Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Horrible

This weekend I accidentally clicked on a mention of smallpox in Wikipedia. That landed me on Wiki's smallpox page and I saw the photo there. I was going to link to it, but I find I can't bring myself to go back and get the url.

Let me stress that what I saw has not inspired me to give money or even to think a humanitarian thought. I hope that somewhere down the road I will send $50 to an organization that helps victims like the girl in that picture. But my point for now is that I have never seen anything so horrible and never expected to.

The closest I can come to describing the picture will sound flippant. The day I saw it I had eaten an almond croissant. The girl's face looked like a face almondine, with the almonds the size of an adult's thumbnail -- not the rim, the whole nail. The almonds are set one against the other, no space between them, and their narrow end points up. Together they're like the scales of a pine cone, or giant almonds arranged like the scales of a pine cone. They're white and glossy, which is why a straight comparison to a pine cone wouldn't work.

The girl's eyes are still there, you can see them looking out. But otherwise her face is a cluster, a rigid and severely arranged cluster that presents regular lines and not a sign of flesh as we understand it. I guess I assumed that smallpox would look like a mass of sores hanging off of a face, like exaggerated acne; you would be looking at a face that had been wrecked and spoiled.  Instead there is no face, and that is very disturbing.      

... this just in: I googled smallpox and found this sentence in the page of links: "The world's last known case of smallpox was reported in Africa in 1977." That's from kidshealth, and I guess they're right. Of course there are plenty of other diseases that need fighting, and I could give money to one of the relevant groups. 

update, I start by saying that "face almondine" is the closest I can come to describing the girl; then I finish by saying she has no face. Damn. I guess I just liked the phrase. One reason: it makes it easier for me to mention the almond croissant I'd eaten, and that brings the reader's mouth, mentally, into close contact with the girl's face; the resulting disgust is intimate and ups the description's emotional effect. Also, "face almondine" is just snappy. I can say apologetically that it sounds flippant, implying that the flippancy was not intended, but I'm still turning a phrase about a horror and a tragedy. Flip a turtle on its back and its legs keep going; overturn me psychologically and my joke reflex keeps twitching. At least if the source of my overturn is a picture; if it's a horror and tragedy that has hit me personally, I'll probably skip the jokes for a while.

Who the fuck would trust this guy?

I don't mean anything against him, he might be perfectly honest, but come on.


Rod Beckstrom

He's the new chief executive of ICANN, the International Corporation of Assigned Names and Numbers. The group's name sounds like it came from the Onion, but the place is real and plays a crucial part in running the market for domain names.

Michael's post-Michael story

[update, An article by the journalist with the inside track to Michael apocalypse stories.]


I'm back in Montreal and just ran into Griffy, the highly strung, sixtyish intellectual who works as janitor for the building where I live. He's always watching cable news and he loves to pour out his thoughts, so he gave me an earful about developments in the Jackson story. And I must say they sounded great. Well, not "great," because they're kind of horrible, but fascinating and therefore the elements of a great story. MJ weighed 112 pounds, was covered with needle tracks, and had lost all his hair [update, no it was "thinning" and "greying," per Ian Halperin], and there's likely to be a custody fight over his kids, who are white because Michael not only hired a mother to have them, he also hired someone to provide the seed (what?). And Michael's mother was asking an au pair or someone where MJ hid cash around the house. Somebody bought Neverland a while back and renamed it, but now is renaming it back in hopes of creating a Graceland-style tourist shrine and ... all sorts of things. Amazing things. [update, MJ selected his kid companions from the snapshots sent in by hopeful parents across the country. Staff would pick likely photos and send them on to MJ; they threw out all the shots of girls. Source here isn't Halperin, just Griffy and his tv viewing.] As tabloid/cable news spectacles go, this is l'edition supreme, a specimen so gorgeous it makes all others look like dim preparation. A great story, or a conglomeration of great stories, each one ready to hatch progeny that will continue until there's a cable network dedicated to covering nothing but MJ fallout.

Assuming that Griffy got all the above right. But nothing in memeorandum about it, so I'm a bit at sea.  

"Does any of this really matter?"


The new Palin profile in Vanity Fair. Haven't read it yet, just bumped across a significant passage. A rival candidate for governor speaks:

Andrew Halcro later remembered that he and Palin once compared notes about their many encounters, and she said, “Andrew, I watch you at these debates with no notes, no papers, and yet when asked questions, you spout off facts, figures, and policies, and I’m amazed. But then I look out into the audience and I ask myself, Does any of this really matter?”
 If true, very suggestive for a point raised in comments here. We were talking about Palin's notorious scoffing at a research project involving fruit flies. Billjac  said the governor didn't care whether or not her point was true. Looks like he has some good ammunition for his claim.

update, Andrew Sullivan makes this point about Palin's lying:

the same classic pattern of categorically denying things that are categorically and patently and verifiably true. This is not, as this blog noted in the campaign, the typical political lie, the Clintonian parsing of truth or lying when the truth cannot easily be discovered. It is the statement that it is night when it is clearly, by universal aggreement, three o'clock in the afternoon. 

I expect that's different from the question of whether Palin cares about the untruth or truth of her statements. 

You got to see it

I'm going to link to a web site where you'll see photos of Bill Clinton, Henry Kissinger, Prince Philip, George W. Bush, etc. One man keeps showing up in all those photos, someone you have never seen or heard of. I know that man and I have good reason to think the pictures are genuine. He is a visionary of sorts. To fully appreciate him you must also check out the site's captions, especially those below the photos of crack executives arriving on scene to deal with life-or-death etiquette crises. All in all it's a hell of a thing.

My linking approach here is roundabout. First you go to a page of Google results, then you click on the top link. I've got my reasons, okay?

Saturday, June 27, 2009

Out of it

I never cared much about Farrah Fawcett. Nothing against her, but nothing for her. She was just around.

The two starlets who made an impression on me were Jenny Agutter and Cristina Raines. Neither of them got anywhere. But Raines starred in a miniseries called Loose Change (it was about the 60s) and had the female lead in The Duellists, a Ridley Scott costume picture about two officers in Napoleon's army. She didn't have much to do, just played the sensible girlfriend to a hero who was already sensible. But it was a great-looking film, and she looked great in it.

Google didn't turn up a photo of her from the film, so I settled for this. Soulful cheekbones, though the tip of her nose looks messed with. In the film she was wearing a lace bonnet and dew trembled on a tree branch, or something like that.

Photobucket

The Girl with the Golden Eyes

It's one of the worst books I've ever read. When I was a kid I liked Pere Goriot and Eugenie Grandet, and I managed to get thru Lost Illusions. I thought I was toughened up to Balzac's eccentricities. But Girl is a disaster. It could have been a one-page "Ribald Tale," or whatever Playboy used to call that feature it ran in the old days. Instead it's a bloated novella that gets dumber as it goes on. It's the kind of "classic" that makes you think nobody back then could do anything right.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Cor! Pop Culture Headlines Always the Same

Long ago a fellow named Donald McGill turned out cheeky cartoon postcards for the British public. I did an image Google of his name to honor George Orwell's essay "The Art of Donald McGill." The fellow is still remembered and his work is easy to come by on the Web. I also learned that, in discussing his work, British papers will use the same approach as our own "Bang! Pow! Not for Kids Anymore," as in the Yorkshire Post's "Ooh Er, Missus! Saucy Seaside Postcards Still Go for Bust."

Pop Star Michael Jackson, 50, Reported Undead

Photobucket


UPDATE: Not entirely an original idea, as it turns out; they even used the same picture. In the Internet age you have to be quick if you want to be a jerk.

UPDAte 2: CNN (for Christ's sake) shows how it's done. Its headline about the various post-death Internet outages:

Jackson Dies, Almost Takes Internet with Him

Thursday, June 25, 2009

I don't think that's true

It should be, but it isn't:

If you simplify your English, you are freed from the worst follies of orthodoxy. You cannot speak any of the necessary dialects, and when you make a stupid remark its stupidity will be obvious, even to yourself.

From Orwell's "Politics and the English Language." The fact is that a lot of simple, vivid, expressive political language is stupid and dishonest. Sarah Palin on the campaign trail last October:

You’ve heard about some of these pet projects, they don’t really make a whole lot of sense and sometimes dollars go to projects that have little or nothing to do with the public good. Things like fruit fly research in Paris, France. I kid you not.

Could you get any simpler? But apparently genetics research often involves fruit flies. If you want to help humanity, a good thing to do is give some competent scientists the money to play with bugs. Don't ask me any more about the subject, because I don't know. Neither does Gov. Palin, of course. But she didn't have to hide her ignorance from herself by using cloudy language. When you're dealing with technical subjects, ignorance often presents itself as common sense; it needs no language to hide behind. And most public subjects are technical, from global warming to the procedures for drafting and passing a bill. If you assume that you're right, or if you don't care, you can tell far-fetched lies in simple language and never break a sweat.

