Benjamin A. Railton's Blog, page 358
March 14, 2014
March 14, 2014: AmericanStudying House of Cards: Frank
[To balance out that series on non-favorites, here’s a series inspired by my recent viewing of Season 1 of a new favorite show, House of Cards. Spoilers for that first season, but not for the recently released Season 2, follow! Please add your thoughts on this complex and compelling show, ahead of a special weekend Guest Post!]
On a couple ways to AmericanStudy the anti-hero at the heart of House of Cards.It’s hard to imagine that there are things I can say about Kevin Spacey’s Frank Underwood that haven’t already been written and debated and re-written and blogged and etc. Not only because of how great an individual character he is, but also because he represents what feels like an apotheosis of one of the most noticed and analyzed trends in TV history: the rise of the anti-hero protagonists, whether criminal (Tony Soprano, Walter White) or crooked cop (Vic Mackey, Jimmy McNulty to an extent), philanderer (Don Draper) or serial killer (Dexter Morgan), to name only a handful. Frank Underwood isn’t as bad as the worst of those (although he does one truly horrific thing late in Season 1 that I won’t spoil here), certainly isn’t as well-intentioned as the best of them, and instead seems positioned to perfectly embody the median form of this now-dominant TV type.So I won’t say more about that side of Frank, prominent and compelling as it certainly is. Because there are also interesting and salient ways to AmericanStudy the character that connect him to longer-term national narratives and stories. For one thing, while the anti-hero protagonist may be relatively new on the boob tube, a corrupt, anti-hero political leader embraced not in spite of but somehow because of his corruption is as American as, well, Boss Tweed. Or Huey Long. Or Mayor Daley. Because we the viewing audience have direct access to Frank’s most honest thoughts, it’s fair to say that we aren’t likely to believe (as many admirers of those politicians did) that he’s pursuing his corrupt and conniving ends in service of the greater good; Frank is entirely open about his desire for power on its own terms, and doesn’t speak much (if at all) about communal or public uses to which he hopes to put that power. But on the other hand, it’s hard to know whether any of these historical figures would have privately admitted any good intentions either—and yet, at least occasionally, they managed to do goodwhile doing bad. Perhaps Frank would be the same.On a more artistic and cultural level, Frank and House of Cards could also be connected to one of our longest-running trends: for about as long as there’s been an American democracy, there have been artistic portrayals of threats to its fragile nature, often leveled by charming con-men. Most of those portrayals have been more symbolic or allegorical than the literal political setting of House: from one of the earliest such threatening characters, Carwin the biloquist in Charles Brockden Brown’s Wieland (1798); to one of the funniest, the title character in (1857); to one of the most bigoted, caricatured Jewish gangster Meyer Wolfsheim in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby(1925). Given how corrupt and conniving the entire world of House of Cards seems, it’s fair to ask whether Frank poses any more of a threat than most of his peers—but given his steady and inexorable move toward power across Season 1, it’d be hard to argue that he’s not defined as particularly talented at conning his way to the top. Which is as American as, well, Aaron Burr. Just another reason to check out this very American and very compelling show.Special Guest Post tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
On a couple ways to AmericanStudy the anti-hero at the heart of House of Cards.It’s hard to imagine that there are things I can say about Kevin Spacey’s Frank Underwood that haven’t already been written and debated and re-written and blogged and etc. Not only because of how great an individual character he is, but also because he represents what feels like an apotheosis of one of the most noticed and analyzed trends in TV history: the rise of the anti-hero protagonists, whether criminal (Tony Soprano, Walter White) or crooked cop (Vic Mackey, Jimmy McNulty to an extent), philanderer (Don Draper) or serial killer (Dexter Morgan), to name only a handful. Frank Underwood isn’t as bad as the worst of those (although he does one truly horrific thing late in Season 1 that I won’t spoil here), certainly isn’t as well-intentioned as the best of them, and instead seems positioned to perfectly embody the median form of this now-dominant TV type.So I won’t say more about that side of Frank, prominent and compelling as it certainly is. Because there are also interesting and salient ways to AmericanStudy the character that connect him to longer-term national narratives and stories. For one thing, while the anti-hero protagonist may be relatively new on the boob tube, a corrupt, anti-hero political leader embraced not in spite of but somehow because of his corruption is as American as, well, Boss Tweed. Or Huey Long. Or Mayor Daley. Because we the viewing audience have direct access to Frank’s most honest thoughts, it’s fair to say that we aren’t likely to believe (as many admirers of those politicians did) that he’s pursuing his corrupt and conniving ends in service of the greater good; Frank is entirely open about his desire for power on its own terms, and doesn’t speak much (if at all) about communal or public uses to which he hopes to put that power. But on the other hand, it’s hard to know whether any of these historical figures would have privately admitted any good intentions either—and yet, at least occasionally, they managed to do goodwhile doing bad. Perhaps Frank would be the same.On a more artistic and cultural level, Frank and House of Cards could also be connected to one of our longest-running trends: for about as long as there’s been an American democracy, there have been artistic portrayals of threats to its fragile nature, often leveled by charming con-men. Most of those portrayals have been more symbolic or allegorical than the literal political setting of House: from one of the earliest such threatening characters, Carwin the biloquist in Charles Brockden Brown’s Wieland (1798); to one of the funniest, the title character in (1857); to one of the most bigoted, caricatured Jewish gangster Meyer Wolfsheim in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby(1925). Given how corrupt and conniving the entire world of House of Cards seems, it’s fair to ask whether Frank poses any more of a threat than most of his peers—but given his steady and inexorable move toward power across Season 1, it’d be hard to argue that he’s not defined as particularly talented at conning his way to the top. Which is as American as, well, Aaron Burr. Just another reason to check out this very American and very compelling show.Special Guest Post tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
March 13, 2014
March 13, 2014: AmericanStudying House of Cards: Claire
[To balance out that series on non-favorites, here’s a series inspired by my recent viewing of Season 1 of a new favorite show, House of Cards. Spoilers for that first season, but not for the recently released Season 2, follow! Please add your thoughts on this complex and compelling show, ahead of a special weekend Guest Post!]
