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Alone, Yet Not Alone

I'd been trying - as part of my general "time to reboot consistent blogging" strategy - to put together a piece on Justin Bieber, because his arrest really caught my attention.

And then Philip Seymour Hoffman died.

There's been the usual mix of sarcasm and disdain expressed for Bieber's behavior, a sadly familiar spectacle of acting out and getting caught. It's been harder (though not nonexistent) to find those who worry about the kid (he's only 19!) and hope he gets himself some treatment.

There's an awkwardness in America to discussing and dealing with drug use, abuse and addiction issues, a remnant of our distant history of puritanism, a distinctly American sense of privacy and suggestions that difficult family matters be kept behind closed doors. We are at once a people who want uncomfortable matters swept quietly aside, yet fascinated with the intimate details of each other's lives. It doesn't help that popular culture both rewards and gives notoriety to bad behavior and acting out, our fascination with a life that dares to color outside the expected lines vexing our expectations that people stay within those lines at all times.

When a drunken celebrity - often a young woman - is caught on camera stumbling and slurring and causing a scene, it's the mix of fascination and revulsion that propels it, often, into our national consciousness. Less consideration is given to how we (or more to the point, the person doing it) got to that moment, or what happens next. We talk vaguely of "the downward spiral of child stars" as if its an interesting abstraction, and less the painful trajectory of actual people and their actual lives.

I've been thinking about this a lot in the couple of weeks since Bieber's arrest in Miami, about signs and warnings, and downward spirals. Those who follow celebrity gossip closely - or not even, since I really don't invest the time in it writing like this might suggest - could tell you that Bieber's slide has been widely seen and discussed, bubbling just beneath the kind of coverage that happens once an arrest is made, or the problem becomes impossible to hide. Like Lindsay Lohan, Bieber's early life has been carefully dressed for PR purposes as less chaotic and tumultuous than it might seem on closer examination, the kind of warning signs of someone at risk long before the fame and the easy access arrives.

Addicts tell surprisingly similar tales of pain, isolation and loneliness leading to use and abuse of substances. I've thought about that as well with the Bieber story, how sad can it be to have all that he seemingly has, yet to seem so alone, so fragile, so determined to anesthetize oneself?

But what also comes to mind is a grim reality that's less discussed, partly because, I suspect, Bieber's kind of success doesn't necessarily evoke sympathy, or a certain kind of respect. One can miss the kid's obvious talents, his appealing singing voice, the grace of his dancing, his natural ability as a performer. Some talents, once squandered, can be lamented and and missed. Whitney Houston, or Heath  Ledger come to mind. But a Bieber, whose celebrity has trumped his talent... that lament can seem less obvious. But it's still there.

The sad reality is that Bieber's career has been the first, most obvious casualty of his behavior. Though he's toured successfully in the past few years, his status as a teen idol has been almost completely eclipsed by newcomers (One Direction, as well as newer teens like Austin Mahone and Cody Simpson) and established acts (Justin Timberlake, most obviously, has reasserted himself as the kind of heartthrob act Bieber aspires to be). His arrest occurred on the eve of the Grammys, where he was hardly missed, and in no contention for any award. The music world has already moved on, and so has much of the listening public. He hasn't charted a single, or released new material in some time. It's hard to see how he can collect himself, or his thoughts, for a project anytime soon.

That's where, to me, this story of Bieber intersects with Philip Seymour Hoffman. Amidst the lamentations for the loss of a prolific, widely admired actor, there's been the kind of immediate reassessment that happens with death, where the work takes on a fresh glow, and critics tend to emphasize the good and ignore the rest. Hoffman was indeed an actor of amazing range and depth, but he hadn't necessarily enjoyed anything like a career renaissance in recent years. His performances in The Hunger Games were not entirely well received, and underscored a kind of typecasting he endured as a smug, especially cold villain in big budget films. He had more opportunity to showcase his ranginess in smaller dramas, yet even there, it's hard to point to exceptional work in recent years.