Orwell's targets were euphemism and latinate obfuscation ("liquidate" for kill, and so on), and there's no doubt they've done harm. But I think he was being a bit intellectual about it all. He was working out a theory about how people could lose their intellectual honesty step by step, until finally they could not even choose their words for themselves; 1984 and newspeak mark the furthest development of his ideas. But people can just refuse to think; they can assume all those facts and figures are a lot of argle-bargle. Or they can figure their principles are good and the main thing is to advance their side, regardless of truthfulness on individual issues. Or they may not care either way and go with whoever gives them the biggest paychecks.

update, Billjac in comments says the particular research project Gov. Palin referred to involved the combatting of pests that trouble California's olive crops. I found a Salon article that gives a good rundown of what Palin had to say. The article's language is a bit troubling because it implies, truthfully I think, that I have less scientific knowledge than a competently educated 5th grader.

Billjac says the Palin statement is "bullshit" in the technical sense advanced by Harry G. Frankfurt a few years back. The idea, I think, is that a statement is bullshit when the person making it doesn't care whether the statement is true or false. Sounds plausible in Palin's case, but I can't read her mind. Maybe when she read about the olive pest research she said to herself, "Well, how do you like that? Just like those jokers. Here they are complaining about my per diems and meanwhile Uncle Sam is shoveling out money on," etc., etc. (UPDATE: A relevant data point here.)

Anyway, here's a link to an extract from Frankfurt's book, if you're interested. Apparently he followed On Bullshit with a book called On Truth, which sounds like a classic case of sequelitis.

America Eats Its Young

Andrew Sullivan's eulogy for Michael Jackson..

Electrik Red vs. Little Boots

I have two reviews over at Metropulse, one of profane girl group Electrik Red (great!) and one of hip dance-pop performer Little Boots (pretty good.)

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

About sums it up


... if there's one thing comic-book fans hate, it's comic-book creators. Superhero fans, especially, see their favorite characters as independent entities who exist apart from human interference; the artists and writers are just jerks who try to get between Spider-Man and his fans and mess stuff up.

Shaenon K. Garrity speaks a fundamental truth while dissing the various message boards. Her post is from last Friday, so maybe you know about it.

Her passage about Comicon doesn't mention Larson, who has his faults but is still one of the funnier people you'll find commenting. [update, no it's Lawson, "w" and not "r," but she still doesn't mention him.]

On TCJ's board: "No one ever posts about the content of the magazine itself, proving that not even the most hardcore fans of The Comics Journal read The Comics Journal." No! People complained about my Gerber obit and about the short story where I described meeting a douchebag at a convention even though the douchebag didn't exist.

On fans, once again: "Of course, all comics fans think the comics they read when they were twelve are the greatest comics ever made." No! I much prefer the comics that I read in my late 20s and early 30s.

On John Byrne: "Byrne once posted that using the term 'word bubbles' when you mean 'word balloons' is equivalent to a racial or ethnic slur. Ever since, I've been calling them 'word wops' in his honor." Fuck, that's funny. I'd laugh even harder if I were Italian and could get away with it.

A "hopelessly impossible situation of love"

That's kind of beautiful; anyway, not bad for a governor. (Mark Sanford's full email here.)

UPDATE: This is good too. The New Republic flagged it:

Got back an hour ago to civilization and am now in Columbia after what was for me a glorious break from reality down at the farm. ... this morning woke at 4:30, I guess since my body knew it was the last day, and I went out and ran the excavator with lights until the sun came up. To me, and I suspect no one else on earth, there is something wonderful about listening to country music playing in the cab, air conditioner running, the hum of a huge diesel engine in the back ground, the tranquillity that comes with being in a virtual wilderness of trees and marsh, the day breaking and vibrant pink coming alive in the morning clouds ...

Maybe he flamed out because he was tired of being a politician. Can't say I blame him.

UPDATE 2: Keith Olbermann is being snotty about the emails. Well, that's his problem. Did he ever deny that "For this relief much thanks" story?

This just in: The New Yorker says there's a book called Confessions of a Slacker Mom by a person called Muffy Mead-Ferro. Nothing to do with anything, just kind of awful and crazy. Muffy Mead-Ferro. She also wrote Confessions of a Slacker Wife! Good-looking, though.

UPDATE 3: "Yes, but I've had to work extremely hard to find my way back to my humanity." Man, what a clunker, and that's in the second minute. I don't think I'm going to like TrueBlood.

Black-woman character: "Ummm. You smell nasty and nice, all at the same time."
Oy.

UPDATE 4: "Don't you try to flirt with me! They told me to pay special attention to the fact there's a drag queen in the basement." I think I misheard that one.

UPDATE 5: "What the hell you think you doin', snappin' the American flag in two like some kind of Muslim Buffy with a dick?" Much to respect there, though the line is a bit context dependent.

UPDATE 6: My confession. I pronounce Buenos Aires "Bway-nos Ah-eer-aze."
Very much in the undergraduate would-be world-traveler style.

Sign of the times

I was sitting and reading the paper with the two pages held out in front of me. I wanted to know what time it was, so I looked at the top of the right-hand page and wondered why it only gave the date. Then I realized the paper wasn't my laptop.

Recently Feudal

There's nothing quite like Japanese feudal nostalgia to make me appreciate the benefits of modernity. Sure, crass capitalist libertines are hard to love...but at least they have no honor. That has to count for something.

I've only read the first volume of Kazuo Koike and Kazuo Kamimura's Lady Snowblood, but there's enough honor here to satiate me for quite a while, thank you. The story, set in 19th century Japan, is a rape-revenge narrative. a genre to which I'm by no means opposed. Koike's take on rape-revenge here is, however, different in some important ways from that in exploitation films like "I Spit on Your Grave" "Ms. 45," or "They Call Her One Eye."

— In most American rape-revenge films, the point of the film is the reversal; you get to see a weak, apparently helpless woman turn the tables and castrate/murder her attackers. You can root for her in part because she's so clearly the underdog; she's got to be clever and inventive to turn the tables on her assailants.

In Lady Snowblood, though, the titular protagonist is super-hero tough. She is smart and inventive, sure, but you never actually see her in any particular danger (she does get beaten and tortured in one scene, but her torturer is honorable and its all just a misunderstanding. She never actually gets captured or even touched by any villain, at least not in this first volume.

— In most American rape-revenge films, the revenge is personal. That is, the woman is herself a victim, and then she takes revenge on the person who victimized her, rather than on some random individual. This can be a little complicated; for instance, in Ms. 45, the victimizer is men in general, and that's who the revenge is inflicted on as well; in Death Proof one group of women is murdered and another group takes revenge on the guy who did it. Still, the mechanics work the same; the films are built around a mechanics which, while not always strictly logical, is grounded in a sense of personal justice, individual trauma, and retribution.

Lady Snowblood, though, isn't built around personal justice exactly. It's about a blood feud and familial, rather than personal honor. It's not LS herself, but her mother who was raped years before LS was born. The mother did kill one of her assailants, but she was unable to kill the rest. So she deliberately offered herself to any man who would have her in order to become pregnant and bear a child who would carry out her revenge for her. To which you've got to say...um, yuck.

But that's not the reaction of any of the mother's peers. On the contrary, they aid and abet the project; mom dies before she can pass on the details of the revenge to her daughter, but her friends helpfully convey the information. Thus, mom deliberately and elaborately ruins her daughter's life, and everybody around her is like, oh, yeah, that's awesome.

Moreover, in order to make ends meet and get some cash with which to pursue her revenge, LS hires herself out as an assassin. Most of the people she kills are not especially sympathetic — gamblers, pimps, murderers and so forth. Still, you almost can't help feeling sorry for them as Lady Snowblood impersonally hacks them into little quivering pieces.

And then we come to the last story of the volume, where our heroine ambushes a coach with an upper class mother and daughter. She kills the mother, then forces the coachman to rape the daughter. Then blackmails the coachman with the threat that his sperm will lead the police to believe he murdered and raped the daughter.

This is all part of an elaborate plot to shut down the Rokumeikan, an estate where upper-class, pro-Western Japanese engaged in orgies with Westerners. LS's actions are supposed to be justified, as far as I can tell, because the mother and daughter she brutalizes were (A) sexually promiscuous; (B) overly Westernized; and (C) sexually promiscuous with Westerners.

There are certainly class animosities being played out here as well; the loathing of decadent aristocrats bleeds into the loathing of Westernization and modernity. That was true for the Nazis as well, though, I believe. And indeed, Lady Snowblood really does help to explain why the Nazis and the Japanese were able to find common ground. The loathing of weakness, shot through with racial and national connotations; the fetishization of violence; the belief that a violation of national or familial honor justifies almost anything. Add in the hypocritically decadent exploitation elements here — Lady Snowblood is always battling in the buff, for one reason or another — and the result looks, to me, pretty thoroughly vile. No doubt that makes me a spineless, dishonorable Westerner...but considering the alternatives presented here, I may be okay with that.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Tact, gorgeous tact


Tapes Reveal Nixon's View of Abortion
That's the New York Times headline for the article about the latest batch of released tapes from the Nixon White House. The tact is all on the part of the Times, not Nixon.

