do the insecure, melancholy originals, tales of love gone wrong that would make Nashville proud.
In the opening track, John takes the lead vocal and plays the spurned lover. He comes off a bit stalker-ish actually, as he keeps watch over his girlfriend because she won’t return his calls. Note the desperation and rawness in John’s voice and the Paul McCartney harmonized scream as they cry “I nearly died.”
The next song, I’m A Loser, represents the Great Leap Forward for John’s songwriting. He is actually writing from his own personal feelings, and what’s more, those feelings are full of vulnerability, insecurity, sexual dysfunction, and the acknowledgement of his own fakery. Paul gives one of his great traditional, walking bass lines that would not sound out of place on any country record of that time. Perhaps the most important statement in this song is “I am not what I appear to be.” The façade of Beatlemania was already fading for John. He could already admit, only two years into his career as a pop star, the illusion of it all. He acknowledges here that he has created an image for himself. He of course went on to play with that image for the rest of his life. We get all these messages in 2:30, complete with guitar solo and a nice harmonica break, in a nice countrified package.
“Baby’s in Black” is quite a strange song about trying to go out with a recently widowed woman. John and Paul sing lead together in harmony. Again this song has a twinge of country with John and Paul plaintively pleading “Oh what can I do?” Who else in 1964, or even since, has sung a pop sung about trying to make it with the recently bereaved?
“I’ll Follow the Sun” is my favorite song on this album. Paul played it live on his last tour, and hearing it live really meant a lot to me. It’s a lovely little song with a beautiful melody and an uplifting, positive promise (I’ll follow the sun) that looks ahead to some of Paul’s best ballads like “Blackbird.” I love how John’s slightly darker harmonies join in on the sad lyrical bits, but then Paul sings alone the lines sunny, freedom-affirming lines. The length of this song absolutely gobsmacks me—it’s 1:30. A complete song in 1:30! And yet it still leaves you wanting more. I always press repeat at the end of the song to hear it again.
“Eight Days a Week” is the big single, and it feels a little bit out of place on the album—just a little too ecstatically happy and smile inducing. These early Beatles singles are just impossible to analyze—everything about them somehow works together to immediately create a sing-along, head-bopping moment of pop euphoria.
Let’s admit it. “Every Little Thing” is clearly a throw-away song and by Lennon-McCartney standards, very underwhelming. But it does have a timpani. How many pop songs have timpani? But John actually sings “I know love will never die.” Obviously the boys were tired. I’ll cut them some slack on this one.
“I Don’t Want to Spoil the Party,” on the other hand, is a passable song with a nice beat and a message in keeping with “I’m a Loser.”
“What You’re Doing” is actually quite a cool song, and apparently good enough for its guitar part to merit inclusion in one of the mash-ups on the Beatles Love album. I love the opening drum bit and I dig the sarcasm from, of all people, Paul, as he asks “why should it be so much to ask of you what you’re doing to me.” Paul takes a quite angry and assertive tone, and I for one always love when Paul gets mad.
The covers here represent staples of the Beatles’ live shows going all the way back to the Liverpool Cavern. John gives his best scream in “Rock and Roll Music,” but “Mr. Moonlight” is an unqualified disaster. John’s opening vocal on it always startles me, and not in a good way. The medley of “Kansas City” and “Hey, Hey, Hey” are passable, even if Paul’s country accent is not. “Words of Love” has some nifty little guitar licks and some lovely harmonies. I especially like how they over-pronounce the end words of lines in a really romantic way. I’ve never been able to understand George’s vocals on “Everybody’s Trying to Be My Baby.” It’s alright, but maybe a faster tempo would have helped it.
The best cover is Carl Perkin’s “Honey Don’t,” sung by Ringo. You can feel that the Beatles are having fun on this one. Ringo’s vocal is charming, and don’t you just love his shout-outs to George on his guitar solos? I remember the morning George died going to school and this song coming on the radio precisely because of those shout-outs. The guitar solos are uncomplicated but appropriately backwoods. Ringo performed this song at the Concert for George tribute.
So there you have it. A nice little overlooked treasure for your listening pleasure.

