An ongoing review of politics and culture

Purgatory Mates

My one true culture hero, the poet W. H. Auden, invented something that he called a “parlor game,” though it strikes me as something more like a moral exercise. He called it Purgatory Mates, and it works like this.

First, you think of two people who despise each other, or, if they’re dead, despised each other, or, if they never met, would have utterly loathed each other had they been given the chance. The last category is the most fun. Auden preferred historical figures — artists, poets, philosophers — but the game works with all sorts of folks. The key thing is that the Mates need to have something in common, some shared passion or profession. After all, we’re more likely to hate people who care about the same things we do than people whose lives don’t really overlap ours. Thus Auden’s favorite Purgatory Mates were Tolstoy and Oscar Wilde: each of them a greatly gifted writer, but with radically different ideas about what writing is for and what the vocation of author is all about.

So, once you’ve chosen two people, you plop them in Purgatory. Now, as every reader of Dante knows, the purpose of Purgatory is to train people in love: once people learn to what they should in the way that they should, they may ascend to Paradise. And every Christian knows that we are commanded to love our neighbors. So: each of these Purgatory Mates has a new neighbor, a neighbor he loathes, but the only way that they’re going to get out of Purgatory is by learning to love each other.

Now we get to your chief task, as a player of this game: You have to figure out how this could happen. What would these two figures have to correct in their thinking and their affections? What impulses would they have to resist, and what counter-impulses would they need to cultivate? Where can we find the seed of charity that can be tended and cultivated until it becomes what it should be, so that these two former enemies can walk hand-in-hand into Paradise?

I commend this game — to myself as well as to others — as an excellent diversion in this presidential campaign season.

Is Sarah Palin an action hero?

She certainly seems to be playing one. I’m still a little ambivalent about her myself, but I suspect she’ll do well with the crucial geek vote.

LarryM Asks a Good Question

In a comment on my rant re: right-wing tribalism, LarryM added:

There are many, many people on the cultural right who want to marginalize me & people like me as much as I want to marginalize them. You aren’t one of those people, but you make common cause with them on a daily basis. Do you worry about that sometimes? If not, why not?

I’ll try to give you an honest answer, which is hard because honesty will require an elliptical answer.

My Female Equivalent

I’ve become obsessed by the amazing dance moves of The Blow:

The Alaska Problem

So a few days ago, I noted that Alaska was a part of the country that doesn’t evoke strong antipathy from other regions. Whereas urban northerners, and particularly urban northern liberals, have an instinctive unease about the Deep South, Alaska is an unknown quantity.

Well, that could change.

What I didn’t fully reckon with is how strange Wasilla, and Alaska, really is. Yes, Wasilla is a small town of strip malls that serves a valley of 70,000. Some residents commute to Anchorage. But, as a friend explained to me last night, it is also a haven of people who’ve deliberately chosen to reject mainstream American life. This is no surprise. If you want to shield your children from the evils of cable television and consumerism, taking them to the exurbs is a common but not terribly effective strategy — taking them to the edge of the Alaskan bush, on the other hand, demonstrates that you really, really mean business. Consider the urban Californians who left for Denver and Phoenix and Portland and maybe Bozeman. I mean, they prefer the lower cost of living and the higher quality of life. Maybe they like hiking. You get the picture. Then there are those who go to rural Idaho. Something different is going on, clearly. Cost of living is a big part of it, but so is what you might call a retreat to homogeneity. Okay. Then you go to Alaska — and say you go with a devoutly religious community that then forms a bush church, where you leave according to your strenuous creed.

Wikipedia tells me that only 39 percent of Alaska belong to religious congregations — the state is said to be, befitting part of the greater Pacific Northwest, pretty secular. But the evangelical tradition in the state is very robust, and it seems to be more diverse and experimental and unconventional than what you see in the lower 48. Secular and religious utopians alike flock to Alaska, and both define themselves against the mores of the American mainstream.

This is going to become a subject of great interest soon. Someone needs to write about it. I’d like to, but I obviously have a lot to learn. If you know anything — or if I’m getting this all wrong — let me know.

Keeping My Promise

I owe you all reviews of all the shows we saw on our last trip up to Stratford. For now, a short re-review of a show we saw back at the start of the season, and saw again with our six-year-old son: Romeo and Juliet.