Nixon:
“There are times when an abortion is necessary. I know that. When you have a black and a white.”
Beautiful. He said stuff about Jews too:
“It may be they have a death wish. You know that’s been the problem with our Jewish friends for centuries.”
That's in the article's next-to-last paragraph. Context: Billy Graham had been saying that the Jews were chapping his butt about what the NYT calls "efforts to promote evangelical Christianity."

In other revelations, a National Security Council brief discussed Israel's secret nuclear program, and Nixon aides said Reagan was really happy about Nixon's firing of the fellow who was looking into Watergate. Good old Reagan.

UPDATE: The headline The New Republic used: "Nixon: Abort Interracial Babies."

UPDATE 2: I'm listening to the tape (available here) while I type changes into my Alan Moore column. A lot of murk and buzzing, but phrases surface here and there: "a black and a white" and "Stick it to the goddamn Left." Horribly, it's such a pleasure to hear his voice again. I guess that's the power of nostalgia.

UPDATE 3: It turns out there are good Jews and bad Jews. The bad kind put out pornography and are known as the "Synagogue of Satan" (also the name of a biker gang -- it gives Hebrew lessons in the afternoon, after regular school). The good kind are "God's Timepiece" (also the title of a book that attempts to reconcile young Christians to the existence of earth's fossil record).

I missed all that, but it's what Billy Graham had to say when he and the President were talking. He was responding to this thought voiced by Nixon:

... this anti-Semitism is [???] strongly than we think, you know. It's unfortunate, but this has happened to the Jews, it happened in Spain, it happened in Germany, it's happening—now it's going to happen in America if these people don't start behaving.

Start behaving, you people. (Via Atrios at A Tiny Revolution.)

More, More, More

This article originally ran in a slightly altered form in Culture 11.

________________________________

“How the Grinch Stole Christmas” is the ideal American Yuletide legend. Dr. Suess’ fable is set in a perfect, egalitarian world; the Whos of Whoville are an entire nation of deracinated middle-class nuclear families, with houses identical down to the mouses. Their Christmas rituals are defined in terms of amorphously desirable products: “their presents, their ribbons, their wrappings/Their snoofs and their fuzzles, their tringlers and trappings!” Of course, Seuss rushes to assure us that even though the Whos are robbed of their presents, they still wake up happy and singing. Thus the Grinch decides that Christmas “doesn't come from a store….that it perhaps--means a little bit more!" But what does it mean, anyway? Certainly nothing particularly or specifically Christian — just general good cheer and carols. The evil Grinch who steals all the goodies functions, then, less as an actual villain and more as a catalogue: the whole point is to see him up there on Mount Crumpit, with the gigantic bag full of goodies that shows just how much stuff the Whos have, and how wonderful their Christmas therefore is. Plus, once their aggressive optimism has won over the cranky, cynical Grinch, he brings them all their presents back anyway! The enthusiastic blankness, the aphasiac hypocrisy, the perfect transubstantiation of Christianity into uplift — it couldn’t possibly say any more clearly “Made in U.S.A.” In comparison, the villainous banker and close-knit community of the Christmas classic “It’s a Wonderful Life” fairly reek of imported socialism.

Indeed, the American spirit galumphs and galerks through every one of the Doctor’s works. Like his fellow citizens, Seuss is boisterous, hearty, optimistic, profligate in invention, and not too heavy on the thought. “Yertle the Turtle” a fascistic terrapin, forces all his pond-fellows to stack themselves in a tower so he can climb to the top. The solution? Not collective action, nor courageous resistance, but a single fed-up burp by a turtle named Mack, who just isn’t going to take it anymore. In “The Sneeches,” the sneeches with stars dislike the sneeches without stars. The solution? Not understanding, or non-violent resistance, but simply a machine which removes stars! In Seuss’ universe, there is no problem that cannot be solved by old-fashioned practicality, good will, bizarre new-fangled machines, or some combination of all three.

Perhaps Seuss is most American, though, in his fascination with appetite and production— the two pillars of capitalism. The king in “Bartholemew and the Oobleck” who wants to create a new kind of weather; the nameless narrator in “On Beyond Zebra” who longs for a more extensive alphabet; the titular avian in “Gertrude McFuzz” who dreams of a more feathery tail; Luke Luck in “Fox in Sox” who, along with his duck, ceaselessly licks lakes, the “fine fluffy bird called the Bustard/Who only eats custard with sauce made of mustard” in “If I Ran the Zoo”— who but Seuss could create such a procession of obscure and excessive desires? And who could satisfy them with such a range of bizarre products? “The Cat in the Hat Comes Back” reads like an extended surreal advertisement for Voom!, the miracle product that gets pink spots off snow. “Green Eggs and Ham” reads like an extended advertisement for…well, you know. And, perhaps most tellingly, in “The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins,” an absolute monarch is brought to his knees by a miracle of excessively propagating haberdashery. Feudalism falls before the unlimited power of production, and the zombified slobbering sound you hear off-panel is Milton Friedman rising from the grave to eat his own heart out.

Of course, Seuss never actually comes out as an advocate of the free market and unrestrained trade. On the contrary, when he has an explicit moral, it is as likely as not to be anti-greed. The king who insists on creating a new kind of weather ends up buried in gluey green Oobleck; the bird who wants more feathers ends up with such a profusion of plumage that she can’t even move; the Cat in the Hat is repeatedly chastised for allowing his transient desires (for a bath, for juggling, for kite-flying) to upset domestic harmony. Frugality and moralistic self-denial are standard American virtues, and Seuss, here as everywhere, is in sync with his countrymen.

But, it must be asked, self-denial in the name of what? The Grinch, as we noted, takes the presents away only to heighten their value and then return them. Similarly, though the king may regret having ordered up the Oobleck, the reader doesn’t. The whole pleasure of the book is in watching the kingdom drown in disgusting ichor; the joy in mess is leant piquancy by the knowledge that that mess is itself the righteous ooze of justice.

Part of what is so repulsive about the Oobleck is its suggestion of bodily fluids; it clots and sticks and is colored like snot. The story’s narrative is tied to abjection; the outer world is buried in the body’s waste. At the same time, this is a remarkably bright-eyed and bushy-tailed abjection. There is certainly anxiety in Seuss’ Oobleck illustrations, but there is also charm and gusto and enthusiasm. The way the Oobleck obscures barriers and selves is pleasurable — even titillating. It’s polymorphously perverse.

As, for that matter, is most of Seuss’ oeuvre. You can see it in the furry, genderless, insinuatingly bulbous critters; in the oral appetites for indistinct fluids (“Do you choose to chew goo too sir?”); in the way bodies morph and change dependent on desire (so that when an elephant sits on a bird’s egg, the egg hatches an elephant bird); even in the insistent labial pleasures of the rhyme and rhythm. “Happy Birthday to You” stuffs its birthday boy with hot dogs rolling off a gigantic spool; “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” has the Grinch slide down the chimney into the quiet Who home, sneaking about while the whole Who family sleeps together in a single Who bed. It’s all just a little suggestive.

So is Seuss a capitalist or a sensualist — a bourgie Republican small-businessman or a subliminally subversive Democratic free-love guru? The answer, of course, is that he’s both. In the United States different kinds of lust get parceled out to different parts of the political spectrum; appetite for products and wealth to the business right, appetites for bodies and pleasures to the hippie left. In Seuss, though, the two blur together into one seamless whole. The infinite replication of hats is the delight of the narrative, a kind of sensual pleasure. Similarly, the binding together of bodies in Oobleck satisfies a fantasy of capitalist production — the invention of new and superfluous goods. The entrepreneurial satisfaction of every desire and the polymorphous elision of taboo are really just the same side of the same coin. Love of excess is love of excess; that’s the Grinchiness of Christmas, and of the U.S.

Monday, June 22, 2009

John Constantine obliquely described on a sitcom

I'm working on a piece about Alan Moore for TCJ and it's driving me crazy. I finally backed away from the keyboard this evening and turned on the tv. A sitcom was going. I saw a bunch of spindly guys in a pretty realistic-looking comic book store (longboxes). Up at the counter a cute chick was asking what to get her 13-year-old nephew.

"How about Hellblazer?" the counter guy said. "It's about a morally ambiguous confidence man who has cancer and traffics with the undead and the supernatural." Or pretty much. He rattled the words off to get the pseudo-offhand effect sitcom characters strive for when voicing the elaborate and outrageous.

The woman, very perky, said something like "Sure, that's bound to make me his favorite aunt."

1) Pretty amazing odds: I'm done with Alan Moore for the day, and there's one of his characters being described on CBS.

2) The joke seems more like it's for the writers than the audience. "Confidence man" and "cancer" don't resonate as absurd, over-the-top comic book qualities that you, as a civilian, will be floored with when you venture into a comic book store. The audience wouldn't be thinking, "Yeah, typical crazy comic-book shit." Whereas people who actually know about John Constantine would find it kind of amusing to think of him as gift material for a 13-year-old when his salient qualities were highlighted that way.

