It would be easy for Fameto take the path of least resistance and do yet another faux "gritty", lightweight, heavy on the new style of urban dancing "Dance Movie" that's been done, really, to death. Perhaps the happiest
development is that this is not Step Up 3 - or Inner City High School Musical 6 - even if, in the end, this is neither a remake, nor a repeat, of the 1980 original.
Fame(the original) gets a lot of credit - more than I think it needs - for what it was, a musical at a time when the musical form seemed especially dead. The crush of seventies realism, the generally grim economic times, and the faltering of American cinema had all combined to make the idea of singing, dancing, cheerful shows quite passe. In some sense, the musical has never entirely recovered... though it has, I think, begun to adapt to the realities of leaving the old "showtune" ethos behind and embraced the rock - and music video - eras.
The orginal Fame was a key part of that; by focusing on the Performing Arts High School of Manhattan, the performances could grow, organically, from the material... and not lose the sense of being grounded in the reality of urban life. But that grounding, to me anyway, was often unnecessarily intense and negative, meant to give us a sense that performing was really these kids only moment of escape... but denying the essential thrill of getting to do what you love, and love what you do, for its own sake. Not every story needs sad punctuation.
Urban life isn't all harsh realities and downbeat moments and Fame, now, adapts well to the changed notion of modern urban existence. Less grim, less negative, Fame still presents a unique, diverse notion of the passion to perform, grounded in reality, but given, this time, a chance to soar. Watch it fly.
You can't have the moment Swift is having - crossing over from Country to Pop, and not be well liked, in a general way, by pretty much all concerned. Yes, she's a little bland and her big successes - Love Story, and You Belong With Me are treacly, fairy tale romance singles... but when you can leaven that sweetness with a song like White Horse ("I'm not a princess, this ain't a fairy tale... and it's too late for you and your white horse... to come around"), clearly, there's a lot going on.
At nineteen. And you wrote all of it.
That, really, is what makes Kanye West's behavior so appalling; it would be one thing if Taylor Swift were just some American Idol winner, processed and polished beyond all recognition (that woud be Kellie Pickler, for those who don't know), but Swift belonged on the stage just as much as the young women she competes with in the marketplace. Watching the VMA crowd - Pink, Lady Gaga, Beyonce, hell, even Madonna - you could see these women flash with the recognition of a kindred spirit: they had been her, too, at 19. And Kanye had no right to step on that, or take it away.
Let's pause for a minute too and just point out the obvious: who the hell cares about the VMAs? Does anyone really believe they recognize the real breadth and artistry in music videos? Can anything really encompass what has become, clearly a short film art form as well as a commercial vehicle? Can you recall anyone who's won the award Swift won, ever? Me, either. So let's not wax too rhapsodic. It's a minor award, and the real excitement has always been the balance of control and anarchy in the show itself. Those are what we remember.
Of course, David Brooks gets it: these are rude, unthinking times. Ones where people feel free to insert themselves into whatever moment however they feel. The right has tried, for years, to blame a permissive, liberal culture.. but we're way past that when last week had Joe Wilson and the weekend had the DC tea party. No one, it seems, remembers the words "boundaries" or "standards" never mind fundamental decency. It's nice that Kanye's sorry... it'd be nicer if he'd never done it in the first place. Or never did it again. But then, as long as we, as a society keep rewarding the bad behavior, rather than the better ones - when we make Kanye the story, rather than the grace of Taylor Swift in a horrible moment, or the graciousness of Beyonce Knowles to try and make things right - we're already answering what matters - the scandal, the bad behavior, and the outrage. Surely... we can do better than this.
It's a world I don't really recognize, this world where Patrick Swayze captured our hearts and imaginations and had such a brilliant career. I don't mean to seem callous... but we are talking about Patrick Swayze... not Patrick Stewart. At least Stewart's decision to play to commercial success over art seemed to involve a choice.
A lot of people are talking about Dirty Dancing and how transcendent it was, which is kind of true... but also not: it was a slow summer, no one had made a successful musical - never mind really featured dancing as central to the plot - in years, and Swayze was, yes, wildly attractive. It helped that the script for Dirty Dancing was literate and well put together. But we shouldn't overstate what it was - a real classic summer popcorn pleaser - and raise expectations too high. The real power of Dirty Dancing is in the first word, not the second; it's not "nobody puts Baby in a corner", it's that Baby is a grown woman and the story of her summer fling is about dancing as sex, sex as dancing, and both being pretty damn enjoyable, if you do it right.
