Another Depressing Post Wherein I Realize That I Don't Have Any Answers to My Most Pressing Questions

The first time I saw a naked woman on film was in David Lynch's Lost Highway. Like most straight guys this was probably a formative, or at the very least a significantly memorable experience. Though unlike most straight guys I was not afforded Rockwellesque, rose-tinted, nostalgic pubescent memories. There was no secreting away a pilfered Playboy to a treehouse (with "No Girls Allowed" sign, and later catching tadpoles down by the creek). No, instead, and if you're familiar with Lynch or Highway you'll probably remember the same things, I get only images of that creepy video tape, or that phone call or that guy who falls face first onto the edge of a coffee table or, y'know…

boo.

…this.

Anyways, the point is that I was, like, twelve years old. Lost Highway seems less shocking and terrifying and more fascinating now that I can understand it but at the time I was enthralled by the sheer craziness of the whole endeavor. The images in the film were decidedly not mainstream. And I was hooked. In fact, because I came from a small midwestern town that was devoid of culture (unless you like antiquing) it is probably the Independent Film Channel's fault that I enjoy anything interesting at all. Channel 58 was the only way I would have been able to see Argento's Inferno, or Babbit's But I'm a Cheerleader, or Cronenberg's Crash before the age of 13 (though I was arguably not nearly old enough to really understand any of these films, I think the most important part is that they introduced me to a world where I would actually have to try to understand a movie; that the form was actually an art form). It was Lynch's films though that remained my main draw to that 'scene'.

And that's my long and circuitous way of marveling at how I didn't see Mullholland Drive until a few months ago. Critics are normally pretty divided when it comes to Lynch but Drive seems pretty universally loved, which, given that it was still supposed to be pretty uncompromisingly Lynchian, should have been intriguing enough for me to hunt it down earlier, but what can you do?

I'm not going to really unpack the movie here (because that would take forever and probably still not get us anywhere) but, because we've been talking about heteronormativity and depictions of gays and lesbians on film I think Mullholland Drive should be applauded for the way it depicts the relationship between Naomi Watts and Laura Elena Harring. I think what I like about their relationship in the film is that while at first glance it may seem exploitative (I mean there's really no reason these two women all of a sudden have a sex scene [though, spoiler alert, the whole movie is a dream sequence so we could get into that whole can of worms about how there's no reason anything in this film happens I suppose]) but then, most sex scenes in most films are exploitative. Lynch ironically (and I'm not suggesting this--or anything in this film--is accidental) does a great thing for depictions of gays on film by giving them a perfectly tawdry, meaningless sex scene the same way that most male and female leads are given perfectly tawdry, meaningless sex scenes in most mainstream movies.

The frustrating thing though is that Drive is still undeniably an arthouse film. Lynch isn't really winning any converts. I have to imagine that most people who willingly sit through one of his films aren't rabid Christian fundamentalists. We've talked a whole lot in this class about the lack of representation for almost everyone in regards to film. In a mainstream film though you can't have a gay sex scene without Making a Statement. You can't have a black bank manager without it Meaning Something. And while I don't necessarily agree with it, I can understand how sometimes a filmmaker would just want to Tell a Story w/o Making a Statement, and so defers to the status quo if only for simplicity's sake.

But the real world doesn't work like that. I would be willing to bet that as I type this there's a gay couple out there having a sex scene of their own. It doesn't always have to mean something in regular life, they're not doing it as some form of protest. So why do we treat it as such in film? Granted, when you go against the norm people are going to notice, and, as I've touched on above, maybe since I grew up watching things that subverted norms it doesn't seem so shocking to me. And is it a chicken-egg sort of thing? That is, does subverting norms become a Big Deal because it is so rarely done, or is it so rarely done because it would be a Big Deal? I of course don't have an answer to that (that's becoming a running theme in these blogs it seems) but I think it's worth looking at. I would hope that most people upon self-examination would be able to realize that there world will remain sufficiently un-blown regardless of the "norms" they see subverted in film.