Christmas Reflections

So it’s Christmas. I’ve always loved Christmas. And I love the traditional aspects of Christmas, or at least my own family traditions. Every December I get out my special reindeer dishes that I’ve had from when I was a small child. And I still use them, despite my mother’s protests. If I had my way, everything would happen just as it’s happened for the past 20 years. I admit to being a creature of habit, but I think my tendency towards habitualness also extends to an appreciation for tradition. And I think that’s where my affection for Christmas arises—I mean, I really couldn’t care less about the religious part. I’m in it for the Christmas tree decorating, the presents, the family gatherings, and the reading of The Polar Express on Christmas Eve. I love the ceremony and ritual of Christmas.
But this Christmas has been different. We broke with tradition. And I can see us breaking even more on down the line. My sister and brother both got married within a year of each other. They have spouses and families of their own now, and greater commitments to the in-laws. They don’t live here anymore, and now that they’re married, we can’t even pretend that they live here anymore. My brother now even has a step-child of his own, and so it would be slightly odd for him to pretend to be a child himself, sitting around the living room in bathrobes taking it in turn to unwrap presents.
On the extended family front, things have changed too. I lost two uncles in the space of nine months. These two uncles happened to be the life of every party, and the ones who actually looked forward to large family gatherings. Caffrey family celebrations have taken a serious hit, and without Daniel and Christopher to cheer us on or little cousins who want to show off all their presents, I foresee the extended family members withdrawing into their own immediate families, who are growing with in-laws and grandchildren of their own.
Of course times are going to change, and you have to roll with them. I don’t handle change well. But I have a feeling I could handle this change better if I had someone of my own. Tradition needs other people; the best traditions are those that you make with other people over long periods of time. And especially at Christmas, we all want someone—someone to kiss under the mistletoe or to hold hands with in front of the fire, or to thank after that really romantic gift. (Now, granted these are all images from commercials and Christmas cards and we should not feel grossly inadequate if we fail to live up to these Norman Rockwell/Hallmark expectations.) But with my siblings coupled and traditions changing, I find myself more than ever wanting a special someone of my own.
And in looking at my own family traditions, I look forward to introducing that special someone to all of them. Bringing someone into a family gathering still seems like something out of the Dark Ages—you bring in the new person and he or she must learn the peculiar family traditions and perform the rituals exactly. If they pass the test and don’t make any gross faux pas, we can let them into the family. Christmas still represents a ritual testing ground. And remember back in elementary school when you had to write a little essay on your holiday traditions? It seems like we use these holiday traditions to take a snapshot of people and families. From what we learn about their Christmases, we can form a pretty good idea of them as people.
So my Christmas wish for this year is to find someone special with whom I can share my traditions or make new ones. Merry Christmas.