I looked the show up in the listings and it's called The Big Bang Theory.

update
But he isn't really a confidence man, is he? More of a ghostbuster dressed like a private detective, or at least that's my memory. It's been a while.

Not bad for a professor

JD009RTC Cweb

In the entryway to the large, central cube, Vonderwelt finds a letterboard announcing an event hosted by a certain Dr. Glenn Bacca, Ph.D.: "Building Trust, Building Sales: It's Your Move!" On a fold out table to the side there is a cardboard box filled with glossy pamphlets describing Dr. Bacca's many accomplishments. "Dr. Glenn Bacca, Ph.D., is one of the most sought-after motivational speakers in the country," the pamphlet announced. "Known to earn up to $20,000 for a single engagement, Dr. Bacca has made a name for himself wowing crowds and boosting sales from Palm Beach to Palm Springs."


That's from a very bitter short story about conferences and the dregs of the academic life. It's by Justin E. H. Smith, who is a professor of, I think, philosophy at Concordia University in Montreal. The fellow above is posing as Dr. Bacca, the motivational expert.

The protagonist of the story is a poor schmuck who can't find the conference room for the talk he's supposed to give. The reason is that the talk has been canceled, and the reason for that is there was never a good reason to give the talk, as the fellow himself realizes. Reflecting on the sign for his talk:

Dammit! Vonderwelt thinks. Why do they always write 'Ural-Altaic' when it's supposed to be 'Aral-Ultaic'?! And where is that damned circumflex accent over nâk? Nak doesn't even mean anything! Come to think of it, nâk doesn't mean anything either. I thought it did when I did my thesis. I made up this whole big structuralist structure that made it mean something. That went out of fashion, the profession crumbled into a thousand little camps --dear old arrowhead collector here, indigenous advocate there, grating culture-studies clones all around-- and I was left with my meaningless nâk: just a sound, really, just a meaningless sound the fates had conspired to make the center of my career. Nâk means employee benefits is what nâk means. Nâk means braces for the girls. Nâk meant braces for the girls anyway. Now it's just this last meaningless talk of an undistinguished career, advertised with clip-art, to be given in the Minnetonka Annex of the Minneapolis Sheraton.

Ouch! Closer to home, Professor Smith is bitter about life at Concordia and the effects on his toilet of an imaginary Tom Friedman. Who can blame him?

(Via Sullivan, once again.)

Voices of Protest

I don't believe a word of all of this. Berlusconi is a happy married man and loves his family, he would never do such a think. This is a conspiracy of the Comunists Party who wants to bring the governament down. GO HOME YOU COMUNISTS

Boobee, Lachine,


That's a comment left on the Times of London web site under an article about Silvio Berlusconi's alleged adventures as a consumer of paid sex. Boobee is amazingly determined in calling Berlusconi "happily married," given that Berlusconi's wife has told the press how pissed off she is that he's spending time with an 18-year-old model. In fact Berlusconi was at the girl's 18th birthday party, where he gave her an expensive piece of jewelry to honor their already extant friendship. But if you saw Colbert last week, you already know that part.

The latest stage of the scandal centers on women who were paid to attend Berlusconi's parties and who allegedly did the sort of things you would expect. From the Guardian:

Nicolò Ghedini, Berlusconi's chief legal adviser, defended his client over the D'Addario affair by describing his client as a mere "end user" of the women, who was not therefore at risk in the Bari investigation. For good measure, he added that "Berlusconi could have them [women] in large numbers for free".

As an American, I didn't know Italy could have a sex scandal.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

I'm Okay, Fuck You

This is another review that originally appeared in the now defunct website, Culture 11. The ending is somewhat different in this original version than in the published one, I think.

****************************


Self-help is about helping yourself to great whopping heaps of stuff . Money, wives, prestige, adoration, a perfect body to house your pristine ego — it’s all yours for the asking if you’ll just turn your frown inside out, let a smile be your bludgeon, and follow our twelve simple steps!

Or, if twelve steps seem too complicated, you can always go see Yes Man and learn how to do it in one. Carl (Jim Carey) is a sad, sad, and lonely guy; his wife Stephanie (Molly Sims) ditched him after six months, and he has responded by going fetal. He is stuck in a boring dead-end job at a bank, won’t answer his phone, barely leaves his house, and spends most nights at home watching rented DVDs by himself, too bored (we learn) to even masturbate. Finally, he admits he has a problem, and goes to a self-help revival meeting of the “Yes-Men” led by one Terrence Bundley (Terrence Stamp). Terrence claims that “when you say yes…you embrace the possible!” Armed with this singular, and indeed, single, philosophy, Carey heads off determined to say yes every time the opportunity presents itself . Soon he’s giving rides to homeless people, learning Korean, sucking up to his apocalyptically nerdy boss, approving dicey loans, and — most satisfyingly — canoodling with the yummy Alison (Zooey Deschanel) who looks (and indeed, in real life, actually is) about two decades younger than him. Who wouldn’t say yes to that?

Indeed, the whole Yes Man concept is charged with a kind of lobotomized libidinousness. Saying “yes” to everything allows Carl to absolve himself of all personal responsibility. By replacing his conscience with an arbitrary shibboleth, Carl escapes from Adam’s curse. He no longer knows good from evil; he now literally knows only what he says. Liberated from moral choice, he is invested with an irresistible prelapsarian glamour. He charms his immediate supervisor, Norm (Rhys Darby) by attending his Harry Potter costume parties; he charms his best friend’s fiancée by agreeing to host her bridal shower; he charms a jumper back from the ledge by leading the onlookers in a rousing singalong. Moroever, Carl’s newfound charisma has a definite erotic edge. Women in bars and in bridal stores swoon and giggle when he flirts, his toothless septuagenarian landlady neighbor gives him a surprisingly skillful blowjob; Alison falls seamlessly in love with him. Even his ex-wife wants to get back in his bed.

Of course, there are some downsides to the yes-man program. If you never say no, people are going to take advantage of you — and, indeed, Carl’s home is virtually taken over by the parasitic Rooney (Danny Masterton.) More importantly, abdicating personal responsibility isn’t much different than abandoning personhood altogether; Carl sets no boundaries on his self, and therefore, his self basically disappears. His appeal is that he is all things to all people — a nerd to Norm; a daring adventurer to Alison; a drinking buddy to his friend Peter (Bradley Cooper); and so forth. The effect is magical, but it’s neither trustworthy nor exactly human; and when Alison figures out what’s going on, she’s repulsed. “How do I know if anything you did was really true?” she asks him in horror before dumping his bony ass.

It is at this point that the movie really reveals its diabolical genius. Losing Alison makes Carl realize that saying “yes” is not in itself a sufficient philosophy. There’s something else…something missing. But what is it? Confused, he seeks out guru Terence again, who obligingly explains that he must continue to say yes…but only when he actually, really want to! “Yes” is simply a step along the way to the goal of a new, exciting, and fully functional self.

But what kind of functional self is this, anyway? Both Peter and Alison mock the “say yes because you really want to” philosophy as an over-obvious tautology — you need a guru to tell you that? When you start to think about it, though, the philosophy is far from obvious. In fact, it’s the opposite of obvious. It’s flat-out stupid. In the first place, there are some things you simply can’t afford to say yes to, no matter how much you want to — Carl and Alison have mysteriously bottomless reserves of cash with which to indulge their consumer flights of fancy, but that’s hardly true for everyone. And in the second place — well, you don’t have to be a Kantian to realize that even the more complicated Yes Man philosophy presents certain moral problems. Even if you really, really want to do so, there are many things you just shouldn’t say yes to — unprotected sex with a stranger, for example, or murdering your boss, or invading Iraq. It is possible to deeply desire to do things that are harmful to others. Because you’re not the only one in the world, you have an obligation not to fuck your neighbors over just because you feel like it.

Of course, Yes Man pretends that it is about reaching out; helping homeless people, organizing bridal showers for friends, being truthful with your lover. Saying “yes” is supposed to be a way to open yourself to life. In fact, though, the opposite is the case: it is not the universe which fills Carl, but Carl who fills the universe. There he is saving the jumper; there he is match-making; there he is on television at a football game; there he is climbing the corporate ladder, there he is romancing a woman who, by all normal standards, is a good bit out of his league. His inner drama, his healing, is the focus of the narrative, and everyone revolves around it. Carl starts out as a failed narcissist; he ends as a successful one.

This is perhaps most clear in the scene in which Carl’s ex-wife asks him to come to her house. She has just broken up with her lover, and is horribly distraught. Weeping, she comes on to Carl, asking him to stay the night. Trapped by his “yes” pledge, he almost agrees — but then he says “no”. Undoubtedly this is the right thing to do for both of them…but Carl doesn’t explain this, or try to comfort her, or show any especial sympathy for a woman who he claims to have loved. Instead, his voice, when he utters the crucial negative, is both triumphal and somewhat sneering. She made him suffer, and now he doesn’t need her.