On two diametrically opposed ways to read the show’s female lead.My weekend Guest Poster is going to focus on Robin Wright’s Claire Underwood, Frank Underwood’s wife, founder and director of the non-profit Clean Water Initiative, and one of the more compelling characters in recent TV history. She’ll be writing about issues of gender and identity, family and motherhood, career and ambition, so I’ll leave those themes in her capable hands and request that you make sure to visit on Saturday or Sunday (or both!) to read her take. Today, I want to analyze how Claire reflects—and indeed in many ways exemplifies—how open to interpretation the show’s characters are, and more exactly how possible it is to interpret many of them (with Claire at the top of this list) in contrasting and even opposed ways.Probably the more obvious of the two opposed ways to read Claire is to think of her as Lady Macbeth, not only wedded to the scheming ambitious Frank (he of the controversial Shakespearean asides to the audience), but entirely supportive of—if not indeed the force behind—his ploys and plans. The show provides multiple pieces of evidence in support of this interpretation, including one of its most consistent motifs (Claire and Frank smoking and plotting together at their window) and the incredibly creepy scenein which Claire reveals why she accepted Frank’s marriage proposal. Seen in this light, Claire’s lifelong work at CWI isn’t about water or the environment, but instead offers her a vehicle through to complement Frank’s Congressional efforts and help advance their shared ambitions as a result (which would explain why she’s so intent on tying CWI to the sleazy and uber-powerful energy company for which Remy Danton lobbies, SanCorp).But I think it’s equally possible to flip that script, and that paragraph, on its head—to begin an interpretation of Claire with those lifelong efforts at CWI, and to read her as willing to do whatever it takes in order to advance her company’s environmental objectives (she says as much to the more idealistic activist Gillian Cole, arguing that they want the same thing but are trying to pursue it in very distinct ways). Chief among the pieces of evidence for this interpretation would be Claire’s apparently long-term and evolving relationship with British photographer Adam Galloway (played by Ben Daniels), a thoughtful artistic type who sees (and seems to bring out) something far different in Claire than Frank ever has. Claire tells Galloway that she could never be with him for life—but neither can she seem to leave him or deny their connection. No more, that is, than she can leave Frank—suggesting, as with so many things on House of Cards, that both opposing interpretations are somehow inseparably true.Last House analyses of mine tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
On two diametrically opposed ways to read the show’s female lead.My weekend Guest Poster is going to focus on Robin Wright’s Claire Underwood, Frank Underwood’s wife, founder and director of the non-profit Clean Water Initiative, and one of the more compelling characters in recent TV history. She’ll be writing about issues of gender and identity, family and motherhood, career and ambition, so I’ll leave those themes in her capable hands and request that you make sure to visit on Saturday or Sunday (or both!) to read her take. Today, I want to analyze how Claire reflects—and indeed in many ways exemplifies—how open to interpretation the show’s characters are, and more exactly how possible it is to interpret many of them (with Claire at the top of this list) in contrasting and even opposed ways.Probably the more obvious of the two opposed ways to read Claire is to think of her as Lady Macbeth, not only wedded to the scheming ambitious Frank (he of the controversial Shakespearean asides to the audience), but entirely supportive of—if not indeed the force behind—his ploys and plans. The show provides multiple pieces of evidence in support of this interpretation, including one of its most consistent motifs (Claire and Frank smoking and plotting together at their window) and the incredibly creepy scenein which Claire reveals why she accepted Frank’s marriage proposal. Seen in this light, Claire’s lifelong work at CWI isn’t about water or the environment, but instead offers her a vehicle through to complement Frank’s Congressional efforts and help advance their shared ambitions as a result (which would explain why she’s so intent on tying CWI to the sleazy and uber-powerful energy company for which Remy Danton lobbies, SanCorp).But I think it’s equally possible to flip that script, and that paragraph, on its head—to begin an interpretation of Claire with those lifelong efforts at CWI, and to read her as willing to do whatever it takes in order to advance her company’s environmental objectives (she says as much to the more idealistic activist Gillian Cole, arguing that they want the same thing but are trying to pursue it in very distinct ways). Chief among the pieces of evidence for this interpretation would be Claire’s apparently long-term and evolving relationship with British photographer Adam Galloway (played by Ben Daniels), a thoughtful artistic type who sees (and seems to bring out) something far different in Claire than Frank ever has. Claire tells Galloway that she could never be with him for life—but neither can she seem to leave him or deny their connection. No more, that is, than she can leave Frank—suggesting, as with so many things on House of Cards, that both opposing interpretations are somehow inseparably true.Last House analyses of mine tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
March 12, 2014
March 12, 2014: AmericanStudying House of Cards: Doug and Freddy
[To balance out that series on non-favorites, here’s a series inspired by my recent viewing of Season 1 of a new favorite show, House of Cards. Spoilers for that first season, but not for the recently released Season 2, follow! Please add your thoughts on this complex and compelling show, ahead of a special weekend Guest Post!]
On the more and less stereotypical ways to read the show’s most loyal sidekicks.In the corrupt and cynical world about which I wrote in yesterday’s post, it’s very difficult for Kevin Spacey’s Frank Underwood to trust anyone (even, perhaps especially, those to whom he’s closest). But there are two men who seem, at least as of the end of Season 1, entirely trustworthy, and indeed to live only to serve Frank’s needs: his uber-loyal and –competent Chief of Staff Doug Stamper, played pitch-perfectly by Michael Kelly; and Freddy, the owner of a barbeque rib joint that is Frank’s favorite Washington restaurant, played by the great Reg Cathey). Given how tense and stressful the show’s world generally is, it’s nicely relaxing to watch Frank interact with, and able himself to relax around, these two loyal supporters (and friends, if a man like Frank can be said to have any), and they thus offer two distinct but parallel changes of pace.But they do so at least in part because they represent two stereotypical character types. Doug’s type is familiar from numerous action films as well as The Simpsons : the villain’s (and make no mistake, Frank is certainly a villain) unquestionably loyal chief henchman, one who exists only to carry out the villain’s plans and who almost always dies protecting his boss from the hero (foreshadowing for House? Time will tell). Freddy’s, on the other hand, is a far more specifically American and more troubling stereotype: the happy-go-lucky African American cook (or servant), one more than content to serve the powerful white characters with a smile and thoroughgoing deference (much is made of the fact that Freddy will literally open his restaurant at any hour of the day or night in order to make Frank ribs, along with other ways he goes far out of his way to accommodate Frank). That Frank grew up in Civil Rights-era South Carolina, and that Freddy’s restaurant serves what is overtly called in one episode “soul food,” only amplifies the presence of these longstanding racial and regional stereotypes.I don’t know that there are too many ways to push past this stereotypical reading of Freddy, although his final Season 1 scene offers a slight glimpse: Remy Danton, the African American lobbyist I mentioned in yesterday’s post, brings a competitor of Frank’s to Freddy’s restaurant, suggesting that there are perhaps other kinds of alliances in Freddy’s life besides the one with Frank. Similarly, Doug has one striking Season 1 scene that shifts our perspective on him: attending one of Peter Russo’s AA meetings as Peter’s sponsor, Doug opens up about his own lifelong battle with alcoholism and sobriety, linking his job “counting” votes to his ongoing “count” of the number of days he’s been sober (and his concurrent fear of returning to 0 at any moment). The connection offers an alternate reading of Doug’s absolute dedication to his boss: that his job has literally saved his life, and that doing it as all-consumingly as he does is, at least in part, an expression of the same weakness that destroys Peter and could, absent that dedication, take down Doug as well. Nothing’s entirely simple on House of Cards.Next House analyses tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
On the more and less stereotypical ways to read the show’s most loyal sidekicks.In the corrupt and cynical world about which I wrote in yesterday’s post, it’s very difficult for Kevin Spacey’s Frank Underwood to trust anyone (even, perhaps especially, those to whom he’s closest). But there are two men who seem, at least as of the end of Season 1, entirely trustworthy, and indeed to live only to serve Frank’s needs: his uber-loyal and –competent Chief of Staff Doug Stamper, played pitch-perfectly by Michael Kelly; and Freddy, the owner of a barbeque rib joint that is Frank’s favorite Washington restaurant, played by the great Reg Cathey). Given how tense and stressful the show’s world generally is, it’s nicely relaxing to watch Frank interact with, and able himself to relax around, these two loyal supporters (and friends, if a man like Frank can be said to have any), and they thus offer two distinct but parallel changes of pace.But they do so at least in part because they represent two stereotypical character types. Doug’s type is familiar from numerous action films as well as The Simpsons : the villain’s (and make no mistake, Frank is certainly a villain) unquestionably loyal chief henchman, one who exists only to carry out the villain’s plans and who almost always dies protecting his boss from the hero (foreshadowing for House? Time will tell). Freddy’s, on the other hand, is a far more specifically American and more troubling stereotype: the happy-go-lucky African American cook (or servant), one more than content to serve the powerful white characters with a smile and thoroughgoing deference (much is made of the fact that Freddy will literally open his restaurant at any hour of the day or night in order to make Frank ribs, along with other ways he goes far out of his way to accommodate Frank). That Frank grew up in Civil Rights-era South Carolina, and that Freddy’s restaurant serves what is overtly called in one episode “soul food,” only amplifies the presence of these longstanding racial and regional stereotypes.I don’t know that there are too many ways to push past this stereotypical reading of Freddy, although his final Season 1 scene offers a slight glimpse: Remy Danton, the African American lobbyist I mentioned in yesterday’s post, brings a competitor of Frank’s to Freddy’s restaurant, suggesting that there are perhaps other kinds of alliances in Freddy’s life besides the one with Frank. Similarly, Doug has one striking Season 1 scene that shifts our perspective on him: attending one of Peter Russo’s AA meetings as Peter’s sponsor, Doug opens up about his own lifelong battle with alcoholism and sobriety, linking his job “counting” votes to his ongoing “count” of the number of days he’s been sober (and his concurrent fear of returning to 0 at any moment). The connection offers an alternate reading of Doug’s absolute dedication to his boss: that his job has literally saved his life, and that doing it as all-consumingly as he does is, at least in part, an expression of the same weakness that destroys Peter and could, absent that dedication, take down Doug as well. Nothing’s entirely simple on House of Cards.Next House analyses tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
March 11, 2014
March 11, 2014: AmericanStudying House of Cards: Linda and Gillian
[To balance out that series on non-favorites, here’s a series inspired by my recent viewing of Season 1 of a new favorite show, House of Cards. Spoilers for that first season, but not for the recently released Season 2, follow! Please add your thoughts on this complex and compelling show, ahead of a special weekend Guest Post!]