Many will protest "but what about The Master?" No doubt his work was intense and skilled; but the film is chilly, dense, hard to love, and failed to find an audience. That's not a failure of the performers, per se, but it goes to a question that lingers about Hoffman, his addiction issues, and his admitted spiral into relapse. What choices might he have made had his addiction been less present, his sobriety more certain? Sober choices are smarter ones, more thought out, riskier yet also less dangerous, based upon more than a check, or a need to prove oneself. Onstage, his turn as Willy Loman was similarly curious, not a bad choice, necessarily, but an awfully big bite for an actor so young, in some ways still maturing and finding all of his potential. It's telling, that the reactions were so mixed, and so extreme; those who loved it, those who didn't have the heart to say it didn't really work.

It's hardest, I think, to have such a phenomenal talent, one that's expressed so young and so well and so naturally that it seems effortless. Hoffman's early roles have a sureness to them that really was breathtaking. Or think of Whitney Houston as Clive Davis found her, such an amazing raw talent for singing and interpreting a song just waiting to fly. And yes, Justin Bieber and his soaring young tenor, that need to be in front of an audience, that eagerness to please and to succeed. Judy Garland always spoke of the inner resources and energy it took just to be the Judy Garland audiences came to expect, capable of singing and performing others just couldn't touch. It should be easier, effortless, not isolating and difficult. And that's not really the case. It isn't easy. There's a lot of effort. And sometimes, it's easier to just fake it. Go onstage a little drunk. Phone it in. When you're that good, you can get away with it. At first, for a while, maybe before people notice, or suspect. For a while anyway. Especially when they don't look. Or pretend not to see.

We'll never know, now, what might have been, the actor Hoffman might have become, the actor he might have been in a more sober state. That loss is genuinely painful to contemplate, as is that question of what or who could have intervened, or knowing that no one could stop a path of self destruction unless he decided himself. If Hoffman's death is a cautionary tale, can someone get it to caution Justin Bieber, to help him see that there's no one to stop him self destructing except himself? I wish he would. I hope he does. The alternative remains too tragic. But not unthinkable, or unforseeable. If we choose to look.

Related articles

RIP Phillip Seymour Hoffman

Miley Cyrus Advises Bieber, Brags About Never Being Locked Up

The epidemic we were ignoring before Philip Seymour Hoffman died

Reports: Bieber's plane searched; pop star questioned - Houston Chronicle (blog)

Justin Bieber Arrested for DUI, Smiles in Mugshot

Articles We Never Finished Reading: Here, There... Somewhere

Deepika Bahri, a friend and an associate professor of English at Emory University in Atlanta, where Mr. Rushdie is a distinguished writer in residence, said that Mr. Rushdie was game for interacting online with any person or subject, highbrow or low. “I don’t think it really matters to him,” Ms. Bahri said, when asked how such behavior might affect public perception. “He does not fear or have concern about what people think or what it will do to his literary reputation.”

                 - Laura Holson, "From Exile To Everywhere," The NYT, Sunday Styles (emphasis mine)

"Everywhere," it seems, refers to Manhattan nightclubs and restaurants, not frequent flights to Atlanta, where Salman Rushdie is apparently "in residence."

This one isn't a "don't bother" because of the actual piece - like most Sunday/SunGay Styles articles, sure, it deals in trivialities, but it's not as bad as, say, building a makeup line off of the villains in The Hunger Games, or treating Kim Kardashian impersonators as art. No, what made me throw this one down was the subject of the article, Rushdie himself, who still, somehow, manages to garner this kind of coverage as if anything he's done literarily is remotely relevant or important. Even when The Satanic Verses was published, earning Mr. Rushdie death threats from fundamentlaist Islam (mostly Iran), Rushdie was more social butterfly than literary light; and time spent in hiding didn't particularly help ground him much better. But even the Times article notes that whole escapade ended after about ten years, and we're a good twenty years past that. And still, Rushdie is most notable for catting around with attractive women, frequenting nightclubs and bars, and vaguely talking about writing a new series for Showtime. And the difference between him and some other guy you run into on the Hotel Gansevoort rooftop? Not much, save that Rushdie is paid absurd sums to serve as things like "Distinguished Writer", no seriously... wait for it... "In residence" at Emory in Atlanta.  