Carl’s new self-confidence, his new self-identity, is, in other words, built on the most puerile kind of revenge fantasy. He gets to humiliate the woman who broke his heart. And, of course, the best part is that, once he’s free of her, she ceases to matter. We never see her again — she’s out of his life and now he can concentrate on what’s best for him and him alone. Her pain and sadness aren’t real, because nobody is real; they’re all just small cogs in the blandly improbable wish fulfillment that Carey and company have concocted. In this daydream, all that truly exists is Carl, the self he’s helped, and his own oblivious, ravenous chant — “yes, no, yes, no, yes, no” — spoken not to communicate with others, but to efface them.

This one is great

Sherlock Holmes and Dracula team up ... to fight Jack the Ripper.

Who turns out to be Watson!

Yeah, like J.M. DeMatteis tried that one.

Fusty quotes for frightened minds

If everything goes right and Ahmadinejad bites it, the following quote will break out across the American Internets:

Is not a Patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help?

That's what Dr. Johnson wrote to Lord Chesterfield after finishing work on his dictionary of the English language. Chesterfield just hadn't been there for him, okay?

As you know, Obama is being careful about what he has to say on Iran, and some conservatives want him to be more splashy. When and if the bad guys lose, Obama will have less reason to be cautious and will say some nice things. At that point the propaganda mills of the right will churn forth columns, blog posts, and TV spiels wrapped around the above quote.

One of the awful things about pithy Europeans of long ago is that their remarks keep getting served up as justifications rather than entertainments. Because an old quote sounds good, and because it has a famous name attached, a certain class of mind will consider the quote to be in itself an argument. In high school I had a teacher who thought that "Lies, damn lies, and statistics" was actually a reasonable counter to the citing of any figure. Thirty years later I thought of a comeback: "Cliches, cliches, and banalities." That wouldn't have done me any good, but neither did "So what? So the guy said that," which is what I said at the time. Of course, that is a reasonable response.

In any case ... Hey, Doc Lawton, this goes out to you.

(I apologize for writing "entertainments," plural, but I'm too lazy to think of something else.)

Annie Hall


This item has been discontinued by the manufacturer.

That's what it says at Amazon next to the dvd of Annie Hall, which apparently was issued in 2000. Go to my local Blockbusters back in Montreal, located near McGill University and on the edge of the fashionable Plateau district, and you'll find that the nice young man behind the counter has never heard of Annie Hall and cannot find it in the computer. Damn. I thought the movie would be on hand forever, for as long as dim people take out middleweight films and tell themselves they're experiencing art.

A haiku:
Time the destroyer.
Woody Allen's "masterpiece"
And my goddamn life.

TCJ 298: Percy Crosby, too

The new Comics Journal is out with a diverse lineup. The interviews are with twins Gabriel Bá and Fábio Moon and Perry Bible Fellowship creator Nicholas Gurewitch. R.C. Harvey weighs in & in on Obama caricature in political cartoons, while Tom Hart critiques Ron Regé's first big collection. (I wish more cartoonists wrote criticism.)

Noah & Tom do not appear, more's the shame, but I've got two pieces on very different manga.

One's an introduction to a sample from Jiro Taniguchi's A Distant Neighborhood, forthcoming from Fanfare/Ponent Mon. The other's a review of the October 2001 volume of the alt-manga anthology AX, the one with the Jim Woodring cover. It's my contribution to the discussion of the Top Shelf's orthcoming AX collection prepared by Mitsuhiro Asakawa & Seán Michael Wilson. My article's half review, half overview, with a look at the scuttlebutt from the end of Garo and the birth of AX.

One of the joys of print, other than shelving, is that I wrote it so long ago that it feels like somebody else wrote it. I'm not saying I read the whole thing nodding and got surprised at the byline, I'm just saying.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Nabokov the avenger

The young Nabokov was an amateur gymnast and athlete. At age 27 he waded into a distressing OJ-type situation of the time:

... a scandal had broken in Berlin around a Rumanian violinist named Kosta Spiresco, whose wife was found hanged, covered with the marks of a severe beating. Though Spiresco's regular assaults were the cause of her suicide, he escaped punishment. German newspapers commented that no decent restaurant would hire him after this, but a Russian restaurant defied the prediction and a number of blowsy women began to buzz around the restaurant's new violinist in perverted admiration. ... Nabokov, an individualist in his notion of justice as in everything else, would always dismiss the concept of collective guilt but insist fiercely on collective accountability ... he and his friend Mikhail Kaminka visited the restaurant with their wives, and drew straws to be first to hit the "hirsute, ape-like" Spiresco (Nabokov's description). Nabokov won, slapped him on the cheek, and then, according to the newspaper report, "graphically demonstrated upon him the techniques of English boxing." Kaminka pitched in against the rest of the orchestra, who took Spiresco's side. At the police station where the three principals were taken, Spiresco refused to take charges, hinting instead that he would call them out to a duel. He declined however to take the addresses they proffered, and Nabokov and Kaminka waited at home in vain the next two or three days for Spiresco's promised seconds.

The sources are the contemporary Russian emigre paper Rul' and notes given by Nabokov to Andrew Field in 1973.

From Brian Boyd's Vladimir Nabokov: The Russian Years

Family moment

Today I accompanied my mother to a lunch with some of her friends. I was by far the youngest person present.

Talk turned to a local conversation group that her friends had found unsatisfactory.

Friend: "All they do is talk about how their children won't communicate with them."

My mother: "'Communicate'? Tom never shuts up!"

I didn't mind being the butt of her joke, but for some reason it seemed unfair that a mother should be funny.

Cute Literary Anecdote

Nabokov worked on the screenplay of Lolita in California.

At his first cocktail party, at producer David Selznick's, Nabokov met a rangy, craggy-looking man sporting a deep suntan. "And what do you do?" he asked. "I'm in pictures," John Wayne modestly replied. At another party Nabokov met an attractive brunette to whom he spoke French, and told her she had a wonderful Paris accent. "Parisian, hell," Gina Lollabrigida replied. "It's Roman French."

Ha!

He did not always put his foot in it -- at one party Marilyn Monroe took quite a liking to him -- but conscious of being out of step, he soon dropped out of the cocktail party circuit.

From Brian Boyd's Vladimir Nabokov: The America Years

Partially Congealed Pundit: Reply to Thoreau

I wrote this in the mid-90s, I think.



A Reply to Thoreau

Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in.

My mind is but the stream I go drowning in
and time is the bank of a stream
where fish eyes stare unmoving at the ravelling motion
of water catching at the banks of the stream.

I know mind is water, for it fills like breath
the body it carries till still.
And mute fish floating thoughtless before the flatness of death
know time from water, for their eyes remain still.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Superherology

Keith Olbermann just mentioned Barack Obama's Spider-Man collection.

My mother: "Who's Spider-Man? He's not Batman, is he?"

Me: "..."

My mother: "Batman's the mentally sick one."

Me: "Spider-Man's more downtrodden. It's hard for him to be a good nephew and husband when he's fighting supervillains."

My mother: "He's Silver Age, isn't he?"

Me: "Wow. How do you know about Silver Age?"

My mother: "That's a bit condescending."

I just won $827,000

According to my email from Mrs. Helen Anderson of the United Kingdom. It reads:

The Sum Of £500,000 Pounds has been won by your EMAIL Address in our UK Online Promo. Do get back to this office with your claims requirement such as

1.Name
2.Address
3.Nationality
4.Age
5.Sex
6.Occupation
7.Phone/Fax
8.Present Country

Sincerely
Mrs. Helen Anderson

I like that it says "Do get back." That's the British touch.

K.O.ed

I'm going on vacation, and before that I've got to finish up a bunch of things, the upshot of all of which is that I will probably be out of action the next couple of weeks or so, at least as far as new content goes. But I'll be back after the 4th. In the meantime, Cerusee and Tom and Miriam will keep you supplied with new bloggy goodness....

Oliphant Watch: Those damn bloggers

Andrew Sullivan, forehead creased by his duties as guardian of Iran, stole a laugh because of this Oliphant effort. And it's not bad. The point is clear and the drawing has Oliphant's usual superiority: the kid's wide little butt and drooping shirt, the languid dog, the set of the kid's foot. For once the little squidgett figure in the corner makes a comment that caps the joke instead of derailing it. On the other hand, we've all heard about how bloggers are trifling stay-at-homes pretending to mess into the great affairs of the world. Why unearth the joke again? My guess is that Sullivan is being a good sport after a round of gibes like the one found in the first sentence of this post.

That goddamn Woody Allen

His latest movie, Whatever Works, stars Larry David (b. 1947) and Evan Rachel Wood (b. 1987). Slate says the romance between their characters is "weirdly" asexual. No, Slate, not "weirdly." It is thankfully asexual. Thank God that age and nature have finally placed some limit to Woody Allen's monstrous vanity.