Close Encounter of the Regressive Kind

Yesterday as I walked through the aisles of Shoes on a Shoestring, I found myself face to face with an old middle/high school classmate. I had become "best friends" with this girl for a short time in the 6th grade. Then, spontaneously it seemed to me, she decided that actually, she hated me. I moved on easily enough from that news, but then she did something completely unforgiveable. She started "going out" with That Boy--the one everyone, especially me, wanted. I believe I had expressed some of my feelings about This Boy to her at some time. So I spent a couple of months of eighth grade hiding during lunch so I wouldn't have to see She-who-must-not-be-named holding hands with That Boy. Of course they broke up, and she actually did apologize to me during the Homecoming Dance of freshman year of high school, where I happened to look drop-dead gorgeous, if I do say so myself, and happened to have a male date. During high school I never went out of my way to talk to her, but if I had to talk to her, I was perfectly civil.
I admit that I've fantasized a bit about running into old friends and foes and thought about what I'd say. It should be easy--I am the picture of success. I dress well, I finally figured out how to do my hair, lost the braces and glasses, discovered makeup, and I have plenty to brag about. And especially with this girl, I had an ace up my sleeve (or some other really high value card). I could tell her that, why, actually, yes, I am still in touch with That Boy. I have quite a nice email correspondence with him, and we talk on the phone, and I actually travelled across the country last year to visit him in person. How sweet it would be to see the look on her face at the news that I still call That Boy a friend.
But I didn't tell her this, and I didn't do any bragging. The moment I saw those familiar bug eyes, I quickly brushed past her, and walked quickly (not running!) away. Like getting caught in the eye of the basilisk, I turned to stone--or rather, I turned back into the little insecure, hurt, and humiliated 13 year old girl. Despite all the strides I've made in self confidence and social skills over the years, this girl still struck me dumb. Just like I hid from her little clique in middle school, yesterday I hid behind my sister in another part of the shoe store.
Not to sound like Carrie Bradshaw with her annoying rhetorical questions, but can we ever really move past our childhood insecurities? Why do we have to regress so much back into those roles from which we've tried so hard to move? When all my uncles get together, it's remarkable to watch how they immediately shift back into their childhood roles. And apparently this happens even outside the family context. I've imagined myself walking into a high school reunion in a fabulous dress with a fabulous date, but now I don't know if that's even possible. I mean, I actually really enjoyed high school and had some great times. No one ever teased me or anything, but I was not popular and I'm sure I annoyed many people with my incessant over-achieving.
But recently I've become, at least superficially, much more the picture of the gregarious, hard-bodied, outgoing popular girl. I've definitely moved beyond my middle/high school persona, but it is still lurking somewhere just below the surface, waiting to pop out at any inopportune moment and sabotage me. It popped up yesterday, and even 8 years removed from when my ex-best-friend stole my boy, apparently it still matters. We can move on all we want and grow and change, but those silly adolescent insecurities remain.

Sexy. Successful. Single.

I recently broke up with a guy. And in the course of the final conversation, I kept waiting for one word to come out of his mouth—one word I knew was coming and that I still hated. Sure enough, out it came. Intimidate. As in, “you intimidate me.”
See, I am, objectively speaking, quite successful. I had a brilliant high school career, went off to a prominent college with academic scholarship in hand, finished in three years, graduated magna cum laude, and went off to law school (that’s still in progress). This guy, while possessing a natural, easy-going intelligence and a lot of wit, did not have much of anything in the way of degrees. I honestly didn’t care, because I found enough other attractive qualities in him. And I did not drone on and on and on about school or my sparkling resume. I honestly would rather talk about music. Or even sports. I actually consciously tried to downplay by academic/professional success. But it obviously mattered to him. He had the typical male response to a young woman more successful than him. He fled.
I honestly do not blame this particular guy or guys in general for this phenomenon. I hate guy-bashing and I don’t like women who do it. Whether by nature—genes hard-wired for competition, fighting, and going out to kill mammoths—or nurture—several thousand years of power and prestige and dominance—guys want to be more successful than women, and they are going to feel threatened by more dominant women. I don’t blame them for being this way, because I truly believe that most guys do not actively choose to be assholes.
Instead, I blame all the people and institutions that told me, as a clearly intelligent young girl growing up, “Go ahead. Break the glass ceiling. Be all that you can be. Guys love strong, successful, smart women.” What they should have told me is, “You certainly have the ability and potential to be successful in this world. But it won’t come without a price. Guys are funny creatures, and they might not take kindly to a girl like you.”
I feel like there was a massive cover-up—that the first few generations of feminists kept the truth to themselves to keep the process going and raise more generations of female over-achievers. If they had let out the secret, then maybe high school girls wouldn’t be so paranoid about getting better grades in math and would slump back into their pre-feminist malaise. I feel like I’ve been duped. They presented to me in my highly impressionable youth, a picture of a “have-it-all” kind of life, with the big job, the handsome husband, and the cute baby. And millions of women have already found out for themselves (hello Jennifer Aniston) how hard it is to attain this picture.
All these sources denied that I might even have to make a choice—between being a successful, high-powered woman and getting a successful, high-powered, non-threatened man. Of course, this is an impossible choice to make. But just acknowledging that it is a real, present choice in the world would make working around it a little bit easier. I’m sick of hearing “Guys love confident, successful women.” If this is not an outright lie, then it is a woefully incomplete statement. “Guys love confident, successful women. As long as they are not more confident and successful than them.” At least then I could avoid feeling like such a failure—sparkling resume, but deadly dull personal life.
Women should thus tone down the rhetoric and start telling the harsh truth—it might be very hard to find a man that is not threatened by you, but you should keep trying. Even though it’s tempting, never play dumb. Just don’t play Oprah.
Guys can also help by trying not to get intimidated or threatened. This will of course present great difficulties for them. But if they can just learn to shut off massive parts of their DNA, then I could get a boyfriend. Any guys out there who can explain? I honestly would love to hear the straight story from a male on this subject.
Of course, in my case, the intimidation factor may come from either success or intelligence. I’ve intimidated both males and females with my intelligence. And the two are not the same. You can always make the decision to talk or not to talk about your academic/professional achievements. But you can’t (believe me I’ve tried) turn off your own natural qualities to the extent that someone won’t notice them.
So what do I want? I certainly don’t want to sacrifice success for sex. But I also really do like guys and I would like one in my life. To accomplish this, I think we just need more open, honest communication, with each side willing to give a little. Guys have to give a little of their balls, and girls have to learn again how to effectively stroke the male ego.