N.B. Condescension

Reading Roger Ebert’s review for Children of a Lesser God (for posterity’s sake, because I’m sure this blog is going to outlive me, we were assigned to read this for class; I don’t necessarily go about checking on Ebert’s thoughts for too many movies) I was struck in particular by one line regarding how often movies about the disabled are condescending. In Children’s case (which I have not seen yet, so am really no authority on the level of its condescension) Ebert claimed that the film was condescending by “conferring greater moral authenticity on the handicapped character”. This is a standard Hollywood trope and one that I’ve found myself writing on over and over somehow this school year (it’s almost as if all the Humanities professors are teaching similar concepts…concepts regarding some sort of human-y condition thing). What seems funny (not funny ha-ha) to me is that no matter how the disabled are portrayed in Hollywood films it almost always comes off as condescending and yet, for as out of touch as Hollywood is with reality, this is perhaps the most realistic reaction they could have toward the disabled.

That is not to say that Hollywood is correct in these portrayals, but simply from personal observation it’s clear that most non-disabled Americans I’ve seen treat the disabled with either extreme discomfort and anxiety or that voice that one adopts when one is telling a child how marvelous their handprint turkey painting is. It’s a reaction that is mirrored in major motion pictures’ very tone.

So far this year I’ve found myself writing about the insulting caricature of Forrest Gump, the misguided (if [possibly] well-intentioned) portrayal of disabled veterans in Tom Cruise’s Born on the Fourth of July, and—no less than three times—the film Murderball. Murderball is the only one that seems unwilling to present the disabled in as cloying a way as possible. It is (or seems, who am I to say?) an honest portrayal. It is hobbled (is this insensitive?) by its very format though. As a documentary it—let’s be honest—does not have the opportunity to reach a large audience. Also, by the nature of being a documentary it cannot help portraying wheelchair-rugby players realistically (though an interesting conversation could be had re: the false narratives that are enforced on every documentary; did Murderball come off as subversive of Hollywood norms [and thus more realistic] only because the narrative device imposed on it [that of a traditional sports film] has nothing to do with disability and in fact often precludes disability from having any part of the narrative, thereby creating the illusion of sub/inversion of Hollywood tropes or was it an accurate portrayal? That is, have we reached a point where we hold Hollywood’s veracity in such disdain as to deem a film realistic so long as it subverts Hollywood or is the film accurate because it is, actually, accurate?)

Anyway, the point of the above is that while Murderball is an interesting film (“Shoreline professors recommend it constantly and consistently” is, I believe, written on the back of the DVD case, though the quote remains uncredited) it is hardly indicative of either common filmic portrayal of the disabled or of prevailing notions regarding them. Which fact itself is pretty bleak yes? But then the question comes down to what can we do about this? Not just the films that is (because frankly I would not mind if we just scrapped the Hollywood disabled-person narrative and started fresh, mostly because those films are never ever ever good but I have to go for months after they are released being told how inspiring they are) but the prevailing notions that they reflect.

And unlike the other problems we’ve discussed in this class (which mostly boil down to our fear of the “Other”, a fear that easily breaks down with increased exposure to that “Other”) our condescension towards the disabled indicates to me a deeper American fear, which is the fear of the self. Because I remain convinced that the reason we marginalize the disabled is that they remind “us” too much of “ourselves”. They force introspection (i.e. what would it be like to be blind? etc. etc.) on a people that have grown to despise it. It’s why we inundate ourselves with entertainment that says “The disabled aren’t like us, don’t worry! They are almost like us but more noble/bitter/enlightened/whatever”. You will notice perhaps that while film acts as a form of escapism for most people, there are not films anymore that ask us to escape from the reality of there being black Americans, or female Americans or what-have-you. But there are films that ask us to escape from the reality that there are disabled Americans.