On my mixed feelings about the show’s two most prominent ethnic women.House of Cards seems to subscribe, in its general worldview, to an extreme version of Trip’s (Denzel Washington’s) famous lines from Glory: “And we all caught up in it, too. Ain’t nobody clean.” The show’s deep-seated cynicism makes it very difficult to see any character as fundamentally good, as separate from the lies and deceptions and backstabbings and connivings that drive most of the plot threads. But if I had to identify characters who seem closest to honorable in this dishonorable world, at or near the top of the list would be Linda Vasquez (the President’s dedicated Chief of Staff, played by Sakina Jaffrey) and Gillian Cole (the founder of a nonprofit company seeking to solve the world’s water shortages, played by Sandrine Holt; true, Cole ends the season suing Robin Wright’s character for discrimination based on partly false claims, but Wright deserves it and has more or less forced Cole into that position).Vasquez and Cole have a couple other interesting elements in common: they are the show’s two most prominent ethnic female characters, and are quickly and overtly identified as such (Kevin Spacey calls Vasquez, in one of the first episode’s opening lines, “a Latina”; Cole calls herself a “token Asian” in her second scene); and they are both closely linked to Stanford University (Cole is repeatedly referred to as an alum and valedictorian; Vasquez has an ongoing plotline about trying to get her son Reuben into the university despite his less than perfect transcript and application). Because of those elements, and because of that aforementioned cynical worldview, it’s very hard for me not to see both characters as at least partly commentaries—and troubling ones at that—on diversity and affirmative action; not because they aren’t portrayed as capable and impressive, but because so much emphasis is placed on both their ethnicity and their ties to a university famously associated with far-left liberalism and identity politics and the like.It would even be possible to read the two women’s relative goodness (at least compared, again, to most of their fellow characters) as related to those potential connections to affirmative action narratives: to read them, that is, as naïve and out of their league amidst the bigger and more ruthless (and potentially more deserving of success) Washington fish. (To be clear, those bigger fish are not always white—one of the most ruthless of all is African American lobbyist Remy Danton, played by Mahershala Ali.) But on the other hand, both women have achieved tremendous success in their respective worlds, and by the end of Season 1, despite setbacks, both are fighting hard to maintain their positions and power, and perhaps even make the world a better place (even if, as with Cole’s lawsuit, they have to do so by bending the rules more than they’re used to). In the world of House of Cards, such sustained success is nothing short of admirable, and as a result it’d be far too easy (either in that world or as viewers of it) to dismiss Linda and Gillian. Next House analyses tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
On my mixed feelings about the show’s two most prominent ethnic women.House of Cards seems to subscribe, in its general worldview, to an extreme version of Trip’s (Denzel Washington’s) famous lines from Glory: “And we all caught up in it, too. Ain’t nobody clean.” The show’s deep-seated cynicism makes it very difficult to see any character as fundamentally good, as separate from the lies and deceptions and backstabbings and connivings that drive most of the plot threads. But if I had to identify characters who seem closest to honorable in this dishonorable world, at or near the top of the list would be Linda Vasquez (the President’s dedicated Chief of Staff, played by Sakina Jaffrey) and Gillian Cole (the founder of a nonprofit company seeking to solve the world’s water shortages, played by Sandrine Holt; true, Cole ends the season suing Robin Wright’s character for discrimination based on partly false claims, but Wright deserves it and has more or less forced Cole into that position).Vasquez and Cole have a couple other interesting elements in common: they are the show’s two most prominent ethnic female characters, and are quickly and overtly identified as such (Kevin Spacey calls Vasquez, in one of the first episode’s opening lines, “a Latina”; Cole calls herself a “token Asian” in her second scene); and they are both closely linked to Stanford University (Cole is repeatedly referred to as an alum and valedictorian; Vasquez has an ongoing plotline about trying to get her son Reuben into the university despite his less than perfect transcript and application). Because of those elements, and because of that aforementioned cynical worldview, it’s very hard for me not to see both characters as at least partly commentaries—and troubling ones at that—on diversity and affirmative action; not because they aren’t portrayed as capable and impressive, but because so much emphasis is placed on both their ethnicity and their ties to a university famously associated with far-left liberalism and identity politics and the like.It would even be possible to read the two women’s relative goodness (at least compared, again, to most of their fellow characters) as related to those potential connections to affirmative action narratives: to read them, that is, as naïve and out of their league amidst the bigger and more ruthless (and potentially more deserving of success) Washington fish. (To be clear, those bigger fish are not always white—one of the most ruthless of all is African American lobbyist Remy Danton, played by Mahershala Ali.) But on the other hand, both women have achieved tremendous success in their respective worlds, and by the end of Season 1, despite setbacks, both are fighting hard to maintain their positions and power, and perhaps even make the world a better place (even if, as with Cole’s lawsuit, they have to do so by bending the rules more than they’re used to). In the world of House of Cards, such sustained success is nothing short of admirable, and as a result it’d be far too easy (either in that world or as viewers of it) to dismiss Linda and Gillian. Next House analyses tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
March 10, 2014
March 10, 2014: AmericanStudying House of Cards: Peter and Zoe
[To balance out that series on non-favorites, here’s a series inspired by my recent viewing of Season 1 of a new favorite show, House of Cards. Spoilers for that first season, but not for the recently released Season 2, follow! Please add your thoughts on this complex and compelling show, ahead of a special weekend Guest Post!]