My original review is here. In that review, I mentioned my concerns about Nikki James’ ability to hold the Festival Stage, vocally and physically. Lay such concerns to rest! She was so much stronger in August than she was at the end of May that it’s like the difference between Juliet and Rosaline. And the whole play is transformed as well.

And she’s not the only performer who has improved dramatically. I was somewhat ambivalent about Evan Buliung’s Mercutio on opening, calling him sarcastic and not especially likeable. Now he’s the force of nature that Mercutio ought to be – and much funnier, without losing any of his bite.

And what did my son think?

Well, he won’t stop biting his thumb at me, for one thing.

I’m just glad he didn’t understand any of Mercutio’s jokes.

Finally, I’m pleased to note that the American press is starting to acknowledge the existence of the most significant classical repertory in this hemisphere. That’s what Des McAnuff, Christopher Plummer and Brian Dennehy will do for a festival, I guess. In any event, here is a review of several of the season’s offerings from Charles Isherwood at The New York Times, and here is a review from John Simon at Bloomberg. Both reviews devote the bulk of their attention to Plummer’s turn as Julius Caesar in Shaw’s Caesar and Cleopatra, which we saw the opening of as well. I’ll hopefully get my review of that play, and everything else we saw in August, out by the end of the week.

The Book of Sorkin

Chris and Dustin fly down the narrow hallways of the crowded dormitory occasionally bumping into one another, thinning themselves out to pass by others, and turning in unison to look at each other pensively. They are thinking: this is important, this needs to get done, this will never work.

They finally reach the door and fling it open to find Mark morosely looking up. He was expecting them.

Another Dr. Dog Post

Marissa Ross has a really astute post on one of my favorite bands, Dr. Dog.

One of my favorite things about Dr. Dog’s music is their portrayal of problems and solutions. There is always a sense of comfort in everything. In a completely unobtrusive fashion, they present a set of beliefs and a way of living- live, love, be happy, empathetic and wise. Yes, life will always have its fair share of altercations but there is always an answer and there are no absolutes. An entire song about a disappointing friendship ends on the note that it is still a choice, “Are you my curse or are you my friend?”

I love these guys for a lot of reasons. One reason is that their lyrics are intelligent and deeply humane. A somewhat smaller reason is that they are really small.

Another note: the new Walkmen album is terrific. Note that Washington, D.C. produces lots of cool human beings — the boys who grew to become the men behind Jonathan Fire*Eater, one of whom is my New America colleague Thomas A. Frank, and later The Walkmen; El Guapo-Supersystem-Shy Child, etc. I grew up in Brooklyn, but I’ve lived in Washington long enough to appreciate its not inconsiderable charms.

But yes, Dr. Dog is from Philadelphia, another great American city that, frankly, I’m tired of hearing praised to the skies, though I’m certainly happier to hear Philadelphia praised than the ritzier precincts of New York.

Betrayed!

Sonny Bunch liked Traitor a lot more than I did:

This is a movie sure to spark some controversy. Though one of the few films to portray radical Islam as a legitimate (if not existential) threat, it surely will madden some that the Jihadi terrorists whom Samir befriends are not cartoonish, cardboard cutouts. Their motivations are examined even as their behavior goes unexcused.

Really? It’s not a terribly entertaining movie (certainly it’s got nothing on the Bourne series) and, really, does anyone come away with any greater understanding of, well, anything after watching the film? That it heavy-handedly alludes to the most obvious and superficial motivations for terrorism does not, in my book, make it worthwhile.

Look, I appreciate that the movie made an attempt to portray terrorism in a way that’s more thoughtful than an episode of 24 — it gets an A for intention (if not effort) — but I think I’d prefer Jack Bauer’s dumb-plus-a-gun antics to Traitor’s dreary moping pretty much any day of the week. It’s not that a show like 24 is particular sharp or even particularly good, but what it does have is an appropriate sense of itself: 24 is a violent, stupid action-fantasy — and it knows it; Traitor is fully convinced it’s saying something deep and important, but, I’m sorry to say, it’s just not.

Let's Put a Smile on That Face

I guarantee this will:

My Face is Melting! Meeeeelting!

September 12th, people.

