Category: Blog

  • Michael Jackson America

    Michael Jackson was the boy who never grew up, and even to say he was the perverted Peter Pan of show business is quite something considering the motley multitudes that inhabit Tinseltown. But as I pondered this death by show business I couldn’t shake the thought that our fascination with him was symptomatic of something deeper, something profoundly unsettling in our national psyche; in so many ways Michael Jackson was the epitome of America, a miniature version of the USA!

    Step outside the boundaries of this country to gain a little perspective and the similarities are striking–a naive country mired in a state of adolescence, given to excesses even in the face of economic disaster, obsessed with its image, blessed with immeasurable natural resources yet trapped in a downward spiral of self-destruction; loved, hated, and a source of endless ridicule, admiration, and fascination; replete with talent beyond description, the sire of a million imitators, desperately attempting to escape from its parents in search of its own destiny, unsure of its racial identity, needing to be loved…

    The sight of the cherubic Michael hopping across a stage is heartbreaking when we see how it all ended. We created him, embraced and canonized him, mocked him and mourned him as a brother. He started life with so much promise and came a cropper on the shores of excess; we as a nation followed a similar path, beginning with so much and drowning in our self-indulgences.

    In the weeks following MJ’s death the news-wires are still buzzing with all sorts of postmortem frenzies; I just wonder if all this isn’t part of an ongoing bizarre pre-mortem portent of the death of a nation!

  • Of Kings and Queens

    “Queens! Queens! Strip them naked as any other woman, they are no longer queens!”
    –Mark Antony in Cleopatra.

    Such a brouhaha over Michelle Obama’s supposed embrace of Queen Elizabeth! Royal Watchers (I can scarcely believe that’s a legitimate profession), tabloids, the British public were in a tizzy over the apparent lack of etiquette by America’s First Lady as they rolled their eyes and snobbishly cocked a snook at another American faux pas, tempered this time by their amusing fascination with Mrs. Obama’s “down-to-earth” attitude!? The pomposity surrounding the monarchy begs so many questions it’s hard to know where to begin.

    In an age that prizes democratic ideals it’s unbelievable that so many people still pay homage, even abject adulation, to a person and family whose sole claim to their position springs from what can only be described as an accident of birth. I suppose every country has its own objects of affection, whether it’s the royal family or film stars or just the rich and famous–perhaps our need to be ensorcelled fuels our levels of aspiration, or at least fulfills our vicarious imaginings.

    It’s quite astonishing to realize that 44 monarchies still exist around the world today, that almost 600 million people are bowing and scraping to kings and queens. It is also interesting that questions of propriety and royal protocol seem to surround British royalty more than anyone else. Perhaps that’s because Britain’s Queen maintains at least a “figure-head” authority over many of her erstwhile colonies across the globe, from Canada to Australia. It also has to do with the fact that Britain makes a great deal of fuss about it–I’m sure visitors to Swaziland or Saudi Arabia or Japan slip up occasionally when it comes to protocol without making headlines; but the British whine about it loudly lest we forget they have a queen, which we’re always on the verge of doing! Italian PM Berlusconi shouted out to someone while walking near the queen and was chastised for it, for how dare we talk above a whisper in her royal presence?! Australian PM John Howard drew criticism for appearing to place his hand on the Queen’s back to direct her through traffic. All of this springs from a 16th century belief that the royal touch had the power to cure disease!!

    Questions about what seems like an anachronistic presence at the head of Britain is often met with the answer that the Queen performs an invaluable service to her country in terms of internal and external public relations–she’s the head of the most expensive PR firm in the history of the world! Of course, it’s also Britain’s way of authenticating itself in the face of its diminishing powers; that and the way it hangs on to America’s coattails.

    I don’t really care how a country decides to govern itself; if Britain–and the other 40 or so states that have monarchies–choose to spend a “king’s ransom” for the daily upkeep of their nominal heads they have the right to do so (some monarchies actually do govern their countries). But when they insist that the rest of the world treat their queen as a sacred person before whom we must virtually genuflect and whose “holy” person is not to be touched then they’re carrying their obsession too far; particularly when this same queen is the grandmother of a prince who wears Nazi uniforms for fun and uses racial slurs towards Asian colleagues!