Dancers and swimmers... the real secret is in the powerful legs.
I always admired Patrick Swayze because he was an unabashed, unashamed dancer; he was well trained (by his mom, for starters) and good at it, and he was straight and butch and he had nothing to prove. There's nothing wrong with being gay and a dancer (that's me)... but it's the one profession where the two kind of get assumed together, and it's more than a little unfair to straight guys who dance. Swayze went a long way to demolishing preconceived notions, without being arrogant or defensive about it.
He was not a great actor; nor was he a particularly exceptional singer, and had he been either, I suspect he'd have made an effortless transition to Broadway star, which never quite happened. As it was, he was a fairly unique combination of beefy good looks, stolid presence, and graceful physicality. All of that is showcased most effectively in Dirty Dancing... and rarely after that. Though I have to admit... I've never seen Roadhouse. But trying to shower accolades on a career littered with Point Breaks and Ghosts and all sorts of B-list business... it's too much labor to try and dress it up.
In some ways he was too early and peaked too soon - the world of show dancing that's appeared in recent years (So You Think You Can Dance, Dancing With The Stars) would have loved him, in his prime. They might even have embraced now, after all these years, had he been well enough and strong enough. I wish he'd danced more, in public; that's where I think we missed out, where Hollywood never made the best use of his finest skill. And I suppose that's why I don't think of Swayze as "gone too soon" - the lives of dancers are just not as long as everyone else; it's hard on the body... and the heart, I think. The dancer is gone. The celebrity survives.
I have a whole "angry rad fag" speech ready to go about the PObama Administration... but got stopped cold last night by the latest piece of dunderheaded internal confusion in this week's New York.
Mark Harris ( I know... "who?") writes a long, talky piece about some "gay generation gap" I've never seen and have a hard time believing exists. In some terribly sloppy, and all too easy, "we're this, and they're that" observations, his glaring omissions stick out - almost no one is actually interviewed for their actual opinion, no actual data is cited to show anything he claims, and as many point out, he essentially ignores lesbians... a much more honest indication of the real divide amongst gay folks.
Harris talks about "men in their forties and fifties" as some sort of "Stonewall" generation - I don't know where he was (he says he's 45), but I was 3 when Stonewall happened, and 13 in 1979, arguably the height of the initial "gay is good" movement of the seventies. And so, basically, was he. We weren't there for that (indeed, by 1979, the best I could tell you is that I was pretty sure I liked boys, maybe); the most defining aspect of our supposed "revolutionary" days was the mid-eighties arrival of AIDS ion te national consciousness and the dawning of ACT UP and other protests.
And frankly, Harris in rewriting that past, even as he claims the younger generation is somehow unaware of it - he conveniently forgets that, to the "older generation" of the AIDS fighters, we were aimless dilettantes, dancing on the edge of Armageddon. We were never angry enough, committed enough, serious enough - we were the Ecstasy generation, the new band of partiers, often ignoring the march and going straight to the after party. Tony Kushner makes the point in Angels in America. Terrence McNally highlights the divide in Love! Valour! Compassion! I could go on. We were, as Harris fails to connect, the very thing he describes about young people to the generation older than us. We were insufficiently "gay" enough - not enough into the old movies, the old cultural signifiers (Judy Garland? Seriously? from a 22 year old in 1987?). If we've changed, over time - and I'd say, many of us didn't - it's an indication that you need some time to learn these things. I didn't discover Garland, really, until I was over 30.
From what I've seen of a divide... there isn't a divide. If anything, younger gay folks are better revolutionaries than we ever were - actually living the change we all kind of sort of thought might be okay. Too much of my gay generation is actually summed up in, well, Andrew Sullivan - sex positive, slightly outrageous... but in the end, kind of conventional and ordinary. The younger folks seem less bound by societal expectations, and familiar definitions. Yet there they are, campaigning for gay marriage, something I know I, like many single gay men in their forties, think is okay... but perhaps not the thing we always wanted.
I work with younger people and I talk to a lot of younger gay men - and lesbians - enough to know that we don't have a divide; we have, as always, a relentless gay culture that fetishizes youth, being young, and avoiding, in many ways, adult responsibilities. We don't tell our gay history... and then we wonder why no one knows about it. And we fault young people for things we ought to do ourselves - reach out, find things out, talk to them. If we're old enough to have the wisdom Harris claims - which I tend to doubt in many of us - then we should be wise enough to know how to share it.