I was going to write about Woody Allen for my Fandom Confessions contribution (the roundtable's last entry is here). But I couldn't. I hate him so much that my engine flooded. It's complicated and has to do with my own life choices and so on, but he is one of the few celebrities I personally hate. It's not the Soon-Yi business -- that came well after I turned against him. More like the Soon-Yi business grew from the same traits that show up in his movies. Skill he's got, he knows how to put together a smart-looking film, but he is so shallow and self-absorbed that he has nothing to say. Yet he keeps talking, and people think he's serious because he takes himself seriously. People think he's funny because he uses that damn hesitation stammer and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. People think ... well, people don't think. The movie's playing at a theater with a little screen, so they figure it must be art. The movie ends before they get bored, so they figure it must be good.

In reviewing J. M. DeMatteis's long-lost Jewish vampire story (h/t Miriam), Kristy Valenti mentions "the stereotype about what is bad in some of Allen's films — a successful neurotic with an attractive mate who is inexorably drawn to a fresh young woman who makes him feel sexy." Her phrasing implies that nothing else is bad about Woody Allen movies. As you may have noticed, I disagree. He has no imagination, no understanding of people, no feel for how they talk and behave. He keeps doing the same tricks over and over, and he trots out his cultural enthusiasms like a kid during freshman orientation week. Wow, Satchell Paige, "The Potatohead Blues," Dostoevsky, Fred Astaire! And what was your SAT score?

His geezer-chick leanings disgust me not because I'm against matchups of that kind -- like most geezers, I find much to recommend them -- but because his geezers are so condescending toward their girls and because Allen doesn't realize the matchups are unlikely. Sure, a young, beautiful girl wants to spend her time with a whiney fart whose neck is falling down, especially if the fart is not a millionaire or a brand-name film director. Allen thinks his stand-ins are entitled, and he thinks the girls are prizes to be awarded. The bigger the age difference, the more shocking the implied vanity. Now we have reached a difference of 40 years, and at least the old guy will keep his hands off the girl. But she still has to listen to him.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Somebody somewhere will think this idea is clever

I know ... Jewish vampires!

Bound to Blog: Sensation Comics #2

Last week I blogged about the Marston/Peter Wonder Woman #11, which featured a cross-dressing villain named Hypnota among other things. In reading that issue, I wasn't exactly sure what Marston thought about Hypnota in particular, or about cross-dressing in general. So I thought I'd take a brief break from going through all the issues of WW, and instead read another Marston cross-dressing villain story from a bit earlier, in one of his first Wonder Woman efforts, Sensation Comics #2.

Before I talk about that story, though, I wanted to mention another book I just finished: Graham Rawle's Woman's World. This is going to go on for a little bit, but we'll get back to Wonder Woman, I promise.

I've talked about Rawle's collage cartoons before. Woman's World is collagy as well; Rawle wrote the text using words and phrases from women's magazines published in the early 60s. It's an impressive technical achievement in some ways. In other ways, you read it and you say, how could such an innovative process have resulted in such a staid narrative?

The narrative is particularly predictable when it comes to gender and cross-dressing. The story is narrated by Norma, and is mostly about her brother, Roy. Eventually Rawle reveals that Norma and Roy are the same person; the real Norma was killed as a child, the trauma caused her brother, Roy, to freak out, so that he started to wear women's clothing and think that he was Norma part of the time. "Norma" is obsessed with women's magazines and clothes, which gives Rawle the chance to use a lot of the cleaning product descriptions and advertising slogans and superficial cliches he found in all those women's magazines he's using to write his book.

So basically, Rawle presents us with a male-to-female cross-dresser who is (1) incredibly superficial and obsessed with surface femininity (Norma gets into big trouble because she just has to, has to, has to get a photograph of herself all dolled up and beautiful); and (2) completely insane. Sound familiar?

It sounds familiar to me anyway; both tropes are incredibly overused, to the point of rote idiocy, in popular representations of cross-dressers. The "they cross-dress, so they must be insane" schtick is used in just about every other major horror film, it seems — from Psycho, most obviously, down to Silence of the Lambs. The notion seems to be that before a guy would dress like a woman he'd have to have gone completely round the bend, to the extent of actually being a victim of multiple-personality disorder.

The "obsession with surface" thing is also really tired. Trans-activist Julia Serano has a great anecdote in her book "Whipping Girl" about being approached by some television show which wanted her to appear on a segment they were doing about male-to-female trans folks. The television people asked her if they could film Serano getting dressed to go out...putting on her make-up and dresses and that sort of thing. Unfortunately, Serano dresses the way a lot of women dress, which is to say, she doesn't really wear make-up, often wears pants, and generally doesn't get all dolled up to go off to her not especially glamorous job (she's an academic biologist.) All of which she told the television producers, who, of course, decided not to film her, because they wanted yet another story about how obsessed trans people were with surface femininity and appearances and so on and so forth.

In short, when Graham Rawle thought to himself — "who would be obsessed with reading women's magazines and learning how to be a woman and learning how to be feminine...um...I know! A cross-dressing man! And wouldn't it be funny if she was really overblown and campy and not actually all that good at behaving like a real woman!" -- again, when he thought all that, he was thinking just like those television producers. Which is to say, he wasn't exactly thinking at all; he was just trying to be titillating and transgressive in the most banal and unthreatening way possible.

Okay, so...back to Wonder Woman and Sensation Comics #2. This story starts off with Nurse Diana Prince caring for a badly injured Steve Trevor. Steve is quickly kidnapped by a mysterious evil-doer named Dr. Poison. Lots of hijinks ensure, involving a chemical formula that makes soldiers interpret orders backwards and a bevy of courageous sorority girls— but the point is, at the end of the story, it is revealed that Dr. Poison...is a woman!

marston wonder woman

What's interesting about this to me, in comparison to the Rawle story, is how thoroughly anti-climatic it is. There isn't any effort to explain why she's dressing up as a man. There isn't any effort to ridicule her for dressing up as a man. There's barely any effort to suggest that what she was doing was incongruous in any way.

Because Marston provides so little in the way of exegesis, it's hard to know what he thinks, or what we're supposed to think, about the cross-dressing. I can think of a bunch of possible ways to parse the scene -- but, as I'll discuss, none of them seem to fit perfectly.

1. Women who dress as men are ridiculous or incongruous, or going against nature in some way.

There's a little evidence for this; WW makes a crack about Dr. Poison's delicate hands, suggesting that a woman can't perfectly imitate a man. The remark is somewhat undercut, though by Steve's obvious and complete befuddlement. He couldn't tell she was a woman, clearly. Moreover, I don't think the reader can tell she's a woman until WW reveals the truth. There isn't any effort to tip us off; she doesn't do or behave in a womanly manner at any point. It's not even clear whether we're supposed to see the cross-dressing as funny, exactly. It's true that the scene after the unmasking has a farcical air about it...but the one thing that is more or less specifically mocked is Poison's ethnicity, not her drag king status:

marston wonder woman

There's certainly evidence, here and elsewhere that Marston had unpleasant racial opinions, but he's more circumspect about cross-dressers.

2. Cross-dressing is evil and perverse, and so is the provenance of villains.

Richard Cook suggested this was what Marston was up to in a comment on the Wonder Woman #11 thread.

You say that Marston didn't think that cross-dressing was wrong, but none of the "good" women (Diana, Etta, or the Holiday Girls) ever dressed as a man.* The cross-dressers, like Hypnota or the Blue Snowman, are invariably villainesses. The impression I get is that Marston believed there was something evil (and sexy) with a woman who wanted to be a man.


Vom Marlowe made a similar point in the same thread.

I wonder if the portrayal of cross-dressing is part of the skanky villain sex convention. This happens a lot in modern romance. You can portray non-vanilla stuff quite explicitly, but it has to be done by villains. The goal is titillation, for certain. The non-vanilla sex is not necessarily a way to show that the person is evil but sometimes it is. I wonder if this is something that Marston wanted to include, but didn't think he could get away with doing for a good girl.


Again, this is feasible, but Marston never quite says it...and in other cases, he doesn't seem to think there's anything wrong with women taking on male roles:

marston wonder woman

That's heroine Etta candy, looking far more butch and tough in this early story than she would later on. The butch-femme dynamic, complete with a barely sublimated oral tease, is awfully hard to miss. And then there's this panel:

marston wonder woman

Unlike the last example, I don't think this is a joke, per se; Etta is really the hero here, and Marston is, as far as I can tell from other issues, completely fine with women's sports (and indeed, more than fine with them.) The image of Etta dressing up as a football player isn't meant to be either ludicrous or evil, I don't think. Given that, it's hard to see why Poison dressing as a man would necessarily strike him as evil in itself.

3. Men are evil, so women have to dress as men to be evil.

Sort of dovetails with Marston's philosophy, but doesn't seem especially likely given (a) the number of female villains he uses in other instances and (b) this panel:

marston wonder woman

She seems to remain fairly evil even when femme, as far as I can tell.

4. Women are weak, so they need to pretend to be men to gain power.

This is why MTF cross-dressing is always pretty much seen as odder than FTM; culturally, it makes sense for a woman to want to be a man, because men are higher status in various ways. And you could see a later version of this story having Poison reveal that because of the sexism of Japanese culture, she needed to dress as a man to be taken seriously, and so on and so forth.