Of course, Emory is welcome to throw its money away in any way it sees fit, but I just feel bad for the actual students at Emory, who deserve better than some Page Six Publicity Monster who can't even be bothered to take terms like "in residence" seriously.  And to be even fairer, this is hardly even one of the ten top reasons I'd never take Emory seriously, either (number one: Atlanta). None of which can be blamed on the Times, though it's hard to tell just how firmly Holson is relaying all of this seirously, or tongue in cheek. In either case, I couldn't be bothered to find out how this one turns out... because the thing really seems to write itself.

A Few More Words From The Terrible TV Criticism Of Alessandra Stanley

It's false equivalency time!

On Monday’s episode of  MTV could show minors in the kind of flagrante delicto that is usually reserved for mature audiences. Yet most adult Americans still can’t watch Al Jazeera English on television — even now, when the world is transfixed by images of Egypt in revolt.

It seems like a perverse application of free speech. But sex is sexier than foreign affairs and it certainly sells better. Freedom of expression is guaranteed to all Americans, but mostly it follows the money.

Yes, that's right, Alessandra Stanley has decided to link Skins and the Egyptian Revolution, as presented by Al Jazeera!

Can you figure out how to veer from discussing the slanted coverage of a news network to the sleazy business of selling teen sexuality on a scripted British import? Neither can Stanley, though she lurches all over the place, and eventually settles on "ratings" as her basis for cable systems not carrying Al Jazeera but still carrying MTV. That's not "analysis", that's desperation.

And, as if that's not enough, Stanley isn't done throwing in the kitchen sink:

To be fair, Al Jazeera English may be providing the most up-close and personal coverage round-the-clock, but it isn’t necessarily the best. And “Skins” isn’t the worst series for young people on cable, not by far. That would be “Jersey Shore.”

"To be fair"? How about "to try and throw in yet another complete non sequitour"?

And "Jersey Shore"? Seriously?

None of this is necessarily surprising - Stanley's long been the best example of worst criticism the Times has to offer... which is saying something in a pool that includes, still, the blatherings of Ben Brantley. Still, even for Stanley's usual lousy standards, this column was especially, awesomely, bad.

It's a shame, because the Times has actually been putting some effort into recasting its Arts pages, improving the quality of coverage, smoothing out its terrible instincts for flashy trash and simultaneous Upper East Side superiority (Which explains the Music department's apparent schizophrenic love of gangsta rap and opera). The Sunday section is almost readable again, Brantley is balanced with the perceptive analysis of Charles Isherwood, Manohla Dargis seems to be less and less of a presence on the film side. But for all the good... there's still Stanley and her astonishingly lame TV reviews. Does this nightmare ever end?

By the way, just to wrap up how lousy this column is: the problem with Skins is that it's not very good, which is the kind of situation where pushing the envelope on salaciousness is meant to cover weak writing and fairly bad acting (it's hard to find great acting talent under 18, and the market is seriously tapped out). Skins is mostly further proof that British shows rarely transfer well to America (The Office is an exception that actually helps prove the rule). Al Jazeera's inability to increase its presence on American cable systems deserves a full, separate article. And Jersey Shore's popularity, while mind blowing, is not inexplicable, and mostly a reminder that America's television habits are not generally, a reflection of good taste. Which, really, should help Alessandra Stanley, and still, somehow, doesn't.

Everybody's Free... To Feel Good.

I've been noticing, lately, that I seem to have gotten away from film and TV reviews, especially film crit, and cultural criticism more generally. I've especially noticed it because I walk out of films thinking "I should write a review" - most recently, Machete and Easy A - and then coming home and deciding "why bother."

I'm planning to rectify that... but there's something I wanted to share, more generally, about the state of entertainment, that I think might be relevant.

The past few days, I've been having a pair of fascinating conversations - and one non-conversation - with friends about the new television season. Slowly, and somewhat selectively, I've been finding new and returning shows to watch, getting up to speed on new storylines and characters. It's been, well, entertaining... and it was, actually, thinking that I should, finally, get around to reviewing Glee that got me thinking about my own struggles to keep up with critical writing.