    I suppose it really is sad when a nation seeks its identity in a monarchy that has lost its relevancy or when that same nation draws its legitimacy from an arcane and anachronistic system, or when tax dollars support the hedonistic and sybaritic lifestyles of royal offspring throughout the world!

  • Natasha Richardson

    What is it about this woman and this death that somehow feels strangely personal, even familial? Celebrities die in all sorts of circumstances, from plane accidents to drug overdoses to violence. But the news that Natasha Richardson was in critical condition created an unexplained sense of sadness which was only compounded when the final verdict was announced. I didn’t know her, obviously, except through her acting and her family association, having in my youth followed her grandfather’s (Michael Redgrave) career and then her mother’s (Vanessa), uncle’s (Corin), and aunt’s (Lynn), even a smidgen of her sister’s (Joely), as well as her father’s, the director Tony Richardson, who put so many interesting plays on film.

    Perhaps the familiarity over the years with her family’s accomplishments, having almost grown up with them, may have contributed to this feeling. It could also be that in the last month I watched three of Liam Neeson’s films, one of Natasha’s, and one of Corin’s. One doesn’t really know, does one? But if I were to guess I think the sadness is more professional, a mourning for the loss of a life cut short of its final promise.

    I remember thinking a few months ago, as I watched again The Handmaid’s Tale, that Natasha Richardson could have a later career like her mother’s. She, like Vanessa, was drawn to challenging, interesting characters and while in recent years she played the obvious Hollywood circuit (possibly easier to do while raising young children) I always felt, given her penchant for scarred, desperate people (Anna Christie, Sally Bowles), that she would find new acting challenges so rarely offered to women over 40.

    Of course, it’s interesting that she eschewed the English theatre of her family and made a name for herself in America, first in Hollywood and then, as is the wont of so many stars, on Broadway. Like her mother she was beautiful, and like her mother she was unafraid of characters that weren’t physically flattering but multidimensional, and her take on them revealed hitherto untapped complexities.

    The sadness lies in the thought that maybe her best was yet to come. She will be missed.

  • Daylight Savings

    Continuing a thought embedded in my last post I wonder anew about our obsession with Daylight Savings. It seems like we visit and debate the topic every few years, making changes back and forth. Some argue that we’re actually trying to save the Evening; that the energy conservation rationale is merely a rationalization. I’m trying to find out what we do that’s so important it needs an extra hour of daylight. We finish work at 5pm or thereabouts so that can’t be the real reason; in any case, we burn lights throughout the day in our offices and homes, so we’re not really saving any energy. Maybe an hour more of golf or some other sport? But how about winter? Besides, what we’re really doing is stealing from Morning to give to Evening, robbing Eos (Aurora) to placate Hespera! Why not just go to bed early and wake up an hour earlier?

    Could it be that we’re afraid not just of the Dark but also of Time? Think about it; everything we do suggests that we think of Time as an opponent to be attacked, diced into slices, and controlled so we can apportion and assign tasks to every minute of the day–the American work ethic, we say. It seems to be different in countries with ancient cultures–they have a more friendly perspective of Time, are more willing to meander along with it. They don’t see it in terms of hours and minutes or even days; after billions of yesterdays they know there’s always another tomorrow.

    For us each day somehow seems unconnected to the one before or after. We rush through every hour for fear of wasting minutes as though Time were an expendable commodity, as though there’s a close of business in everything we do. We invent mindless television, internet search engines to surf incessantly for inane and unseemly things, talk radio, and cyberspace social networks to fill the inevitable spaces in our day, to pretend we’re engaged in something, anything–god forbid that we sit quietly and think or read. In fact, we don’t just work anymore, we multi-task–hyper-extending linear time in vertical directions, piling on more work into every moment.

    We have less free time than any other country–and more stress. Perhaps if we didn’t have Daylight Savings we’d sleep more and work less! How bad could that be?!

  • Could Americans Ever Like the Game of Cricket?

    On November 2, 2008 ESPN featured a special sports capsule on cricket, a 20/20 (twenty overs per side; six balls or pitches per over) match between the West Indies Stanford Superstars (named for a Texas billionaire sponsor) and the English national team. For years cricket has been a popular sport in several parts of the world; countries with national teams include Australia, Bangladesh, England, Ireland, India, Kenya, New Zealand, the Netherlands, Pakistan, Scotland, South Africa, Sri Lanka, the West Indies, and Zimbabwe. Even the U.S. has a national team, a fact known only to cricket aficionados.