On the American narratives behind Season 1’s two most striking arcs.Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright are the two big names attached to House of Cards(and are playing two very juicy characters to be sure, on whom more later this week), but for my money Season 1’s two best performances belonged to Corey Stoll (playing junior congressman, gubernatorial candidate, and tragically doomed alcoholic Peter Russo) and Kate Mara(playing junior reporter, blog sensation, and sometime Spacey mistress Zoe Barnes). Or more exactly, Russo and Barnes had by far the most significant and compelling character arcs across the season, not only in terms of the changes and yet continuities from their starting to their end points, but also because of how much those arcs echo and engage with longstanding and evolving American narratives.Peter Russo represents an interesting combination of—but also contrast between—two sets of national narratives. On the one hand, he’s an iconic self-made man, a son of impoverished South Philadelphia who has risen from among his shipyard-working brethren to become a Congressman and then fast-tracked candidate for Pennsylvania Governor. In the episode when we follow Peter back home, the show goes out of its way to emphasize just how desperate those origin points were, and how far Peter seems to have come. It’s difficult, however, to separate those origin points from the tragic flaws that doom Russo—his addictions to drugs, prostitutes, and, most prominently, alcohol. But obviously anyone from any background can be defined and destroyed by such addictions, and to my mind this side of Peter is more influenced by American narratives of naturalismand Social Darwinism, of whether we are each defined by some core, inborn strength or weakness that shapes and limits our identities and lives (Spacey’s character says as much of Russo’s flaws). If that’s the case, nature tragically triumphs over self-making in Russo’s case.Zoe Barnes seems equally defined by a particular dominant character trait, one at the other end of the Social Darwinist spectrum from Russo’s weakness: naked ambition, a willingness to do whatever it takes to get ahead. This ambition pairs her with Spacey’s character even before the two begin their affair, and links her to a narrative often closely connected to that of the self-made man: the robber baron, and the associated win at any and all costs mentality that seems to define many American icons. But of course, when a young woman pursue such ambitious victories, she is often categorized more negatively as a social climber, as sleeping her way to the top (which, in a way, Zoe does—and which her older reporter colleague Janine later admits to having done herself) and the like. It would be interesting to consider whether this gender dichotomy contributes to Zoe’s eventual split from Spacey’s character, and whether it likewise distinguishes Zoe from Spacey’s wife, Wright’s less feminine ambitious woman (a topic on which my Guest Poster will have more to say). In any case, Zoe’s arc, while complex and still evolving, is far less tragic and more in-control than Peter’s.Next House analyses tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
On the American narratives behind Season 1’s two most striking arcs.Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright are the two big names attached to House of Cards(and are playing two very juicy characters to be sure, on whom more later this week), but for my money Season 1’s two best performances belonged to Corey Stoll (playing junior congressman, gubernatorial candidate, and tragically doomed alcoholic Peter Russo) and Kate Mara(playing junior reporter, blog sensation, and sometime Spacey mistress Zoe Barnes). Or more exactly, Russo and Barnes had by far the most significant and compelling character arcs across the season, not only in terms of the changes and yet continuities from their starting to their end points, but also because of how much those arcs echo and engage with longstanding and evolving American narratives.Peter Russo represents an interesting combination of—but also contrast between—two sets of national narratives. On the one hand, he’s an iconic self-made man, a son of impoverished South Philadelphia who has risen from among his shipyard-working brethren to become a Congressman and then fast-tracked candidate for Pennsylvania Governor. In the episode when we follow Peter back home, the show goes out of its way to emphasize just how desperate those origin points were, and how far Peter seems to have come. It’s difficult, however, to separate those origin points from the tragic flaws that doom Russo—his addictions to drugs, prostitutes, and, most prominently, alcohol. But obviously anyone from any background can be defined and destroyed by such addictions, and to my mind this side of Peter is more influenced by American narratives of naturalismand Social Darwinism, of whether we are each defined by some core, inborn strength or weakness that shapes and limits our identities and lives (Spacey’s character says as much of Russo’s flaws). If that’s the case, nature tragically triumphs over self-making in Russo’s case.Zoe Barnes seems equally defined by a particular dominant character trait, one at the other end of the Social Darwinist spectrum from Russo’s weakness: naked ambition, a willingness to do whatever it takes to get ahead. This ambition pairs her with Spacey’s character even before the two begin their affair, and links her to a narrative often closely connected to that of the self-made man: the robber baron, and the associated win at any and all costs mentality that seems to define many American icons. But of course, when a young woman pursue such ambitious victories, she is often categorized more negatively as a social climber, as sleeping her way to the top (which, in a way, Zoe does—and which her older reporter colleague Janine later admits to having done herself) and the like. It would be interesting to consider whether this gender dichotomy contributes to Zoe’s eventual split from Spacey’s character, and whether it likewise distinguishes Zoe from Spacey’s wife, Wright’s less feminine ambitious woman (a topic on which my Guest Poster will have more to say). In any case, Zoe’s arc, while complex and still evolving, is far less tragic and more in-control than Peter’s.Next House analyses tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think?
March 8, 2014
March 8-9, 2014: Crowd-Sourced Non-Favorites
[Much of the time when I’ve highlighted something specific in this space, it’s been because I want to emphasize something positive about it, something I enjoy or appreciate. Well, the heck with that! For this week’s series, I’ve focused instead on stuff about which I’m not as keen, and tried to AmericanStudy some of the reasons why. This crowd-sourced airing of grievances is drawn from the responses of fellow AmericanStudiers—add your complaints and critiques in comments, please!]
On Facebook, a number of colleagues followed up Monday’s Scorcese post. Donna Moody writes that “Scorcese is brilliant, but his films are often dark and depressing.” Nancy Caronia adds, “I could write a book on this issue. I actually think he wants us to root for the light, but he likes rumbling around so much in the dark, he often forgets. Goodfellaswas a truly cautionary tale, but then everyone was roped in by that one shot to the Copacabana first date and forgot that people are killed and others are duplicitous and we got Casino, even more macabre and unrelenting—but that was a much lesser film.” And Rob LeBlanc argues, “I don't think we're meant to root for the dark in a lot of Scorsese's films. My favorites are After Hours, Mean Streets. I agree with Nancy about GoodFellas having a moral message as a cautionary tale about lusting for power. In that movie, many of the characters are portrayed as villains who seduced their friends into further and further immorality/crime/violence/womanizing, but I think that's how the protagonist experienced the mafia, as a seduction.”On Twitter, LaSalleUGirl suggests an alternate and very different Scorcese film, Hugo .A blog commenter adds, “Every time I begin a film unit in my school my students will always ask for films that I've loved. Ultimately one of the students (usually a boy) will point out that I haven't mentioned Goodfellasor Casino, as though that's just a given and we all have to like those films. (Guess they are too young for Taxi Driver and Raging Bull.) But I've never enjoyed his films. I just can't get into his narration or subject matter. Same goes for Coppola who I can honestly live without. Maybe it's because I'm a woman, maybe it's because I'm a geek but I just can't take that ‘tough guy’ movie narrative. Like these mobsters are neo-Robin Hoods and not the drug pushing womanizing unreasonable violent jerks they are.”Following up Tuesday’s post on Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain, Roland Gibson Jr. cites a 2002 article in The Independentthat began, “Kurt Cobain’s diary entries, published in The Age today, reveal a man tortured by drug addiction and illness. But his iconic status grows by the day,” and then writes, “I'm not myself a fan of Kurt. And I'm no music historian, either. However, if I was asked whether Kurt through his work achieved musical/creative ‘iconic status’ in my book, I would also have to say no. That being said, I'm now finding it interesting—and even fun—to have an opportunity in the blog to learn some things about the man behind the music, anyway.”Following up Wednesday’s post on The Beats, Tim McCaffrey asks, “Given this post, I'm curious how you feel about works like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and, in a different way, the Rabbit novels by Updike. Regarding the Beats, I have always considered their work (I am most familiar with Kerouac) to be a cultural ‘first-step’ (although it was not the first step) away from a culture that celebrated a strict paternal structure.” He later adds, “I enjoy Thompson (especially Fear and Loathing), but I feel like the hero worship that has been accorded to him by people like Johnny Depp is a bit over the top. He was an original mind, no doubt, and a talented if tormented voice of his times. Updike also leaves me cold - in a way that makes me wonder if I just have a hard time connecting with the mindset of that generation of writers. I can't seem to relate to the pressing need to escape, perhaps because I did not experience the weight of social expectation that was likely a heavy burden to those writers. As an aside, Updike's piece on Teddy Ballgame was inspired, although also a bit distant if I recall correctly.”On Facebook, Rob Velella defends Jack Kerouac, arguing that we have to “Read Visions of Gerard before you pass judgment. I found it brilliant, more sincere, and more rewarding than On the Road .” Nancy Caroniaadds, “I've never been a Kerouac fan and I like Howl , but other than that, Ginsberg does not move me. There are, however, other Beat writers