Again, though, it's hard to imagine Marston making this argument. Marston thought women were stronger than men in just about every way. In this issue alone, he goes out of his way to make Steve weak and helpless (wheelchair bound), and has not only WW as the superior strong woman, but also Etta, who is (as we've seen) quite tough herself.


Ultimately, I think the fact that it's difficult to pin Marston down here is maybe the most interesting aspect of his use of cross-dressing. I have no doubt (as Richard suggested above) that Marston found role-play and cross-dressing sexy and exciting. But beyond that, he doesn't explicitly stigmatize it, and, moreoever, doesn't even really seem to feel that it needs an explanation.

Rawle's book, on the other hand, is basically nothing but explanation, first, of who would be shallow enough to live their life based on a woman's magazine (answer: a cross-dresser) and second, of why a man would dress as a woman (answer: because he's insane.) Explanations are a big part of how society decides who or what is abnormal. You don't need to explain why men dress as men because that's normal, but if a man dresses as a woman, you have to explain that, because it's weird. Except that Marston doesn't seem to think that it is, particularly.

Steven Grant in commments on one of my recent posts said this about Marston:

As for Marston's proclivities, I haven't seen it mentioned anywhere, but it's hard not to suspect he liked being tied up and restrained, probably responded initially with shame, and egotistically concocted a bondage worldview that obviated any need for shame. So bondage - and the "freedom" that comes with it - becomes not his secret shame but everyone's secret desire, and the path to emotional liberation. (As with the jargon of most cults, we can assume he believed anyone who didn't like being restrained was simply repressed, and even more in need of "therapy." His creation of the lie detector suggests that he had at least some fixation on the notion of secret shame, inventing a (specious. if well-promoted) device that would bring secret shame to light and, from his perspective, begin "correction" of it.


I don't doubt that there's something to this...but on the other hand, I think it's worth noting that Marston's investment and interest in perversions of various sorts doesn't manifest solely as a desire to control or correct or diagnose. On the contrary, it often manifests as something that looks rather like tolerance. There are instances, at least, where Marston's just not especially judgmental about other people's desires — in part because he's fetishizing those desires himself, no doubt. Still, speaking as a boring straight guy, it seems to me overall like it would be better to be obliquely fetishized by Marston than to be condescended to and clinicalized by Rawle.

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Just a couple other notes about this story formally; it's pretty clear that both Marston and Peter are still kind of finding their feet. Peter's linework is lovely as always: I really like the curves in this broken door, for example:


Still, you can see Peter struggling a bit with layout and panel composition. This image for example:

marston wonder woman

the dancing is great, and all the action is nice...but the inset panel is just weird, and looks like it was done at the last minute (look how that one girl is cropped off almost at random.) Partially as a result, the big panel looks crowded and messy, rather than formal and frozen in a way Peter would master shortly.

Marston's also not quite where he would end up. The plot here involves sorority girls led by WW using their feminine whiles to trick and capture Poison's guards. Marston, of course, believed that women used their feminine allure to overpower men and force them to submit. Marston never exactly abandons these ideas...but in future issues he tends not to represent them quite so schematically, I think. Certainly, WW does not, as a rule, beat the bad guys by dancing with them. Usually, she slugs them, or outthinks them, or some combination of those. I guess maybe he figured it would strain credulity if she danced her way to victory in every issue.

1959: Year of Little Rationale

My mother did the index for the new book 1959: The Year Everything Changed and thought it was a bit lacking in purpose. The author gives his mission statement in the form of a Slate column and does a good job reminding us that the years just before "the Sixties" were indeed full of change and portent. He doesn't get into why 1959 should be his focus, as opposed to 1958 or 1961 or any other year out of that batch. Maybe they also had some amazing did-you-know firsts and breakthroughs, maybe they didn't; he doesn't realize the question might be relevant.

He does spend a lot of energy explaining why we should care about this long-ago time of change and portent and breakthroughs. The reason is that it's just like our current time of change, portent, etc. I find it discouraging that he would think the question was necessary, and discouraging that he would answer it the way he did. All in all, he provides a disincentive for checking out his book, especially since some of it appears to be about jazz.

The author's name is Fred Kaplan and he covers defense issues for Slate. He screwed up very badly on Colin Powell's UN speech but wrote some good columns explaining why the occupation of Iraq would probably be very difficult and not a good idea.

Too good to be true


Les sextraordinaires aventures de Zizi et Peter Panpan

That's the title of a '60s bande dessinée erotique created by Gérard Lauzier. Taken all in all, the French are admirably dedicated to giving other nations a laugh. "Panpan" -- huh.

I was looking for something about Petit Con, a movie Lauzier based on one of his cartoon series, but all Wiki could offer was the same New York Times review I read back in 1985. The reviewer didn't like the film, whereas I did. The piece does salvage a very good line: "Not a hint of rebellion in their frozen calf eyes!" That's the thought on the moody young hero's mind as his family eats its dinner.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Always thinking

If vampires existed, then I'd believe in God.

The Invisible Man

Well, I knew it would happen eventually: Culture 11 is no longer archived on the web, alas.

Since everything I wrote for them has now vanished into the ether, I thought I might start reprinting it here in order to make it available. So...below is probably my favorite piece for them, an essay on C.S. Lewis' Space Trilogy. I think they altered the end a little bit, but this is my original version.
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The Invisible Man

“Be comforted,” said Malacandra. “It is no doing of yours. You are not great, though you could have prevented a thing so great that Deep Heaven sees it with amazement. Be comforted, small one, in your smallness. He lays no merit on you. Receive and be glad. Have no fear, lest your shoulders be bearing this world. Look! It is beneath your head and carries you.”

That passage is from Perelandra, the second volume in C.S. Lewis’ Space Trilogy. I cried when I read it. I’m still not entirely sure why.

To give some context: the speaker in this passage is Malacandra, an extraterrestrial entity and also a Christian angel. He’s talking to Ransom, a human-being who has been summoned to Venus by God. Venus is, as it turns out, a second Eden, and Ransom’s task was to prevent a second fall by a different (and, somewhat improbably, green-skinned) Eve. To do this, he had to literally beat and then slay the Devil, who has incarnated in the form of a middle-aged space-traveling physicist. The passage above occurs just after Ransom realizes that he has been successful, and that, on Venus, there will be no fall. He is overwhelmed…and so Malacandra comforts him by telling him that he needn’t worry, because God doesn’t think he’s done anything particularly special.

It’s an odd moment in a very odd series. Lewis uses many of the standard tropes of sci-fi adventure — a rocket trip to Mars in the 1938 Out of the Silent Planet; mad scientists reanimating the dead in That Hideous Strength from 1946. But these hoary plots are used in the interest, not of adventure narrative, but of Christian apologetic. The rocket flight occurs not through empty space, but through something very like the Christian heaven; raising the dead is specifically diabolic in a way that Frankenstein and Herbert West only hinted at. The knowledge out there — in distance or time — is not better ray guns, or new social structures, or hideously unspeakable Lovecraftian fish-things. It’s simply God.

Lewis has, in other words, created a kind of holy doppelganger; a series which takes the form of sci-fi in order to undo it. Historically, sci-fi has always, especially in its more literate reaches, been studiously materialist. It’s not an accident that the first story of the genre’s first modern practitioner, H. G. Wells, is a vision of Darwinian apocalypse. In The Time Machine, man’s work, his reason, and his soul are first bifurcated and then crushed by the sheer weight of centuries. The future, for Wells and for those who followed him, is a kind of idiot potter, molding mind, gender, and form beneath its blind fingers. We may become one gender, or we may turn into superbabies, or we may devolve into hopping rabbit-like herbivores, or we may all die. The process may be liberating or terrifying or both, but we will change somehow. Time and space are enormous; they make and unmake. Man is small , and is made or unmade.

You might expect Lewis, as a Christian, to reject this view entirely — to deny the importance of time and space, and instead to focus on an eschatology in which human beings play a central role. In fact, Lewis’ intellectual mentor G.K. Chesterton pointed in this direction. In his story “The Blue Cross” in which he declared:

"Reason and justice grip the remotest and the loneliest star. Look at those stars. Don't they look as if they were single diamonds and sapphires? Well, you can imagine any mad botany or geology you please. Think of forests of adamant with leaves of brilliants. Think the moon is a blue moon, a single elephantine sapphire. But don't fancy that all that frantic astronomy would make the smallest difference to the reason and justice of conduct. On plains of opal, under cliffs cut out of pearl, you would still find a notice-board, 'Thou shalt not steal."'

Lewis agrees with Chesterton to a certain extent; lying, for example, is wrong on Earth, is wrong on Mars, and is wrong on Venus…if anything, in fact, it’s more wrong on the last two. But other laws are different, or change with time and space. For instance, on Venus the inhabitants must live on floating islands; God has decreed they cannot spend the night on dry land. Similarly, Lewis suggests that in the past, it was not necessarily wrong to use magic; in modern days it is. And, most significantly, in the past, intelligent creatures could come in all shapes and sizes; on Mars, there are man-sized river otters and elongated giants and weird snouty tapir-frogs. After the incarnation of Jesus, however, all intelligent creatures are created in the form of man.