    Ever since I came to this country I have had to endure the jibes of friends and acquaintances about my passion for cricket. They can’t understand how anyone can love a game that is played over five days (Test cricket, the traditional game, not the 20/20 version) and often ends in a draw; in fact, they think me insane at my suggestion that a draw can be a more thrilling contest than a victory, as one side strives to thwart the blood-scenting, victory-seeking efforts of its rival!

    What lurks in the American psyche that prevents us from endorsing anything not “invented” here? I suppose colonialism has much to do with it—the U.S. gained Independence before the British could bring over new games and sports, as they did in their other dominions. Soccer, the world sport, has finally found a foothold in the U.S. (thanks largely to a growing Hispanic and Asian population, whose influx has made this country a quasi colony), but as a spectator sport it still cannot compete with football, baseball, and basketball, despite the popularity of organized soccer and the integral place of “soccer moms” in our political and cultural lexicon! Of course, one rarely sees a pick-up game of soccer!

    American professional sports are confined, for the most part, to national leagues but we think nothing of referring to league winners as “world champions.” Cricket, like soccer, is played in international arenas (in addition to national leagues); professional clubs routinely release players to their respective countries. India and Pakistan, for instance, meet often on the cricket pitch despite border disputes, escalating political tensions, and arms proliferation; their cricketers share tips, chats off the field, and the easy camaraderie born of mutual respect and admiration, despite their fierce on-field rivalry. In fact, at one point it appeared that rapprochement between these two nations was possible only on the cricket field.

    Test Cricket is considered a “gentleman’s game,” played in white trousers (flannel in cold climes) and shirts (sometimes with sweaters), with short breaks for a drinks cart to roll out on the field and longer recesses as players leave the field for lunch and tea. From its origins among the tea-drinking, politely-applauding elite in England cricket has been adopted by the raucous, Bollywood song-chanting millions of Asia, the beer-guzzling surfers of Australia, and the reggae rhythms of the Caribbean where they once wrote a calypso to an Indian batsman who captured their imagination with his magnificent performances against their own team. On its journey to worldwide popularity and huge profits, and despite its “genteel” design cricket also suffers the fates of all other professional sports—match-fixings, boorish and racist behavior on and off the field, drug scandals, and shameless displays of partisanship; in other words, it has all the drama of American sports. It is a game of huge scores, often in excess of 1000 runs per match, moments of high pressure and soporific lulls, with national pride on the line.

    Much has been made about the kinship between cricket and baseball. Anyone who has watched or played both games knows, however, that they are very different, except for one vital ingredient—for all its home runs and triples and spectacular put-outs, the essential struggle in baseball is the mind game between a batter and pitcher. The real tension lies in the subtly fluctuating velocities of pitches and the second-guessing of location framed by the ubiquitous control of the umpire. Cricket is similar in that respect, with the added elements of shifting field placements as fielders are moved around depending on the tendencies of the batsman (left or right-handed with a preference for hitting the ball to certain parts of the field) and bowler (fast, medium pace, or slow spin). The captain on the field of cricket thus plays a critical role in switching bowlers and fielders. American sports are controlled from the sidelines or the dugout.

    Perhaps the cultural divide against cricket in this country has to do with our national character, in particular our impatience with anything that develops slowly. Baseball has often been criticized for being sluggish—batters stepping out of the box, pitchers shaking off signs, constant pick-off attempts, and so on. Every year MLB seeks new rules to speed up the game whose fan base has deteriorated over the last few decades. No-one seems to care that speed of play is merely an illusion in American football, with its interminable timeouts, play-calling, and standing around. Stop watches have easily discovered that the ball is “in play” for a mere 12 to 15 minutes!

    Maybe countries with ancient cultures find cricket attractive. Where time often stands still and a match can last five days; in countries filled with so many yesterdays that today is almost dispensable and we can return tomorrow to finish it; or the day after, or the ones after that as well. It’s a game that may end in a draw, with neither side winning (remember the baseball furor a few years ago when the Commissioner declared an All-Star game a tie? And this was just an exhibition game which, unlike now, didn’t have any consequences on the season). But that doesn’t clarify everything; it doesn’t account for the popularity of cricket in relatively newer cultures like Australia and South Africa beyond the obvious adherence to a colonial British past!