But in sharing some of my early impressions with my pals, I got some interesting, even bewildering feedback, which I think may be a general trend: people aren't watching TV like they used to, not the way they used to, and not in the numbers they used to. There's been some general discussion about changing viewing habits and the rise of "reality television", but I'm not sure anyone has placed all the latest changes in viewing in a context that seems relevant: the effect of the economic downturn, and a sense, I think, that entertainment is a luxury many of us can't afford and maybe even shouldn't have.

This is especially related to television, since TV watching, since its inception, has been an American pastime of mass taste and mass cultural appeal. From the early days, when everyone - and we do mean pretty much all Americans with TVs - used to watch Milton Berle or Ed Sullivan. Even well into the seventies, American TV was characterized by massive events where everyone tuned in to see them. The Super Bowls that used to get 70+% of homes watching, The Oscars as well.

Since the eighties, that sense of mass culture attached to TV has broken down, for a number of reasons. Cable TV, most obviously, splintered the viewing public into ever smaller pieces of the viewing public, and with it came the potential to attract larger niche audiences with specifically tailored programs - whether you think of that in terms of say, Top Chef attracting people interested in food and cooking, or BET  and Logo, designed to appeal to minority audiences who have not seen themselves widely reflected in network programming.

Lately, all of that has been further complicated by these intertubes; with YouTube and other options to see video on computers, fewer people need to be tied to a box at home or a specific time to watch. "Have you seen...?" now becomes a question we use to share content with one another, rather than an assumption that we all have, already, been exposed to the same pieces of cultural significance.

All of this, I think, has affected our ideas about what it is to be entertained, what we expect from entertainment, and how we seek out what we value. Few people, really, commit themselves to a weekly routine of television watching at a specific time to see the newest installment of a favorite program; it can be recorded, or watched online, or watched on DVD at a later date. Timeliness means less (this, oddly, is actually more true of reality television than many suspect: the heavily edited programs are often fully assembled as a series before any of them air, meaning that the events that seem "new" can in fact be months, even up to a year, old).

I'm not sure it's surprising then, that changes in viewing habits and interests have dealt something close to a body blow to scripted television. The half hour sitcom of my youth - two and three camera affairs shot in TV studios before audiences... are all but totally dead. NBC's damaging bet on The Jay Leno show, wiping out a week's worth of dramas at 10pm may have been disastrous... but nearly everyone in the business admitted that, in many ways, there was a logic to it that couldn't be denied. Series television is expensive, and not many shows produce the results needed to be worthwhile.

Still, I think the last year or two has seen an even bigger shift in viewing, driven by eonomics: as people see entertainment not reflecting their own realities, there is becoming less reason to watch.

TV has always struggled to reflect the lives of people who are not upper middle class: the programming field is filled with lawyers, doctors, and other educated professionals, well off families in suburban idylls whose main problem amounts to who junior will take to prom. The idea of struggling to get by, of how to meet a mortgage and car payment, of kids working to cover their own necessities... these things don't happen, much, on TV. Up until the recent downturn, even in previous recessions, I'm not sure it mattered. People remained hopeful, generally, that things would improve, and that we could, in time, continue to achieve the American Dream, especially as it was reflected back to us on the screen in our living room.

In these hard times, I think it can seem like these fantasies of good lives and easy money are nothing short of inappropriate; they're not real, they're not how we live, now. And at a time when people are worrying about how to pay bills and meet basic needs, the idea even of taking time out to be entertained may seem frivolous, extreme. The programs ought to do something more: educate us, inform us, challenge us. Entertainment simply for the sake of being entertained... that, I suspect, is becoming a luxury item. And I think that may explain, both in programming and advertising, why TV shows can seem especially out of touch to all but the well off.

Both of my friends, oddly, brought up Mad Men, in slightly different contexts. In many ways, I think the phenomenon of Mad Men - how seriously it is regarded, how "classy" it seems - reflects this growing cultural divide between the leisure class and the working one.  Mad Men, in fact, isn't actually that much fun: it's a fairly depressing show that undercuts the notions of "good life" pursuits of the Greatest Generation, for an audience of their kids and grandkids, who now see suburbia, and alcohol fueled debauchery as depressing, sinful and worse. Mad Men distills lives that used to be called "glamorous" and "sophisticated" and points to their flaws, their unglamorous realities, their painful, hidden sufferings. And for a select audience... that's often just what they want to hear and see.

