TV NOTES: Sara Rimensnyder has outed me: I watched the final episode of Joe Millionaire, and I enjoyed it, too. Or, at least, I enjoyed the self-deconstructing first hour -- the second half was much duller, and eventually dissolved into tedious talk about miracles and fairy tales. As those of you who read my last Reasoncolumn will recognize, this means I watched America's favorite "reality" show back to back with Michael Jackson Unmasked. Some highbrow I turned out to be, eh? (I mean, I thought it was a Tarkovsky movie, but...)
The fact is, I think reality shows are the best thing to happen to network television since animation came back to prime time. Whatever else you might say about them, they're almost always more enjoyable than the sitcoms and dramas they're competing against. (Do any Joe Millionaire-bashers really think the show is more "toxic" than Friends or Providence?) The genre depends on constant novelty, a welcome contrast to scripted shows that depend on the constant reiteration of formulas. Of course there are reality formulas too, but it's fun to watch one species mutate into another so rapidly -- much more rapidly than TV's fiction genres do. (Joe Millionaire obviously began because Fox was trying to think of a way to imitate The Bachelor when somebody suddenly thunk, "Hey! Remember how the rich guy in Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire? turned out to be a fraud? I bet we can turn that bug into a feature!")
The best thing about the shows: You don't actually have to watch them. The simple news that a program like This Surreal Life exists is enjoyable enough; actually viewing more than one episode is going an extra mile. Our time is spared, and the network suits are forced to devise yet more novelty for our amusement.
As some strikers once said, "Give us bread -- and circuses, too." Or something like that.
SNOW UPDATE: Jim Henley informs me that I should not wait to dig out my car. "If you let the snow half melt," he warns, "what's left will be heavy, wet, and crusty. What we got was powder -- you'll be a lot happier shoveling powder than half as much sludge."
Unfortunately, this makes sense. On the other hand, I don't want to shovel anything until the plow's gone by -- I'm half-convinced that if I dig out the car now, I'll have to do the work all over again once the snow from the road's been deposited atop everything adjacent to it.
On yet another hand, I'm starting to suspect that the plow simply isn't going to come.
The next problem: Actually figuring out which two car-lumps on the side of the road belong to my girlfriend and me. I have a feeling I'm going to spend my lunch hour digging out all the neighbors' remaining automobiles before I finally stumbled onto ours.
The same storm hit nearby Washington as well. I'm told that their plows haven't been very prompt either. "Some years back," writes my D.C.-based friend Sam Smith of The Progressive Review, "I was asked by the paper to write an Outlook section piece about a recent storm. I decided to compare Washington's snow removal with that of another town I knew well, Freeport, Maine. As it turned out, Freeport had one percent of Washington's population but ten percent of its road mileage. If memory serves, Freeport did the job with five trucks while it took 150 in DC -- or three times as many per mile. In the most recent storm the figure for DC was up to 300 trucks with plows although the city's geography hasn't expanded in the interval."
The problem, Smith suggests, is D.C.'s native confidence in the bureaucratic approach to problem-solving. "There are certain jobs that do not lend themselves to the bureaucratic pyramid -- they are jobs in which employees carry most of the capacity for good or evil in their own skill, judgment and ethical standards. Jobs like teaching school, patrolling a beat, or plowing a street. Training makes them better; bureaucratic systems rarely do."
Fortunately, it's a holiday, and most of my neighbors don't seem intent on getting anywhere. Not that that's stopped anyone from devoting an hour or so to digging out a snowbound car. "It's better than doing it tomorrow morning," one woman told me. Depends on your point of view: Me, I work at home, and I'm gonna let my car sit until the white stuff's half melted.
BLOGORAMA PHOTORAMA: There's a picture of me up on Julian Sanchez's website. It was taken while my tongue was trying to dislodge something from between my teeth and my upper lip, and as a result I look a bit ... well, Cro-Magnon. Or perhaps like I'm blowing up an invisible balloon.
There's a silver lining, though: I'm standing across from Jim Henley in the photo, and he looks even goofier.
"The White House claims that it hadn't seen the draft before the leak, though that is belied by the document's control sheet, which clearly shows that Vice President Dick Cheney received a copy in mid-January, along with House Speaker Dennis Hastert."
Just to clarify: This means that Cheney and Hastert both received copies of the document. It does not mean that Rep. Hastert and the document were stuffed into an envelope and routed to Cheney, though I must admit I enjoy that image.
RAMBO'S ILLUMINATIONS: National Review Online has just published an excerpt from Mona Charen's Useful Idiots: How Liberals Got It Wrong in the Cold War and Still Blame America First. The article isn't quite as asinine as you'd guess from that title, but it's still a remarkable tribute to one woman's tunnel vision: an essay on '80s attitudes toward the Cold War that never once mentions such pop artifacts as Red Dawn and Iron Eagle. Instead, Charen recalls the touchy-feely goop of the age, from Jonathan Schell's unreadable anti-nuke tome The Fate of the Earth to the sudden fame of Samantha Smith, an American fourth-grader who earned international acclaim for writing a can't-we-all-be-friends? letter to Yuri Andropov.