But ultimately, Harris wrong about the "divide" for a far more obvious reason - it's because when we were the "young" generation... the older one was dying. We are a gay generation, him and I and everyone we know, without a real path to show us how to age, as I've said before. We have tremendous freedom in that, a freedom Harris essentially ignores in his small, bitter rumination on "why won't the kids talk to me." Look forward, not back. Look at the possibilities, not the walls you put up around you. And maybe, just maybe, you'll see that the gap you imagine... is really all in your head. The kids are all right. And so are we.
This is one of those wonderful bits of "personal business" that's been providing some of my offline distraction lately - I'm thrilled for her, and for Steve, her fiance, and I'm in the wedding party. (And by the way, not all the "personal business" is nearly so wonderful... but never mind. Let's stay in the happy place.)
So last night we had a little engagement party for Red and her man down in a dive bar on the Lower East Side - well, really more of a "dive bar" in that it seemed like one of those artful reconstructions of the real thing than the actual thing itself - and I was reminded of what it is to be friends with my Red... part of a smart circle of really interesting folks.
It was great to see the "Brandeis Girls", friends from her college years who've remained remarkably tight knit and connected; and the other ones, like me, that Red's collected over the years, and who bounce off one another in interesting ways making fascinating sparks.
I mention all of this because I wound up in a long, fun conversation with an actor friend in this circle, husband to one of Red's most supportive friends (and beautiful, even at nine months pregnant like last night). Joey is a real working actor, a journeyman who's found his niche in many ways, and works pretty regularly in a field that's not the most secure. After talking about his most recent theatrical experience, we moved on to a wide ranging musing about acting, writing, and creative pursuits generally.
We talked about the challenge of talking about writing, or really any creative endeavor - that really, you don't want to share much, that we hold our work close to our hearts, and the act of showing them is a brave one. And that, if you share to much, it may keep you from creating the work: talking, rather than doing. I was sort of interested to hear Joey say that he doesn't talk about acting, and it's true - he'll tell you what he's done... but not the process of what he's doing, how he finds a character or creates a role.
Writing is hard; we were both keenly aware of it (and so was Red, who admitted the grind of daily blogging was getting to her). And it's hard, sometimes, to get started and keep going. Joey mentioned a playwright acquaintance who was a runner, like he was, and they talked about the "seven minute warmup" of running - that you have to run for about seven minutes before the endorphins kick in and it becomes a kick, even fun, to do it. But you have to go through the first seven, often painful and difficult, minutes to get there... you can't avoid it.
The creative process, he pointed out, was very similar; you have to take those "seven minutes" of pain to get to a place where the writing, or the whatever, just flows, and when you do - like a painter friend he has who can go days just painting and sleeping in his studio space - you may not want to stop.
And I thought... Exactly.
It was just the conversation I needed - talking to someone who "gets it" about the creative process, the process of creating. Letting out, for just a moment, the dreams and ideas that animate what we do.... and remembering that what we do is hard, and rewarding. And we do it because it's hard... and rewarding. And I thought it might be nice to share that with you.
And to get on with the seven minutes. Thanks, Joey.
MIDDAY UPDATE: one that I missed over my birthday week is this interesting discussion about the claims and actual measurement of the audience for Rush Limbaugh. It's one of those "the closer you look, the fuzzier it gets," but it's a good pointed reminder to take notions of the "power of right wing radio" with some serious grains of salt. (PS, this is also a nice moment to plug the twitter feed from Media Matters, which helped lead me to the first article.)
And then (via one of my new Twitter feeds, Karl in Austin, TX) there's the headsmacking shock - and seriously screwed up implications - of the (Republican) member of the Texas House (and on the Health Committee!) saying... "What's Medicaid?"
A less screaming - but just as pointed - wake up call comes (via Ezra) from the Washington Monthly in this interesting article: when conservatives get cultural criticism wrong, how can they expect anyone to listen to them criticize the culture?
And in the Hollywood minute - you do realize that "Right Round" is about getting head, right? And that "If You Seek Amy" is really dirty too... right?
As the economic crisis has unfolded, I think a lot of us who care about the arts have been blind-sided by the confluence of politics, economic issues, and the creative enterprises we love. As critics, we exist to experience the thrill of the creative; we are the audience, we are the reactive element. None of us, really, can cope with a world where the thrill is gone.
I've been meaning, for months, to work on this - muse a little about how money meets art, about the binds we face in the economic collapse... and some idea of how we can survive. This wasn't, I think, how we expected things to shake out: outside of the folks at Breitbart's Big Hollywood, many of us were expecting, I suspect, a bit of a renaissance in the arts, a chance to exhale after the Bush years, a chance to celebrate the creative side of "hope" and "change."