that I not only appreciate, but think are brilliant--like Diane DiPrima.” And Jeff Renye highlights “Episode 4 of Series 1 of Star Trek (the original series), where there is a reference to a crewmate borrowing some of the works of Kirk's ‘longhair’ writers.”In response to my call for other non-favorites:Anna Mae Duane nominates “Thoreau. Just can NOT with that guy and his beans.”Stephanie Hershinow worries that “This isn’t the right place for me to confess that I don’t get Joss Whedon…” (but it was exactly the right place!), and adds that “I also dislike Hemingway. (But for different reasons, I think.)”Rob LeBlanc notes, “One comedian that I've never understood the popularity of is Howard Stern. His show contains offensive moments, and also ones that are boring to me. I'm also not a fan of the writing of Henry James.”Emily Page nominates, “The Great Gatsby. I read it in high school and tried again about 10 years ago, but just never took to it.”Rob Velella goes with, “Emerson. All of him. He's overrated, difficult to understand (even in his letters and journals), and just doesn't seem to be saying much. Margaret Fuller, now, I like her and find her very readable. As a person, Emerson also comes across as a snobby, occasionally misogynistic, elitist who hypocritically never wanted to get his hands dirty. Join Brook Farm, RWE, and put your muscles where your mouth is!”Mike Valeri nominates, “Apple pie. That counts, right? I have the quintessential ‘sweet tooth’ and it just eats at my core that apple pie is touted as ‘the American dessert’ when there are about 10 million sweet treats that frankly just do it better. Plus, I'm not eating anything that could have touched Newton's head...”Kate (Larrivee) Smith asks, “Do sports count? Because I love to hate football.”Patricia Ringle Vandever nominates Cooper’s The Deerslayer.Erin Fay notes, “I tried watching the show Girls because everyone said how ‘genius’ it was. The premise sounded appealing to me (a struggling woman writer living in New York and all that), so I forced myself to watch the first two seasons thinking eventually it would get better, but it just didn't. And the worst thing is, it's one of those things that people make you feel like you ‘should’ like and believe that if you don't you're either a prude or a misogynist.”Ian James aims high, nominating Abe Lincoln! He later elaborates, “I dislike Lincoln for a number of reasons. First, suspension of civil rights. If you dislike Bush Jr. and his civil rights suspensions well, Lincoln's actions were equally bad or worse and he did it with significantly less consent. Let's not forget the war crimes of his subordinate Sherman either. Next, he's credited with freeing the slaves which is wholly inaccurate. The Emancipation Proclamation was a political move, not a social move, and he clearly designed it that way since it didn't free any slaves in states loyal to the Union or areas of the Confederacy that had already been captured by the Union. Next, I'm someone who believes in the right to self determination and so I believe secession should be legal so long as it is carried out democratically. He was also easily one of the least popular (and most likely the absolute least popular) president during the time of his presidency.”And I’ll give the last word to someone with whom I have to disagree entirely, but this is a crowd-sourced post: on Twitter, Thaddeus Codger nominates Bruce Springsteen!Next series starts Monday,BenPS. What else gripes your cookies?
On Facebook, a number of colleagues followed up Monday’s Scorcese post. Donna Moody writes that “Scorcese is brilliant, but his films are often dark and depressing.” Nancy Caronia adds, “I could write a book on this issue. I actually think he wants us to root for the light, but he likes rumbling around so much in the dark, he often forgets. Goodfellaswas a truly cautionary tale, but then everyone was roped in by that one shot to the Copacabana first date and forgot that people are killed and others are duplicitous and we got Casino, even more macabre and unrelenting—but that was a much lesser film.” And Rob LeBlanc argues, “I don't think we're meant to root for the dark in a lot of Scorsese's films. My favorites are After Hours, Mean Streets. I agree with Nancy about GoodFellas having a moral message as a cautionary tale about lusting for power. In that movie, many of the characters are portrayed as villains who seduced their friends into further and further immorality/crime/violence/womanizing, but I think that's how the protagonist experienced the mafia, as a seduction.”On Twitter, LaSalleUGirl suggests an alternate and very different Scorcese film, Hugo .A blog commenter adds, “Every time I begin a film unit in my school my students will always ask for films that I've loved. Ultimately one of the students (usually a boy) will point out that I haven't mentioned Goodfellasor Casino, as though that's just a given and we all have to like those films. (Guess they are too young for Taxi Driver and Raging Bull.) But I've never enjoyed his films. I just can't get into his narration or subject matter. Same goes for Coppola who I can honestly live without. Maybe it's because I'm a woman, maybe it's because I'm a geek but I just can't take that ‘tough guy’ movie narrative. Like these mobsters are neo-Robin Hoods and not the drug pushing womanizing unreasonable violent jerks they are.”Following up Tuesday’s post on Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain, Roland Gibson Jr. cites a 2002 article in The Independentthat began, “Kurt Cobain’s diary entries, published in The Age today, reveal a man tortured by drug addiction and illness. But his iconic status grows by the day,” and then writes, “I'm not myself a fan of Kurt. And I'm no music historian, either. However, if I was asked whether Kurt through his work achieved musical/creative ‘iconic status’ in my book, I would also have to say no. That being said, I'm now finding it interesting—and even fun—to have an opportunity in the blog to learn some things about the man behind the music, anyway.”Following up Wednesday’s post on The Beats, Tim McCaffrey asks, “Given this post, I'm curious how you feel about works like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and, in a different way, the Rabbit novels by Updike. Regarding the Beats, I have always considered their work (I am most familiar with Kerouac) to be a cultural ‘first-step’ (although it was not the first step) away from a culture that celebrated a strict paternal structure.” He later adds, “I enjoy Thompson (especially Fear and Loathing), but I feel like the hero worship that has been accorded to him by people like Johnny Depp is a bit over the top. He was an original mind, no doubt, and a talented if tormented voice of his times. Updike also leaves me cold - in a way that makes me wonder if I just have a hard time connecting with the mindset of that generation of writers. I can't seem to relate to the pressing need to escape, perhaps because I did not experience the weight of social expectation that was likely a heavy burden to those writers. As an aside, Updike's piece on Teddy Ballgame was inspired, although also a bit distant if I recall correctly.”On Facebook, Rob Velella defends Jack Kerouac, arguing that we have to “Read Visions of Gerard before you pass judgment. I found it brilliant, more sincere, and more rewarding than On the Road .” Nancy Caroniaadds, “I've never been a Kerouac fan and I like Howl , but other than that, Ginsberg does not move me. There are, however, other Beat writers that I not only appreciate, but think are brilliant--like Diane DiPrima.” And Jeff Renye highlights “Episode 4 of Series 1 of Star Trek (the original series), where there is a reference to a crewmate borrowing some of the works of Kirk's ‘longhair’ writers.”In response to my call for other non-favorites:Anna Mae Duane nominates “Thoreau. Just can NOT with that guy and his beans.”Stephanie Hershinow worries that “This isn’t the right place for me to confess that I don’t get Joss Whedon…” (but it was exactly the right place!), and adds that “I also dislike Hemingway. (But for different reasons, I think.)”Rob LeBlanc notes, “One comedian that I've never understood the popularity of is Howard Stern. His show contains offensive moments, and also ones that are boring to me. I'm also not a fan of the writing of Henry James.”Emily Page nominates, “The Great Gatsby. I read it in high school and tried again about 10 years ago, but just never took to it.”Rob Velella goes with, “Emerson. All of him. He's overrated, difficult to understand (even in his letters and journals), and just doesn't seem to be saying much. Margaret Fuller, now, I like her and find her very readable. As a person, Emerson also comes across as a snobby, occasionally misogynistic, elitist who hypocritically never wanted to get his hands dirty. Join Brook Farm, RWE, and put your muscles where your mouth is!”Mike Valeri nominates, “Apple pie. That counts, right? I have the quintessential ‘sweet tooth’ and it just eats at my core that apple pie is touted as ‘the American dessert’ when there are about 10 million sweet treats that frankly just do it better. Plus, I'm not eating anything that could have touched Newton's head...”Kate (Larrivee) Smith asks, “Do sports count? Because I love to hate football.”Patricia Ringle Vandever nominates Cooper’s The Deerslayer.Erin Fay notes, “I tried watching the show Girls because everyone said how ‘genius’ it was. The premise sounded appealing to me (a struggling woman writer living in New York and all that), so I forced myself to watch the first two seasons thinking eventually it would get better, but it just didn't. And the worst thing is, it's one of those things that people make you feel like you ‘should’ like and believe that if you don't you're either a prude or a misogynist.”Ian James aims high, nominating Abe Lincoln! He later elaborates, “I dislike Lincoln for a number of reasons. First, suspension of civil rights. If you dislike Bush Jr. and his civil rights suspensions well, Lincoln's actions were equally bad or worse and he did it with significantly less consent. Let's not forget the war crimes of his subordinate Sherman either. Next, he's credited with freeing the slaves which is wholly inaccurate. The Emancipation Proclamation was a political move, not a social move, and he clearly designed it that way since it didn't free any slaves in states loyal to the Union or areas of the Confederacy that had already been captured by the Union. Next, I'm someone who believes in the right to self determination and so I believe secession should be legal so long as it is carried out democratically. He was also easily one of the least popular (and most likely the absolute least popular) president during the time of his presidency.”And I’ll give the last word to someone with whom I have to disagree entirely, but this is a crowd-sourced post: on Twitter, Thaddeus Codger nominates Bruce Springsteen!Next series starts Monday,BenPS. What else gripes your cookies?