The Pink Police Empire

James flags this sensational article about British vacationers who are earning a reputation for pathetic barbarism and, if the citation is to be believed, are getting themselves killed at an amazing rate:

A recent report published by the British Foreign Office, “British Behavior Abroad,” noted that in a 12-month period in 2006 and 2007, 602 Britons were hospitalized and 28 raped in Greece, and that 1,591 died in Spain and 2,032 were arrested there.

It seems that standby tickets when flying from Spain to Britain would be a safe bet, with about four suddenly empty seats every day.

I agree wholeheartedly with James’ decision to clip this piece for the bulging Pink Police State file, rather than blaming the behavior on a stereotyped British repression. Says James:

Such are the perils of living in a place that’s increasingly becoming one of the most mirthless of all pink police states: a nanny whose rule is so regimented that she permits you the luxury of barhopping until the wee hours and screwing and spazzing your way across town after town.

What really struck me, though, are the global implications:

Worried about the increase in crimes and accidents afflicting drunken tourists, the British consulate in Athens has begun several campaigns, using posters, beach balls and coasters with snappy slogans, to encourage young visitors to drink responsibly.

“When things do go wrong, they go wrong in quite a big way,” said Alison Beckett, the director of consular services. “What we’re trying to do here is reduce some of these avoidable accidents where they have so much to drink that they fall off balconies and are either killed or need huge operations.

If citizens of the nanny state insist on leaving the front garden, she’s going to have to follow them, right? Eventually, we might see a world in which the sun never sets on a safe and puking Briton.

Stuff Nobody Likes

Sonny Bunch points to positive trends in our country’s book-buying habits.

(Let me also add that if you aren’t regularly reading Sonny’s blog, you’re missing out. No one grumbles about Chi-coms quite the same way.)

Continuing Olympics Coverage

Those of you who follow slashdot or Alan Jacobs’ Tumblr page may have already seen the spectacular Olympic venues built by the Hong Kong Lego club.

In an apparent oversight, there were no pictures of the infamous and never-used “protest pens,” so my son built us the following:

medal counting

In these Olympics, China likes to count gold medals, because they have more of them than anyone else: as I write, 47 (to the U.S.‘s 31). The U.S. likes to count total medals, because they have more of them than anyone else: 102 (to China’s 89). But what if we were to count medal scores by giving three points for each gold, two for each silver, and one for each bronze? That would give China (47, 17, 25) a score of 200. And it would give the U.S. (31, 36, 35) . . . 200.

Getting with the program

Peter’s recent post about how NYMag’s The Vulture suddenly declaring the new Jonas Brothers’ song-like product “kind of awesome” illustrates somethng mildly depressing about pop music criticism these days. There’s a sort of neo-populism happening among big-time critics, which poses as dismissive towards rarefied hipster niches and open-minded towards radio pop, highly produced R&B, and mainstream rap. The cutting edge of this anti-cutting edge criticism is occupied by Slate’s Jody Rosen (see his year-end dialogue with Robert Cristgau and Ann Powers for his smirking dismissal of those lame unpopular indie bands; Ann Powers occupies a somewhat duller edge). I think there’s a couple possible explanations for this, only one of which entertains the possibility that the likes of the Jonas Brothers don’t actually suck. I’ve started to harbor a Lilla-esque suspicion on this, i.e. that critics get a bad conscience, or a distaste for their own larger irrelevance, in their consistent and futile championing of a bunch of underground nobodies, and have a secret thirst to hitch up with the stronger currents. And I have to admit, whenever I have decided that something popular and presumptively sucky is actually “kind of awesome,” I have experienced a kind of ease, the dropping of contradictions: “Ahh…it’s good not to have to fight the tides.” To be on the side of the people, to feel their power, it is kind of awesome.

Phnom Pop

Khmer Rock will melt your brain. My friend Min is really obsessed with this music, and she sent me a few incredibly bizarre tracks about cyclos and hooting and hollering at ladies on the street in an absurdist yet definitely, uh, insane way. She’s in Phnom Penh right now, but she promises to send me some links.

Many eons ago, I was an ethnic studies dabbler, and I was always impressed by “ethnics” who were, like, “Yes, I am a Chicana militant, but I think I’m going to study the Suomi people and their relationship with reindeers.” That’s cool, man! Min technically has no connection to Cambodia, but she’s pretty obsessed. I think I haven’t been obsessed with a country per se since college. I am something of a Singapore enthusiast, but I’m sheepish about it.