    Is it possible that despite vast cultural differences there may be more in common between the sports than I imagined, something embedded in their intrinsic structures not obviously apprehended nor readily explained? To understand that I needed a greater understanding of America; I had to lift the superficial layers draped over my image of this country and investigate the heart of it. Is it a stretch to suggest that a 5-day match can flourish only in a culture where Time is not of the essence? Perhaps the collective unconscious in ancient cultures, having been around for centuries, offers a more friendly perspective of time; which doesn’t explain Australia until one remembers its easy-going, almost laissez faire national character. For us Americans, Time is an opponent to be chopped into pieces and controlled, with every minute accounted for and filled. It is no accident that we have the least national holidays of any country, less vacation time than most, and are constantly fiddling with Daylight Savings Time like children afraid of the dark. In such a culture, the idea of a 5-day match is anathema. In fact, not so long ago a cricket Test match even included a Rest Day, God forbid!

    The future of cricket, however, is poised for a breakthrough with the advent of the 20/20 matches, which take less than two hours to play (shorter than baseball) and cannot end in a draw. The move to entice the short-attention-span modern world began a few years ago with the one-day 50-over version of the game that abandoned whites for colorful uniforms and had purists in a tizzy. This latest edition may doom the Test Match to extinction, but will grow the game exponentially. And once Americans discover the glories of cricket how can they resist the colorful field positions—Short Leg, Fine Leg, and Deep Fine Leg, Gully, Slips, Cover and Extra Cover, Point, Silly Point, Silly Mid-On, Mid-Off, Long-Off, Mid-Wicket, and Third Man? Not to mention the “pitches”—Bouncers, Beamers, Flippers, Googlies, Drifters, Leg Breaks, Off Breaks, Wrong ‘uns, and Doosras; and the shots a batsman plays—Long Hops, Cover Drives, Square Drives, Straight Drives, Sweeps, Reverse Sweeps, On Drives, Off Drives, Hooks, Pulls, Glances, Late Cuts, Cuts, played off the front and back foot! Or that most controversial of umpire calls—the Leg Before Wicket?

  • The Oscars

    I suppose I resisted publishing a blog for a long time because I didn’t want to appear arrogant, but I might as well face the truth about myself–that I’m as conceited as the millions of bloggers worldwide who think they have something to say that anyone would be interested in reading. Why do this except to find a public outlet for the incessant verbiage I direct at myself as I go about my day? So without launching on an apology that would sound hollow I’ll just warn you that many of my posts will be essay-length rather than short bursts of inspiration. Oh, well…

    I was watching the Oscars this weekend as I do every year, a guilty pleasure in the pomp and pageantry of flouncy skirts, low necklines, and back-patting that Hollywood indulges in annually; and again this year as in the past I could not reconcile myself to the central absurdity of such award ceremonies–that although one can make judgments and evaluations about artistic expression, it is fundamentally impossible to decide which is better among excellent performances/productions, etc.

    I mean, what criteria does one use to decide that Sean Penn’s performance was better than Frank Langella’s, given that each of them played a different character? Isn’t this a question of judging apples and oranges? Can we actually say that one was more intense than the other? Or that there was an evaluative difference in the way each of them “inhabited” his character? I mean other than a subjective “I was more moved by this one over that?”

    Why, for instance, was Heath Ledger nominated as a shoo-in for his performance and Ayush Khedekar, the kid from Slumdog, not even considered? When Ledger stuck his head out of the car with that crazed grin and heady embrace of the wind as his vehicle careened through the streets of Gotham was it really a more transcendent moment than Khedekar’s excrement-covered, triumphant march through the slum towards his movie idol? Did it count for nothing that this kid from the sewage delivered a nuanced performance that was as expressive in its range of emotions and as skillful as anything a seasoned actor would deliver? The point is that there’s no real way to tell which is Better!

    So popularity, politics, money (bushels of it), and shameless promotion amid cries of “it’s his/her/their time this year” are what determine the winners. I guess I should just accept it for what it is and move on–tinsel town purring praise on itself! Of course, I could also throw into the mix American Idol or Figure Skating or Olympic Diving or anything else that seeks winners based on flimsy, subjective criteria–yes, skating and diving, for all their putative “objective” standards, are doomed by definition to be subjectively judged!