In the end, what Mad Men provides on an upscale plane, is not so far removed from those who follow the travails of the Real Housewives or Jersey Shore - shows that punish those whose lives involve pleasure seeking, which allow viewers to sit in casual judgment of the lives and choices of others. We live, right now, in a mean, ugly time in so many ways. Is it any wonder that the most successful entertainments take a surprising amount of pleasure in almost unabashed cruelty?

If nothing else, I stand for the proposition that we are, all, entitled to moments of relaxation and joy. That life doesn't have to be hard. That we can, and should, allow ourselves the moment to relax, and rest... and be entertained. I'm going to work a bit harder to find and share those things that entertain, that bring joy... because we deserve it. Everybody's free, to feel good. These are hard times. That doesn't mean we deserve to be punished.

R.I.P. Lorene Yarnell

jinb

The Roots, The Rain, And The Flowers That Grow

The days of not writing spill over one into the next - it's too early, it's too late, I'm too busy, I'm too tired - but if I had to say what's really been tripping me up... it's that I'm starting to discover a place for me in the world.

I am, by nature, something of a loner; and that's especially conducive to writing, given that it's such a solitary activity. Like many loner writers, I found a place for myself in the big city... any number of them, really... where I could be in a crowd of people, and still, in many ways, be quite alone.

When I actually made the leap into writing as a more full time gig, I knew that I could easily cut myself off from the world, and I worked to fight it. And when economic circumstance pushed me into working at Starbucks, I felt that, too, would ease my sense of isolation, force me, in some way, to remain incontect with the public.

All of which has worked out in ways I never quite expected. Life and economic realities led me away from Boston, back to New York, out here in Westchester. And where I used to disdain suburban life for so many reasons (13 years in Manhattan means the Manhattanite will never fully leave you), the necessity of living in it and with it has made me find virtues as well as flaws.

Westchester is, more than many suburban counties, a collection of small towns; yes there's Yonkers and New Rochelle (and, I suppose, White Plains), but the combination of a great deal of wealth and zoning that favors limmited development means many parts of the county are collections of homes surrounding small town centers, and I do mean small. It's amazing how often the words "cute little gift shop" can pass one's lips.

I looked around this week, with all its stresses, and realized that, for better or worse (and mostly better), I have put down roots. I find this odd. I don't quite know how it happened, but there it is. I have become entwined with a network of fellow Starbuckians; I have begun to know my neighbors; I have become more involved in the lives of my customers.

(This, by the way, is something we are supposed to do: Starbucks believes that "customer connections" are key to the business, and we make it a point to get to know you and your habits. When you tell your friend, cheerfully, "I'm so amazed they know me and they always have my drink ready", it means we're doing it right... that's what we were trained to do.)

And so I know Nancy and David and their rambunctious boys; I know Stacey and Stu and Lesleigh and Mark and Scott and Jerry and Wayne and so many more. I am, for the first time in years, participating in a local community theater production, and I will be onstage in Annie in just a few weeks. All because Chris, the nice lady in my store who appeared on Broadway in the show, told me they needed more men.

As I stood on the bare stage this past Monday, I felt more alive and more at home than I have in ages. Rehearsals are only just starting, but it's been an invigorating, challenging, joyful process and doing this, I realize, is feeding my soul... as one of my coworkers said this morning. It's weird - having roots, feeding my soul... watching the flowers grow. I could learn to like it here. In a place. And maybe I can write from this place as well as the loner place. We'll just have to see how that goes... won't we.

Coco and Igor: Too Sexy For The Drycleaning

For the people who love art direction, and feel that movies don't do - and probably could never do - enough to depict the glorious world of twenties-era Art Deco modernism, Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky is the kind of visual feast that will seem immensely satisfying.

If only good looks and sleek, modern (yet uncomfortable and unhappy) sex were enough.