This though, is where my post gets disappointing, because our fear of any sort of honest self-appraisal is a problem that may be way too big to tackle. I know in a class like this we’re not supposed to think of a problem as too big to tackle, believe me. But realistically how do we change an ideology? We can change reactions, we can model acceptance and tolerance, but can we learn to be honest with ourselves? And if so, how? And then when? And…I have yet to find answers for these questions.

I Don't Want the World, I Just Want Your Half and Other Problems With "The American Dream"

I have an odd relationship with the American Dream, insomuch as I am not sure of what that relationship is. Perhaps it would be accurate to say that the American Dream is like an uncle whom, I will admit, I like very much while also recognizing that I only see him about once every six or seven months, when I choose to travel back home, across the country. Which is to say, I can’t really tell if I just like the version of the American Dream that I choose to see, on my own time, under my own circumstances.

This struck me as I was re-watching Citizen Kane recently, and as many themes as that film has, the one that has always stuck with me was its fairly strong critique of the materialism that seems part and parcel of said Dream. Kane is a tragedy, ultimately, but while Charles Foster Kane’s rise and fall is the explicit tragedy, the underlying causes of that tragedy are implicitly capitalism, and its empty promises of power and love. In the end Kane dies surrounded by his palace, but ultimately nothing else. What’s been bothering me though lately, in regards to my relationship with the Dream, is that I recognize the honesty of that tragedy. Its truthfulness is why the film remains one of my favorites, and yet I can’t say with any certainty how that truthfulness makes me feel.

I like a lot of movies that have that anti-consumerist bent. I think Fight Club (while falling short of a “great” film, and possessing, albeit, confusingly antediluvian gender politics) was subtly genius for sneaking a pretty barbed critique of modern American consumerism (Brad Pitt has a pretty funny speech in there about Ikea) into a Major Motion Picture. I love American Psycho (a rare example of a film so completely blowing its source material out of the water) because it’s really funny when viewed with an audience that appreciates black comedy (as a quick anecdote, I remember watching the movie with a girlfriend in high school, having told her that it was a “comedy, but sort of a dark one”, and look, that sort of thing should have been right up her alley, but she was really more disturbed by it than anything and afterwards said something along the lines of “why would you think that was funny?” all accusing-like and making me feel like an awful person. I have, since that time, met many people who have been able to assure me that the movie is in fact funny, and I am also an awful person, so she wasn’t all wrong), but I also connected with its criticism of American consumer and corporate culture. Christian Bale’s warped yuppie figure is strangely prescient in a society that so clearly can see themselves being violated by Wall Street bankers. And despite what our textbook would have us believe, I remain convinced that George Bailey is at least a socialist at heart, and that’s probably the only part of It’s a Wonderful Life that I like (I didn’t grow up watching that movie so I don’t have that rosy nostalgia that everybody else seems to bring to it. My family watched Die Hard around Christmas).

So, my point is that part of me connects to the rejection of the American Dream vis-à-vis materialism and consumerism, and owning everything all the time. But there’s a larger part of me that doesn’t even see the American Dream as necessarily having anything to do with those things. My American Dream has more to do with a country that gives second chances, that doesn’t necessarily believe that individualism has to mean stepping on top of other people, a country that sets its people—every single one, regardless of race or creed--to wander freely though its vast and almost limitless expanses. I suppose part of that freedom is the freedom to buy a lot of stuff if you so choose, but I don’t know when or how exactly that became the de facto Dream. The myth of American meritocracy? I know it doesn’t hold up under harsh light, but it’s still a good myth and one that we should be striving to achieve.

But all of that is selective. I'm cherry picking the values I think America should be associated with while ignoring the actual reality of the situation. Maybe that's why I like those movies though. They all critique certain aspects of the system but are, by and large, products of the system. Products that could not be par of any other system. It can all seem sort of twisty, but reality is messy and dreams even more so. The American Dream, in all of its interpretations and differences, is no different.