March 7, 2014
March 7, 2014: AmericanStudying Non-Favorites: Thomas Jefferson?!
[Much of the time when I’ve highlighted something specific in this space, it’s been because I want to emphasize something positive about it, something I enjoy or appreciate. Well, the heck with that! For this week’s series, I’ll focus instead on stuff about which I’m not as keen, and try to AmericanStudy some of the reasons why. Nobody can be positive all the time, right? Add your own non-favorites in comments to help with a crowd-sourced airing of grievances this weekend!]
On a pretty meaningful kind of revisionism—and an even more valuable one.I’m entering dangerous territory here, with this last post in my non-favorites series. As I’ve written about before—and as I’ll return to in another series two weeks hence—I grew up in Charlottesville, Virginia, a town that is very thoroughly defined by the presence of Thomas Jefferson. Granted, I grew up in a house on Jefferson Park Avenue, with a Dad who taught at Mr. Jefferson’s University, so maybe I’m biased. But I don’t think so; I think Charlottesville is and always will be centrally connected to the man who drafted our Declaration of Independence, was our third president, and (as Mount Rushmore again demonstrates) became and remains one of our most beloved national leaders and figures. Yet as a son of Charlottesville, a University of Virginia brat, a Virginia-born AmericanStudier, I (virtually) stand here before you and tell you that I’m not such a big fan of TJ.I hope it goes without saying that I’m not dismissing Jefferson’s incredible and frequently inspiring contributions to our founding, framing, and Early Republic periods. But I do think that there are multiple, significant arguments for revising the Jefferson mythos. That revision has of course been underway for some time now, thanks to the Sally Hemings debate. And while I agree with those who push back a bit, noting that the evidence is far from conclusive that Jefferson fathered children with Hemings, DNA evidence seems to clearly indicate that a member of the Jefferson family (perhaps Thomas, perhaps someone else) did indeed father at least some of those children. Moreover, the broader takeaway from that debate is not, to my mind, whether Jefferson specifically fathered children with a slave or not—it’s the way in which the very question forces us to revise the mythos, to remember that Jefferson ran a slave plantation for much of his adult life. So did many other Americans, of course—but most of them aren’t celebrated in the ways that Jefferson has been.So that’s an important kind of revision, and one that, Sally Hemings notwithstanding, I don’t know if we’ve collectively engaged with yet. But there’s also another level beyond it, and it involves how I would respond to the argument that Jefferson’s flaws are simply inevitable aspects of his time period (such as the legality and prevalence of slavery in that period). There’s validity to that argument, to be sure. But it’s also the case that in Jefferson’s era—as in every era—there were individuals who pushed back against those kinds of realities, who argued for alternatives to even the most dominant trends of their period. In the early period of Jefferson’s life, on issues such as slavery and race, John Woolman represented one such individual; in his final years, on the same (and many other) issues, Lydia Maria Child comprised another. Am I saying that we should revise the concept of the “Founding Fathers” (or rather Parents) to include Woolman and Child in addition to—and even in some ways in place of—Jefferson and Washington (another slaveowner)? Yeah, I guess I am.Crowd-sourced post this weekend,BenPS. So last chance—gripes and critiques you’d share for the weekend post?
On a pretty meaningful kind of revisionism—and an even more valuable one.I’m entering dangerous territory here, with this last post in my non-favorites series. As I’ve written about before—and as I’ll return to in another series two weeks hence—I grew up in Charlottesville, Virginia, a town that is very thoroughly defined by the presence of Thomas Jefferson. Granted, I grew up in a house on Jefferson Park Avenue, with a Dad who taught at Mr. Jefferson’s University, so maybe I’m biased. But I don’t think so; I think Charlottesville is and always will be centrally connected to the man who drafted our Declaration of Independence, was our third president, and (as Mount Rushmore again demonstrates) became and remains one of our most beloved national leaders and figures. Yet as a son of Charlottesville, a University of Virginia brat, a Virginia-born AmericanStudier, I (virtually) stand here before you and tell you that I’m not such a big fan of TJ.I hope it goes without saying that I’m not dismissing Jefferson’s incredible and frequently inspiring contributions to our founding, framing, and Early Republic periods. But I do think that there are multiple, significant arguments for revising the Jefferson mythos. That revision has of course been underway for some time now, thanks to the Sally Hemings debate. And while I agree with those who push back a bit, noting that the evidence is far from conclusive that Jefferson fathered children with Hemings, DNA evidence seems to clearly indicate that a member of the Jefferson family (perhaps Thomas, perhaps someone else) did indeed father at least some of those children. Moreover, the broader takeaway from that debate is not, to my mind, whether Jefferson specifically fathered children with a slave or not—it’s the way in which the very question forces us to revise the mythos, to remember that Jefferson ran a slave plantation for much of his adult life. So did many other Americans, of course—but most of them aren’t celebrated in the ways that Jefferson has been.So that’s an important kind of revision, and one that, Sally Hemings notwithstanding, I don’t know if we’ve collectively engaged with yet. But there’s also another level beyond it, and it involves how I would respond to the argument that Jefferson’s flaws are simply inevitable aspects of his time period (such as the legality and prevalence of slavery in that period). There’s validity to that argument, to be sure. But it’s also the case that in Jefferson’s era—as in every era—there were individuals who pushed back against those kinds of realities, who argued for alternatives to even the most dominant trends of their period. In the early period of Jefferson’s life, on issues such as slavery and race, John Woolman represented one such individual; in his final years, on the same (and many other) issues, Lydia Maria Child comprised another. Am I saying that we should revise the concept of the “Founding Fathers” (or rather Parents) to include Woolman and Child in addition to—and even in some ways in place of—Jefferson and Washington (another slaveowner)? Yeah, I guess I am.Crowd-sourced post this weekend,BenPS. So last chance—gripes and critiques you’d share for the weekend post?
March 6, 2014
March 6, 2014: AmericanStudying Non-Favorites: Teddy Roosevelt
[Much of the time when I’ve highlighted something specific in this space, it’s been because I want to emphasize something positive about it, something I enjoy or appreciate. Well, the heck with that! For this week’s series, I’ll focus instead on stuff about which I’m not as keen, and try to AmericanStudy some of the reasons why. Nobody can be positive all the time, right? Add your own non-favorites in comments to help with a crowd-sourced airing of grievances this weekend!]