Movie sex has many variations and colors - though honestly, not that many - but rarely has sex seemed as simultaneously stylish and sad as it is rendered here. Chanel and Stravinsky, presented as avatars of a modernism just coming into fashion and both, in their ways, pioneering, embark on an affair that is also modern, sleek and ahead of its time. That the sex also comes off as mechanical and not entirely comfortable  (say, on a wood floor covered only in a jute rug), is just to underscore how ahead they are and how not with it we are. This is copulation that doesn't worry about mundane matters like mutual satisfaction or how you would dryclean a hand embroidered silk coverlet. Pity the mortals who do.

Of course, we mortals also make up the audience and the net result is that for scads and scads of style, Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky is a bit of a slog, not much fun, and once it gets the two titular characters together, there's blessed little left to do. Based on the real life story of the affair they had in the twenties, the film may have something to say about artists  and their creative processes, or what it is to be larger than life... but we'll never know, because no one here says much of anything at all. There's lots of moody looks, simpering in and out of stylish rooms, and passionate piano playing... but not much else.

Still the film isn't a total write off. The richness of the deco design cannot be denied, and the film, for my money, went a long way towards rethinking Stravinsky's music by stripping away some of the reverence and unapproachability. The score is enriched by themes and variations of Stravinsky's works, and the musings about his process - snatches of dissonant chords and phrases that gradually meld into a larger framework - are fascinating if incomplete. It's the kind of film that could make you seek out further work for better understanding.

Chanel, unfortunately, is treated much more as a cipher and a distant, distancing muse, and there's little here to give the character breadth or depth. Her design process is shown in snippets that tell us little, and her famed shop seems devoid, oddly, of clothes.The film focuses, for a moment, on the development of Chanel No. 5, but even that isn't told in an especially compelling or interesting manner. She sniffs some test strips, acts kind of demanding,... and settles on, well, test fragrance number 5. QED.

The film opens with Chanel, in 1913, attending the premiere of Rite of Spring, part of the transformational role in ballet created by the original Ballets Russe. Carefully restaged, the film does capture a remarkable picture of what the event entailed - the audiences shock and revulsion at something so new and different, the confrontational modernism of Nijinsky's choreography, the rough edges of Stravinsky's score (the film posits conflict between Nijinsky and Stravinsky that I tend to doubt; both were sensitive artists... but the collaboration was productive for both). Chanel, naturally, gets it. Flash forward - awkwardly - seven years or so, and Igor and Coco are formally introduced, Chanel offers him her country house as a place for him and his family while he composes... and the two, in short order, are doing it on any flat surface they can find. Eventually - after several weepy scenes that make her part especially thankless - Stravinsky's wife confronts Chanel, in person and on paper, as an amoral bitch, and Chanel essentially agrees. Why shouldn't she? Isn't it all so frightfully modern? Get with it, people!

It's tempting to blame Mads Mikkelson for what doesn't work here; as Stravinsky he seems terribly miscast... but then, I've never understood his appeal as an art house sex symbol, anyway. And to some extent, it's unfair because the part is doing him no favors, and he does, in repose, suggest a thoughtful embodiment of Russian gloom. Anna Mouglalis is too tall and long of face to really look like Chanel... but her model thin glamour look and way of simping around suggests Chanel by way of Louise Brooks and is probably a notion of herself Coco would have loved. Even Suzy Parker hasn't done as much to make a Chanel suit look so sexy.

No, the real failure here is the weak script and the airless direction of Jan Kounen, so concerned with the look and the details, but not really having a story to tell. And Chanel's fascinating life and her role in transforming the possibilities for women continues to remain elusive and out of reach, continuing to deserve better than a distant, off-putting notion of modern sex and morals. Or a film that has the decency, at least, to tell us how you get the stain out of a white suit.

Give Me Time, I'll Make You Forget The Rest

It would be easy for Fame to 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.

Don't Scandalize My Name

Everybody likes Taylor Swift.

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.

And so, Kanye added to the chaos. And yeah, he's real sorry about it, and wasn't Neyonce gracious to try and right the wrong. But still; one reason the right had, essentially, no way to add fuel to their massed outrage is that the distance from Kanye West to Joe Wilson was about 3 inches and 2 days. You want to end rude, disruptive behavior... well, start somewhere. And all of this before we get into the mess that Serena Williams created for herself.

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.

Patrick Swayze, Dancer

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.