Since the beginning of the year, about 16 Broadway shows have closed; outside of some of the current profit centers of commercially successful musicals, almost nothing survived the November crash with a cushion large enough to weather the early months of the year, always a slow period in theater, made slower by the lack of discretionary funds to spend on entertainment. Recorded music and concert sales have tanked - never mind the disaster of electronics sales that mean fewer high end sound systems and flat screen TVs. And television is reeling from enormous drops in audience share, as well as drops in future ad revenue projections. NBC's desperation play of the Jay Leno show may still be idiotic, but the economic justifications for it have only grown as GE flails around trying to escape the collapse of its debt.
Perhaps the only bright spot is the week-to-week increase in film ticket revenue, mirroring American behavior in the Depression: apparently, we're still lured to forget our troubles watching the flickering light in the darkened hall (making escapist crap like Paul Blart: Mall Cop, He's Just Not That Into You, Madea Goes To Jail, and Friday the 13th into even more unexpected successes than anyone anticipated). Still, even in with increased traffic, there are problems in film exhibition: ticket prices are generally too high, and movieplexes sit in some of the most enormous commercial property boondoggles of the real estate bubble. As we relocated 20, 24 and 30 screen megaplexes further and further out in the exurbs, we attached them to malls and housing developments that are now part of the crux of the mortgage meltdown and the home construction debacle. Audiences that want film will struggle more and more this year with economic realities that force unpleasant choices that mean foregoing a weekly trip to the movies... unless prices can be forced down (anybody else see the return of the extended bargain matinee?).
Even less discussed, lately, is the disconcerting dry-up of charitable giving and high end donors who suppored the fine arts: Classical Music, Dance, Museums, Regional Theater... all are reeling as donations dry up, and state supporting funds begin to feel the heat of balancing budgets. It's all too clear that support for the arts is seen as frivolous and unnecessary too often and by too many; we worry about a healthcare crisis and a schools crisis... but no one seems to care about a looming culture crisis, a world with much less art. And light.
I freely admit to being a little old school about my entertainments: I was raised on movie musicals, Broadway shows and the Great American Songbook. Although I love pop music and today's latest hits... the eclectic nature of my tastes brings me back to the classics, all the time. But at the same time, I'm not really a full-on Show Queen; J's brother... shall we call him F in Balto... is the real deal. Next to him, I'm just an interested bystander.
In the course of thinking about some new critical writing I wound up searching out the old "French Mystique" number from the end of Blazing Saddles.... that, in turn, led me to a You Tube search of Madeline Kahn, which led me to Madeline performing "Getting Married Today" from a Sondheim Tribute Concert. That led me to Carol Burnett performing the same song in Putting It Together (which I saw, on Broadway), which led me to another version of the song I liked best that Carol did, "Could I Leave You" (can't find Carol's version, but here's Dee Hoty):
In the meantime I found this sketch of Carol Burnett and Robin Williams which I think is from one of Carol's shows on CBS. I've never seen them work together, and it's just... well, you have to see it, because Carol's a consummate comic actress... and Robin Williams is crazy:
In any case, all of this led me to trip over a strng of Judy Garland performances... so, just to pass along something I love, here is Judy doing Just In Time from Live at The London Palladium. Judy did a number of different arrangements of Just In Time, but for my money, this one, which was the one she was doing towards the end of her life, is the one that just sends shivers up my spine... mostly because the urgency of finding someone... just in time... really hits home the way she sings it:
And, just for shits and giggles... here's the French Mystique:
Posting will be a little light for the next 36 hours... big time Starbucks overtime sitch. In the meantime, while I try to finish the post on why McCain's... er... finished, let's thank god for Towleroad and turning me on to this video. Hot damn, I love me some Indigo Girls, too. :)
As previously announced, the NYC Weboy will be on a hiatus from blogging here for the rest of August. Please scroll down, as it's likely that J in Baltimore and RedStar may fill in the gaps with musings, links and photos of their own. You may also find me blogging some critical things over at newcritics. I will not be checking this blog on any kind of a regular basis, but I can be reached via e-mail (nycweboy at nycweboy dot com)... and I do welcome correspondence. I will resume blogging the Tuesday after Labor Day. Yes, that means I will not blog about the Democratic Convention... but just assume I liked Hillary's speech, that the VP selection is not my favorite choice, and I wasn't all that impressed with Obama's speech.
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