Well, that was part of the era too. But growing up in North Carolina, I have to say that the Iron Eagle stuff sure seemed culturally dominant to me. I lived in Chapel Hill, one of the few territories in the state where people like Schell were taken seriously, and even there we had plenty of Reaganite hawks to contend with. Venture out of the Chapel Hill/Durham/Raleigh triangle -- to Boy Scout camp, say -- and the bumperstickers urging the Pentagon to fund its bombers with bakesales would disappear. As for Samantha Smith: My foreign-policy views in high school were arguably to the left of Jesse Jackson's, and even I thought the media's obsession with Smith was inexplicable. I can't remember anyone I knew actually taking her micro-crusade seriously. (I also noticed that the Soviet propaganda magazine in my school library -- we got it for free, along with an equally risible rag from South Africa -- couldn't stop featuring her on the cover.)
Now, I spent the '80s opposing pretty much everything the U.S. did abroad, from the invasion of Grenada to the bombardment of Libya, so I recognize that, like Charen the perpetual hawk, I'm remembering the decade from a rather biased point of view. But I don't think I've just written anything as silly as Charen's declaration that "Reagan was up against an enormous headwind" in foreign affairs, given that her examples of this headwind consist of Helen Caldicott, Bill Moyers, Walter Mondale, Phil Donahue, and Vladimir Pozner. The only member of that group who ever had a popular following was Donahue, and that was left over from the much more liberal '70s -- in the age of Reagan, he was constantly lampooned as an exhibitionist and a sissy. Caldicott was a radical, Moyers a PBS phenomenon, Pozner a novelty sideshow, and Mondale -- well, we all know how much trouble Reagan faced when he ran into that particular headwind.
There was a grassroots sentiment for peace, nuclear and otherwise, in the '80s. Polls showed a majority consistently rejecting U.S. military involvement in Central America, and, as Charen notes, the national landscape included a fair number of "sister cities" and "nuclear-free zones." Meanwhile, even hawkish flicks like Rambo seemed to treat the U.S. government and the Communists with the same distrust and contempt. A complete picture of the '80s would include all this. But it would also include a lot that Charen seems to have forgotten.
Also, while I don't usually link here to my Hit & Run posts, readers of this site might be interested in my exchange there with Michael Fumento. (To see his reply to my post, scroll down. To see my reply to his reply, scroll down further. To add your own two cents, scroll all the way to the bottom.)
Grand Hotel (Edmund Goulding, 1932): One of those Hollywood ur-movies that inspired a thousand imitations. At a luxury hotel in Berlin, lives intersect -- each possessed, conveniently, by a well-established Dream Factory stereotype. The suicidal diva! The oafish businessman! The working girl! The little guy! The cynical old man! The aristocratic thief with a heart of gold! Their paths cross, their tales crossbleed, a climactic crime is committed, lives are altered radically -- then these guests leave and another crop arrives. Constant change meets eternal recurrence, yadda yadda yadda.
Some of it is dreadful: Greta Garbo's oft-quoted performance (this is the source of "I vant to be a-lone") is a sustained exercise in carpet-chewing. Some of it is great: John Barrymore is charming as the roguish baron-thief, and the climax is terrific. But the movie as a whole is neither good nor bad -- more of a time-capsule entry, something to let us see what an all-star Hollywood spectacle looked like 70 years ago.
Rabbit-Proof Fence (Philip Noyce, 2002): A chase movie posing as a political statement.
Chicken Real: The Story of Holly Farms Poultry Industries (Les Blank, 1970): In a career that has spanned more than 40 years, Blank has made dozens of documentaries and experimental shorts. Initially, this seems like a radical change of pace: an industrial film sponsored by its subject, the chicken company Holly Farms. Gradually, it becomes clear that something stranger is going on: Blank's alternately beautiful, ugly, and surreal footage of the mass production of poultry is attached to the sort of narration you'd expect in a classroom movie on the dangers of tooth decay. The contrast is deeply hilarious -- an effect that was probably intended, given that Blank wrote the narration himself. Highly recommended.
Minority Report (Steven Spielberg, 2002): A solid science-fiction thriller, adapted from one of Philip K. Dick's weaker stories. It's better than most Spielberg movies, and better than several other Dick adaptations as well. It has two significant flaws, though, one of which might be called the Tom Cruise Problem; the other, the Steven Spielberg Problem.
Cruise is miscast, but still does a reasonably capable job in the lead role. The problem: Because he is Tom Cruise, the filmmakers felt the need to add three or so ridiculously implausible action sequences -- the kind of stuff that's a lot of fun in a Mission: Impossible movie but simply doesn't fit this character or story.
And Spielberg? He can't handle ambiguity or tragedy, and thus strains to produce a tidy ending. Much of this I can take: It's obvious from the start that it's foolish to expect a tale true to Dick's more open-ended style. (Spielberg himself has described Dick as an "old-fashioned 1950s futurist," which is kind of like describing Spielberg as an "old-fashioned 1970s shark enthusiast.") But there's one big problem: the trio of characters called the precogs. Without giving anything away, I'll just say that (a) as presented in the movie, they are an unsolvable tragedy, but (b) they nonetheless get "solved," in a way that defies both theme and plot.