On our national commemorative priorities, and the problems with them.Mount Rushmore was constructed between 1927 and 1936, so it makes sense that, alongside the more historic presidents Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln, the designer chose the most prominent and widely beloved recent president, Teddy Roosevelt. I have significant issues with Roosevelt’s positions on and ideas about a number of questions, from Japanese immigration to Native Americans, masculinity to war; but the truth is that the same could be said of any of the other three presidents, and any other prominent national leader for that matter. So the premise of this non-favorite post isn’t that we value Roosevelt too highly in comparison to other presidents, necessarily; instead, my point here is that we prioritize presidents much too highly in our national memories period (a fact quite literally embodied in Mount Rushmore itself).Of course I understand how easy—and perhaps necessary—it is to connect broad and complex eras and trends with individual figures, iconic representations of those periods. So the Progressive Era becomes Roosevelt’s, in much of our national memory of that late 19th and early 20th century moment. But such an emphasis on individuals—and perhaps especially on presidents—makes it much more difficult for us to remember communities and movements, the kinds of collective efforts and forces that (to my mind) far more significantly shape any and all periods. Obviously we couldn’t put the setttlement house movement or the founding of the NAACP or the City Beautiful movement (to cite three important and influential Progressive efforts) on Mount Rushmore—but I do believe that we should remember them far more than we do; and given the limited amount of space in our national narratives and conversations, such additions might well mean granting Roosevelt a more limited role at the same time.But even if I grant that compelling individuals will always hold a particular spot in our national (and perhaps all human) memories, it seems to me that presidents are almost always less inspiring choices than other possibilities. After all, the very fact of their presidency means that these leaders had a great deal of opportunity to influence policy, to use what TR called the bully pulpit, to make their mark in a way that needs precious little reinforcing. Whereas a Jane Addams, a W.E.B. Du Bois, a Frederick Lewis Olmstead (to highlight three individuals connected to the three aforementioned movements and discussed in those linked posts)—these figures pushed their way into hugely influential roles and lives out of sheer will and talent, stubborn determination and transcendent imagination. Remembering them more than Roosevelt would help better connect us to the movements and communities—but it would also, I believe, inspire us more fully to seek our own most significant futures.Last non-favorite tomorrow,BenPS. Thoughts on this non-favorite? Others you’d share for the weekend post?
On our national commemorative priorities, and the problems with them.Mount Rushmore was constructed between 1927 and 1936, so it makes sense that, alongside the more historic presidents Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln, the designer chose the most prominent and widely beloved recent president, Teddy Roosevelt. I have significant issues with Roosevelt’s positions on and ideas about a number of questions, from Japanese immigration to Native Americans, masculinity to war; but the truth is that the same could be said of any of the other three presidents, and any other prominent national leader for that matter. So the premise of this non-favorite post isn’t that we value Roosevelt too highly in comparison to other presidents, necessarily; instead, my point here is that we prioritize presidents much too highly in our national memories period (a fact quite literally embodied in Mount Rushmore itself).Of course I understand how easy—and perhaps necessary—it is to connect broad and complex eras and trends with individual figures, iconic representations of those periods. So the Progressive Era becomes Roosevelt’s, in much of our national memory of that late 19th and early 20th century moment. But such an emphasis on individuals—and perhaps especially on presidents—makes it much more difficult for us to remember communities and movements, the kinds of collective efforts and forces that (to my mind) far more significantly shape any and all periods. Obviously we couldn’t put the setttlement house movement or the founding of the NAACP or the City Beautiful movement (to cite three important and influential Progressive efforts) on Mount Rushmore—but I do believe that we should remember them far more than we do; and given the limited amount of space in our national narratives and conversations, such additions might well mean granting Roosevelt a more limited role at the same time.But even if I grant that compelling individuals will always hold a particular spot in our national (and perhaps all human) memories, it seems to me that presidents are almost always less inspiring choices than other possibilities. After all, the very fact of their presidency means that these leaders had a great deal of opportunity to influence policy, to use what TR called the bully pulpit, to make their mark in a way that needs precious little reinforcing. Whereas a Jane Addams, a W.E.B. Du Bois, a Frederick Lewis Olmstead (to highlight three individuals connected to the three aforementioned movements and discussed in those linked posts)—these figures pushed their way into hugely influential roles and lives out of sheer will and talent, stubborn determination and transcendent imagination. Remembering them more than Roosevelt would help better connect us to the movements and communities—but it would also, I believe, inspire us more fully to seek our own most significant futures.Last non-favorite tomorrow,BenPS. Thoughts on this non-favorite? Others you’d share for the weekend post?
March 5, 2014
March 5, 2014: AmericanStudying Non-Favorites: The Beats
[Much of the time when I’ve highlighted something specific in this space, it’s been because I want to emphasize something positive about it, something I enjoy or appreciate. Well, the heck with that! For this week’s series, I’ll focus instead on stuff about which I’m not as keen, and try to AmericanStudy some of the reasons why. Nobody can be positive all the time, right? Add your own non-favorites in comments to help with a crowd-sourced airing of grievances this weekend!]
On why I can’t really get into the counter-culture warriors—and the larger problem they emblematize.At this midway point of my non-favorites series, I should make sure to note a couple of important things. First, my goal in writing these posts is not to convince you that I’m right about these figures and artists, not to argue that anybody who likes my subjects is mistaken, not to start such arguments at all. Moreover, I’m not doing this for the thrill of contrarianism—something that I certainly feel on occasion (particularly when rooting against popular sports teams), but that doesn’t generally animate my AmericanStudying. Instead, my goal is to think analytically about some of the things that don’t work for me, considering what that might say about both my own perspective specifically and about AmericanStudies topics more broadly. I say those things here not only because they apply to the whole series, but also because they’re especially relevant to this post, wherein I express my lack of positivity toward a group of writers and artists of whom many of my friends and colleagues (and, I believe, my Dad) are big fans.‘Cause the thing is, I just really don’t like the Beats. Allen Ginsburg’s “Howl”(1956) and “A Supermarket in California” (1956) I find tolerable, if overrated; On the Road (1957) and the entire Jack Kerouac ouevre, on the other hand, just plain drives me away in frustration, and that response has been my more general take on most of the Beat work I’ve encountered. I certainly understand and appreciate how their counter-cultural stance pushed back on many 1950s narratives and even perhaps contributed to the next decade’s social and activist movements; but on the other hand, the Civil Rights movement was already well underway in the years the aforementioned works were published. While the contrast might be an unfair one, it’s difficult for me not to see the Beats as hugely solipsistic by comparison, advocating for their own freedom to fuck and flee and get high and get lost right at a moment when so many in their society were beginning to argue for impassioned engagement instead. That’s too simple of a dichotomy, I know, but it does express my core frustration with the Beats.There’s an even more substantial objection to be made to the Beats, though, and it likewise contrasts them with such social and activist movements (or at least one particular movement). While the Beats were certainly sexually liberated and experimental, when it comes to issue of gender they were often, to put it bluntly, deeply troubled, if not openly sexist. Or, to be more generous and also connect them to a longstanding American narrative, they offered just another iteration in the cycle of American men fleeing both society and women—Rip and Wolf heading into the mountains, Natty and Chingachgook into the woods, Huck and Jimdown the river, and so on. There are women in On the Road, but I would have to agree with the critics who have called the novel at its heart a romance between Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarity, two men on the run who find their shared meaning in large part in direct contrast, again, to both society and to the women who seem often to embody it. For too long, our national narratives of escape have seemed to make those gendered connections, and if noting their problematic prevalence in the Beats can help us change the conversation, I think it’s vital that we do so.Next non-favorite tomorrow,BenPS. Thoughts on this non-favorite? Others you’d share for the weekend post?