Statement of Purpose
Why should you read this blog? Why should you waste your precious moments reading something like this? Well, I hope that those moments will not prove a waste, but instead prove entertaining, edifying, and maybe even enlightening.
As one of my heroes, the Dude, would say, “It’s a complicated case. Lotta ins. Lotta outs. Lotta what-have-yous. And a lot of strands to keep in my head, man. Lotta strands in old Duder’s head.” (If you do not know the Dude, go out immediately to your nearest purveyor of entertainment discs and get The Big Lebowski.
I have a lot of strands in my head that need untangling. I have a lot of Big Ideas. And I have the arrogance to think that other people do not have these Big Ideas, or at least don’t have the guts or motivation to put them up on the Internet. I have a lot to say.
But why should listen or care about what I have to say? Well, people often tell me that I’m smart. Objectively speaking, I am probably smart. But you never can trust people, can you? A while ago I made a posting on an Entertainment Weekly blog entry about who should direct the movie version of the Hobbit. I said Guillermo del Toro. Who is now directing the Hobbit? Guillermo del Toro. So there. I know what I’m talking about.
I will not just talk about myself and what I had for breakfast this morning. I will also not just point you to articles you should read, movies you should see, books you should read, music you should listen to. I respect you enough, gentle and dear reader, that I assume that you can make these decisions for yourself. As Brian Cohen would say, “You don't NEED to follow ME, You don't NEED to follow ANYBODY! You've got to think for your selves! You're ALL individuals!” (To see the response you would give to this statement, see Life of Brian.)
What I will do is give you some of the musings in my head. Sometimes funny, sometimes sad, sometimes political, sometimes pop-culture, sometimes in incomplete sentences and sometimes in complete. I will talk about things I notice and things I found confounding and confusing. I do not know yet how much I will talk about my personal life, or lack thereof. It depends on if I actually get a personal life in the near future.
You should read this because I have a very low self-esteem and need my ego stroked. And because I am gorgeous, talented, funny, witty, lithe, skinny, intelligent, wonderful, perceptive, knowledgeable, easy-going, friendly, conscientious, compassionate, beautiful, and of course, self-deprecating.