The Bridge (Charles Vidor, 1931): This first attempt to film Ambrose Bierce's "Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" is a respectable effort, but was supplanted in 1962 by Robert Enrico's perfect adaptation of the tale -- not to mention all the movies since then that have either ripped off Bierce's plot outright or fused it with the similar Carnival of Souls. If you've already read the story or seen Enrico's film, then you may want to give Vidor's short a try. But don't let it be your introduction to the tale.
(Spoiler alert. Here's the difference between "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" and Carnival of Souls. In the first, the protagonist doesn't realize he's dead, and that the story is actually taking place in his imagination right before he expires. In the second, the protagonist doesn't realize she's dead -- but the story's really happening nonetheless.)
When the term first emerged in the 1970s, "the neoconservatives" referred to three overlapping groups:
(a) Scoop Jackson Democrats, such as Jeanne Kirkpatrick, who opposed the McGovern campaign and their party's related drift towards dovishness. Fiercely pro-Israel and pro–Cold War, they pretty much all re-registered as Republicans by the end of the '80s.
(b) ex-Trotskyist New York intellectuals, such as Irving Kristol, who were dismayed both at the aforementioned drift toward dovishness and at the New Left's "barbaric" attitudes toward Israel, higher education, and the old liberal establishment.
(c) formerly liberal academics, such as Peter Berger, whose research led them to reject the case for Great Society programs -- and, in some cases, the case for even larger swabs of the welfare state.
The third group is obviously somewhat different from the first two. It got roped in because its members were reconsidering their liberal or leftist sympathies at the same time as the others and because they often ended up publishing in the same magazines (The Public Interest, Commentary, etc.). Many of their then-controversial claims are now accepted by people who still consider themselves liberal; many of their articles are cited warmly by libertarians who otherwise profess to hate neocons.
If the third group has grown less essential to the definition of neoconservatism, then a fourth group has picked up the slack: second-generation neocons like Bill Kristol, who aren't "neo" in the sense of being former liberals but are "neo" in that their beliefs are in many ways distinct from those of the pre-neocon Right. Confusing matters somewhat, some libertarians and paleoconservatives have attempted to retrofit the word to describe the ex-Communists who seemed to join the Right en masse during the late '40s and the '50s (James Burnham, Max Eastman, etc.), helping turn its attention from limited government at home to an active foreign policy abroad.
Israel is a central foreign-policy concern of the neocons, in many cases the central foreign-policy concern (which is why I get annoyed when critics of Israel, such as Christopher Hitchens, are shoved under the neocon label). In terms of domestic policy, I think David Frum was right to divide the neocon tribe into two groups: the "optimists," exemplified by Jack Kemp, and the "pessimists," exemplified by James Q. Wilson. For the details, read his book Dead Right.
Finally: "neocon" is also an insult that some libertarians like to hurl at other libertarians. If one lib says another lib is "basically a neocon," it's his way of saying the other guy is too hawkish, too corporate, too gradualist, or altogether too close to the establishment.
Everybody got that? Good; there'll be a quiz on Friday.
The game itself had its moments but was mostly a boring blowout. The entertainment, too, was a mixed bag. One minute we hear Celine Dion (who isn't even American, dammit) singing a predictably schlocky rendition of "God Bless America"; in the next, on the other hand, we have the Dixie Chicks harmonizing very nicely on "The Star-Spangled Banner." At halftime, an engaging performance by Shania Twain's cleavage was unfortunately marred by the presence of Shania Twain's music. (If this woman is a country singer, how come those songs sounded like Loverboy?) No Doubt was much more listenable, and Sting had the good sense to ignore his solo catalog and sing an early Police song.
As for my Reason column, I wound up writing about "The Myth of Media Deregulation." The piece contains absolutely no references to the Super Bowl.
FROM FRODO TO HOICHI: Turns out I like The Two Towers better than The Fellowship of the Ring. (I'm referring to the movies, of course, not the books.) Like its predecessor, it is uneven, overlong, and filled with high-fantasy speechifying of a sort I lost patience with before I'd even hit my teens; but, on the plus side, there are fewer shots of Elijah Wood's wide-eyed stare, much less sub-vaudeville slapstick from Merry and Pippin, and (praise the Lord!) absolutely no New Age yodeling from Enya. Meanwhile, the large-scale battle scenes are shot with far more art and care than the equivalent portions of most other Hollywood spectacles. And while there is less of Christopher Lee's enjoyably campy performance as Saruman to relish, Andy Serkis more than picks up the slack as Gollum.
Bias alert: I'm not usually impressed by "epic" films. My favorite exception is the "Hoichi the Earless" sequence in Kwaidan, a mostly brilliant quartet of Japanese ghost stories. "Hoichi" begins with the legend of a samurai battle, relating it in a way that actually feels like one of those epic medieval poems -- and bears no resemblance to a Hollywood epic at all. I recommend it highly.
Actually, I recommend almost all of Kwaidan. Its first sequence is mediocre and skippable, but the other three actually fulfill the promise offered and broken by so many movie trailers: "Unlike anything you've ever seen before."