On why I can’t really get into the counter-culture warriors—and the larger problem they emblematize.At this midway point of my non-favorites series, I should make sure to note a couple of important things. First, my goal in writing these posts is not to convince you that I’m right about these figures and artists, not to argue that anybody who likes my subjects is mistaken, not to start such arguments at all. Moreover, I’m not doing this for the thrill of contrarianism—something that I certainly feel on occasion (particularly when rooting against popular sports teams), but that doesn’t generally animate my AmericanStudying. Instead, my goal is to think analytically about some of the things that don’t work for me, considering what that might say about both my own perspective specifically and about AmericanStudies topics more broadly. I say those things here not only because they apply to the whole series, but also because they’re especially relevant to this post, wherein I express my lack of positivity toward a group of writers and artists of whom many of my friends and colleagues (and, I believe, my Dad) are big fans.‘Cause the thing is, I just really don’t like the Beats. Allen Ginsburg’s “Howl”(1956) and “A Supermarket in California” (1956) I find tolerable, if overrated; On the Road (1957) and the entire Jack Kerouac ouevre, on the other hand, just plain drives me away in frustration, and that response has been my more general take on most of the Beat work I’ve encountered. I certainly understand and appreciate how their counter-cultural stance pushed back on many 1950s narratives and even perhaps contributed to the next decade’s social and activist movements; but on the other hand, the Civil Rights movement was already well underway in the years the aforementioned works were published. While the contrast might be an unfair one, it’s difficult for me not to see the Beats as hugely solipsistic by comparison, advocating for their own freedom to fuck and flee and get high and get lost right at a moment when so many in their society were beginning to argue for impassioned engagement instead. That’s too simple of a dichotomy, I know, but it does express my core frustration with the Beats.There’s an even more substantial objection to be made to the Beats, though, and it likewise contrasts them with such social and activist movements (or at least one particular movement). While the Beats were certainly sexually liberated and experimental, when it comes to issue of gender they were often, to put it bluntly, deeply troubled, if not openly sexist. Or, to be more generous and also connect them to a longstanding American narrative, they offered just another iteration in the cycle of American men fleeing both society and women—Rip and Wolf heading into the mountains, Natty and Chingachgook into the woods, Huck and Jimdown the river, and so on. There are women in On the Road, but I would have to agree with the critics who have called the novel at its heart a romance between Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarity, two men on the run who find their shared meaning in large part in direct contrast, again, to both society and to the women who seem often to embody it. For too long, our national narratives of escape have seemed to make those gendered connections, and if noting their problematic prevalence in the Beats can help us change the conversation, I think it’s vital that we do so.Next non-favorite tomorrow,BenPS. Thoughts on this non-favorite? Others you’d share for the weekend post?
March 4, 2014
March 4, 2014: AmericanStudying Non-Favorites: Morrison and Cobain
[Much of the time when I’ve highlighted something specific in this space, it’s been because I want to emphasize something positive about it, something I enjoy or appreciate. Well, the heck with that! For this week’s series, I’ll focus instead on stuff about which I’m not as keen, and try to AmericanStudy some of the reasons why. Nobody can be positive all the time, right? Add your own non-favorites in comments to help with a crowd-sourced airing of grievances this weekend!]
On the gap between appreciation and enjoyment—or inspiration.I’m not a music or pop culture historian (though I play on one the intertubes sometimes), but it seems undeniable to me that Jim Morrison and The Doors and Kurt Cobain and Nirvanadrastically influenced, and even helped change, their respective eras in popular music and culture. They did so of course—as any influential figures and artists do—as part of larger trends, the psychadelic rock counter-culture for Morrison and the alternative grunge scene for Cobain. But contextualizing them doesn’t minimize their individual talents and voices, and again I believe it’s undeniable that both men, and the groups they spear-headed, stood out within those trends and eras for their talents and voices. As songwriters, as musicians, and even as poets, the two demand appreciation for what they accomplished in their too-short lives, and I gladly give it to them.I can appreciate them without enjoying the fruits of their talents, however, and I have to admit that virtually everything I’ve heard from both The Doors and Nirvana leaves me cold. That’s partly a simple matter of taste, and so not much worth extended attention in this space. But I believe that there’s a factor in my lack of enjoyment of these bands that does connect to broader AmericanStudies conversations: I find most of their works distinctly pessimistic and cynical, expressing a kind of nihilistic rejection of and separation from the world that reminds me of the narrator of Dostoyevsky’s Notes from Underground. I’m not necessarily arguing that the world doesn’t deserve such pessimism much of the time—but to my mind, there’s a very limited point to artistic works and voices which consistently express that attitude. Or, to connect my first paragraph to this one, I can respect the artistic talent with which these figures and bands express those perspectives, but find not only little enjoyment but little inspiration in their consistent choice to do so.Moreover, I think it’s difficult if not impossible to separate Morrison and Cobain’s tragic deaths from those attitudes toward the world around them. Cobain actively took his own life while Morrison did not, but it’s hard for me to see Morrison’s apparent descent into alcohol and drug abuse (which, despite ambiguities, certainly seems to have caused his death) as disconnected from his world-weariness and desire to separate from all that was around him. To be very clear, I’m not pretending that I know what either man was dealing with, nor critiquing their choices and lives. But on the other hand, I find the cult idolization of the two men troubling, not least because it seems that their deaths, just as much as their attitudes and perspectives in life, have contributed to that ongoing mythography. So while we can and should still engage with their lives and their music, to my mind we must at the same time push back on any sense that they represented ideals for which we should strive.Next non-favorite tomorrow,BenPS. Thoughts on this non-favorite? Others you’d share for the weekend post?
On the gap between appreciation and enjoyment—or inspiration.I’m not a music or pop culture historian (though I play on one the intertubes sometimes), but it seems undeniable to me that Jim Morrison and The Doors and Kurt Cobain and Nirvanadrastically influenced, and even helped change, their respective eras in popular music and culture. They did so of course—as any influential figures and artists do—as part of larger trends, the psychadelic rock counter-culture for Morrison and the alternative grunge scene for Cobain. But contextualizing them doesn’t minimize their individual talents and voices, and again I believe it’s undeniable that both men, and the groups they spear-headed, stood out within those trends and eras for their talents and voices. As songwriters, as musicians, and even as poets, the two demand appreciation for what they accomplished in their too-short lives, and I gladly give it to them.I can appreciate them without enjoying the fruits of their talents, however, and I have to admit that virtually everything I’ve heard from both The Doors and Nirvana leaves me cold. That’s partly a simple matter of taste, and so not much worth extended attention in this space. But I believe that there’s a factor in my lack of enjoyment of these bands that does connect to broader AmericanStudies conversations: I find most of their works distinctly pessimistic and cynical, expressing a kind of nihilistic rejection of and separation from the world that reminds me of the narrator of Dostoyevsky’s Notes from Underground. I’m not necessarily arguing that the world doesn’t deserve such pessimism much of the time—but to my mind, there’s a very limited point to artistic works and voices which consistently express that attitude. Or, to connect my first paragraph to this one, I can respect the artistic talent with which these figures and bands express those perspectives, but find not only little enjoyment but little inspiration in their consistent choice to do so.Moreover, I think it’s difficult if not impossible to separate Morrison and Cobain’s tragic deaths from those attitudes toward the world around them. Cobain actively took his own life while Morrison did not, but it’s hard for me to see Morrison’s apparent descent into alcohol and drug abuse (which, despite ambiguities, certainly seems to have caused his death) as disconnected from his world-weariness and desire to separate from all that was around him. To be very clear, I’m not pretending that I know what either man was dealing with, nor critiquing their choices and lives. But on the other hand, I find the cult idolization of the two men troubling, not least because it seems that their deaths, just as much as their attitudes and perspectives in life, have contributed to that ongoing mythography. So while we can and should still engage with their lives and their music, to my mind we must at the same time push back on any sense that they represented ideals for which we should strive.Next non-favorite tomorrow,BenPS. Thoughts on this non-favorite? Others you’d share for the weekend post?
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