For Lewis, then, the future does not change man; rather, man has changed the future. Except, of course, it’s not really, or only man; the future is altered not by the human race as a race, but by Christ. It’s not man, but God who is important…and God is everywhere. “Though men or angels rule them,” Lewis says, “the worlds are for themselves.” Man’s individual moral choices are certainly important; God cares whether Eve falls, or whether Ransom beats the devil. But it’s God, not man, who is the measure of all things. “Be comforted, small immortals,” Malacandra says. “You are not the voice all things utter.”

But why is it comforting to be insignificant? Isn’t insignificance at the heart of the fiction of Wells and his heirs? Isn’t man’s nothingness at the base of the horror in Wells or (for example) in Lovecraft? At first it seems..but when you look closer, it’s less clear. In The Time Machine, for example, what terrifies and disgusts the narrator is not the absence of man, but his presence — the hideous hopping creatures which, in more and more degenerate form, populate the far future. Frankenstein’s monster is horrifying not because he isn’t human, but because he is. The gothic tradition on which much of sci-fi rests is about doubling; about recognizing one’s own twisted visage in the face of infinity. The supposed evolutionary ruthlessness, the acknowledgment of the “truth” of man’s insignificance, is, in these books, a kind of ruse. The real emotional power is in man’s proliferation; man is everywhere, inescapable. The future does not create the sci-fi writer; rather it is the sci-fi writer who creates, in his or her own image, the future.

Lewis created The Space Trilogy too, of course. But it’s not a romantic or agonistic creation; it’s an imaginative extension of truths which, for Lewis, apply to man, but don’t originate with him. The future doesn’t have to be about us; we don’t have to be there to make it matter. Science-fiction is just a dream, after all; the twisted gothic face it sees in time’s mirror is just a phantom. “Have no fear, lest your shoulders be bearing this world. Look! It is beneath your head and carries you.”” Lewis waves his hand, and the whole genre dissolves, leaving instead the universe. I’m still not sure why it moved me so much. But I think it was partly the sense of being freed, or saved.

Stupid Internet

I'm having some trouble with my connection. It goes in, it goes out. I'm hoping I'll be able to continue to post more or less as usual...but possibly not. So if you're wondering where I am, that would be where.

Suburban Girl: Love and Work

I just finished watching this totally lame Sarah Michelle Gellar/Alec Baldwin chick-flick romantic comedy thing, Suburban Girl, adapted from The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing. You can't blame the leads for the lameness--they were clearly trying--but despite the odd clever one-liner and a few scenes that were almost inspired, it generally bit. There was just nothing there--no spark, no chemistry, no insight. It's about Brett, a 20-something associate editor (Gellar) with a New York publishing house, and her tepid romance with Archie, a 50-year-old legendary publishing veteran (Baldwin). Brett's a suburban girl because her WASP-y family comes from some unnamed suburb of NYC, although this has very little bearing on the tepid NYC setting, depicted with tepid fashion and tepid personalities. Brett likes her job, but doubts her path, her abilities, her crazy new boss, yadda yadda yadda, meets Archie, they hook up, she dumps her present guy, Archie's a diabetic alcoholic, Brett shops with her dad at Bed, Bath and Beyond, there is some tepid drama; I am introduced to the musical act Badly Drawn Boy, which is pretty awesome. The romance is, as I said, tepid, but I could swoon over Archie's sweet townhouse, which is well-furnished and has long staircases.

Despite the fact that it was as thrilling as a warm glass of slightly off milk, I enjoyed Suburban Girl, in a mild sort of way, for the same reasons I dig josei manga . It was about a woman in my general age range, and it focused on her career as much as on her love life. In this case, it's publishing. With Nana, it's rock music, and punk music, and Hachi ping-ponging around, looking for purpose; with Walkin' Butterfly and Paradise Kiss, it's fashion and modeling, with Suppli, advertising, Tramps Like Us, journalism (Hataraki Man, ditto, although I think that's technically seinen--but it's by Moyoco Anno, and content-wise, it's certainly in line with josei), Honey and Clover, the various professional uses of an art degree. With Happy Mania....god knows, but the romance, if it could possibly be so termed, is just as scattershot as the career arc; Happy Mania is an odd duck. Josei manga is all about the love and the sex, but it's all about the career, too.

Historically, I've been all about science fiction and fantasy, so my chick-lit background is lacking, but the stuff I know--okay, here I was going to list all the chick-lit novels and movies I know, but all I could come up with was the movie version of The Devil Wears Prada, which I honestly loved. (I think it was about 50/50 Hathaway and Streep / gorgeous clothing porn, there.) The romance subplot I admit to having snoozed through, but I felt married to a terrible job at the point when I went to see that movie, and I was all over the career dilemma part. So I guess the upshot of all this is that as far as I can tell, I like the parts of chick-lit that deal with jobs, careers, and the vocation/avocation tension.

I think there's a particular kick to the career stuff in josei manga, because the women in manga who go for a career are swimming against the tide. Everything I know about women in the workplace in Japan is depressing and frustrating--sexism thrives in the Japanese workplace; unmarried women over the age of 25 are considered spinsters; working women typically retire from their jobs as soon as they marry or get pregnant. I don't think it's remotely a coincidence that so many of the working women in manga with contemporary Japanese settings are OLs (Office Ladies--menial positions that involve performing minor errands; it is my impression that to call them secretarial in nature would be to give them too much credit); the OLs that frequent the manga landscape are probably an accurate reflection of reality. So the women characters in manga who are pursuing serious careers in anything--including, yes, fashion--are formidable almost by default, and often admirable.

I wonder if there are men's manga in translation that deal with careers the way that so many josei manga do? I went over to my bookshelves to jog my memory, and made a list of the manga that have as major component careers or functional equivalents. Some of my best contenders (Hikaru no Go, Iron Wok Jan, Yakitate Japan) owe a lot to what I always think of as shounen tournament manga. Regardless of the activity (fighting, cooking, playing a sport), the manga will follow certain patterns (someone starts out as a rank beginner, is inspired to improve, matches off against others, experiences personal growth. Lather, rinse, repeat as long as the sales stay good). I couldn't come up with much outside of the shounen titles, though. There's all the manga about creating manga, I suppose, although I always saw that more as generic creative navel-gazing than a mirror of any social struggle. Do men's career manga not exist? Are they not in English? Have I just managed to select against them? I have no idea. I can believe that Japanese men don't have to navigate the same tricky waters that Japanese women do when it comes to following a career path, and that the job-related frustrations for men take a different face in creative work, but I don't really know.

Drifting back towards the subject of romance, some of my favorite romance-themed manga have a major a career focus (the shoujo titles Penguin Revolution and Pearl Pink, both about acting; One Pound Gospel, boxing), or a vocational interest that pleasantly surprised me--Suekichi's improv troupe in Dance Till Tomorrow, Godai's late-blooming career as a daycare center worker in Maison Ikkoku (speaking of Takahashi, Ranma 1/2 was at least as much concerned with personal betterment in martial arts as with romance. I don't know if it's a shounen tournament manga as such, but it shares some qualities). In every case, I was there for the romance, but appreciated the way that the vocational themes deepened the characterizations. Bland as it is, Suburban Girl certainly benefits from Brett's dedication to her job, and from the natural conflict posed in having a romantic entanglement with an older, more experienced person who has already mastered everything she's just encountering. All of the movie's best moments pertain to Archie's role in Brett's career after she meets him--the status and experience he lends to her as she struggles with difficult assignments, and her ambivalence about accepting those things from him.

In the adult-oriented titles, at least, the dual focus on love and work really clicks for me--those are omnipresent concerns for most adults, and important to our sense of identity. What do I do? and Whom do I love? are pretty good questions to ask if you're wondering who you are, and knowing yourself is crucial when pursuing success in either work or love. In fact, a dual love/work theme works better for me than either alone. I don't really care that much about the minutia of publishing, journalism, or the music industry, except as they figure in a character's life, and I rarely attach to a given love interest strongly enough to care if the protagonists ends up with them, or someone else, or no one at all--I care how it unfolds, less so how it ends.

Love and work are also a nice theme pair as they conflict so often, even if only in simple time allocation--and there's a classic modern woman's narrative for you. I think the relationship stress of a time-consuming job specifically comes up in Suppli, Hataraki Man, Tramps Like Us, and Nana. Nana also features a professional rivalry between two of its lovers, both of whom are too emotionally and creatively invested in their musical careers to be able to set it aside. Yazawa explores that one beautifully and with nuance, which is one of the many reasons why we all love Nana.

I wanted to make this all a little neater, tie it up with something, but I've been gnawing on this for a couple of days, and I'm sort of stuck here. Modern women's themes, I dig them. I need to read more chick-lit in English and think about it. Can anybody recommend some to me with good prose? I'll put up with a lot of flaws for good prose.