Victor D. Infante's Blog, page 187
December 3, 2010
The classics never die ...
I think, while I'm in the midst of this bizarre, rambling look at big heroes, big stories and how they interact with the world -- although perhaps going off on a long tangent about Hamlet at 4 a.m. was a bit more telling about how the inside of my head than I intended -- it's more important to remember that, at least in this instance, I'm looking at how the stories interact with the culture, not with how they interact with the individual reader. That's a completely different animal.
But, in addition to Buffy, there have been a number of things that have had me thinking about that process, about how a story echoes across decades, sometimes across centuries, and how it adapts to fit the new audience it fins each time. For example, I'm extremely curious to see Julie Taymor's version of The Tempest, with Helen Mirren taking the role of Prospero (renamed Prospera), which just looks delicious. The Tempest is up there with my favorites of all time, and it looks like Taymor is gearing up for a solid re-examination of the text.
I'm also, to switch gears a bit, curious to look at Paul Levitz' gargantuan 75 Years of DC Comics: The Art of Modern Mythmaking, especially after hearing a bit of Levitz on NPR the other day. I was particularly struck by his discussion of how elements of characters or stories were often added later -- Batman's sidekick Robin, for example -- but how it seemed soon after as if those elements had always been there. Certainly, it seems that way with, say, the characters Rupert Giles or Willow Rosenberg in Buffy. Sometimes, the important details do lock in, later. In the course of that discussion, how many "trial runs" of great stories have we mentioned? Joss Whedon's original Buffy movie? Green Lantern Alan Scott? Saxo Grammaticus' Hamlet? These stories create and recreate themselves over time, because that's what stories -- big stories -- do.
It takes an immense familiarity with a version to keep it locked -- Hamlet is Hamlet; the Harry Potter films dare not stray too terribly far from J.K. Rowling's text, lest they face an army of angry 13-year-old fans. (Which, to a certain degree, has turned the movies -- likable as they are -- into Cliff's Notes of Harry Potter.) But the Harry Potter story has sparked a million variations: the video games, which have a slightly different narrative; the illegal unauthorized "sequels" published overseas, the mountains of fan fiction. They all might be ephemera, but as ephemera goes, it's all a part of the story. It replicates itself, no matter how hard the publishers and movie studios try to make it otherwise.
But if one were to really look at this phenomenon, I think there's really two stories that need to be examined above all others: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Who. More on that, soon. I hope.
But, in addition to Buffy, there have been a number of things that have had me thinking about that process, about how a story echoes across decades, sometimes across centuries, and how it adapts to fit the new audience it fins each time. For example, I'm extremely curious to see Julie Taymor's version of The Tempest, with Helen Mirren taking the role of Prospero (renamed Prospera), which just looks delicious. The Tempest is up there with my favorites of all time, and it looks like Taymor is gearing up for a solid re-examination of the text.
I'm also, to switch gears a bit, curious to look at Paul Levitz' gargantuan 75 Years of DC Comics: The Art of Modern Mythmaking, especially after hearing a bit of Levitz on NPR the other day. I was particularly struck by his discussion of how elements of characters or stories were often added later -- Batman's sidekick Robin, for example -- but how it seemed soon after as if those elements had always been there. Certainly, it seems that way with, say, the characters Rupert Giles or Willow Rosenberg in Buffy. Sometimes, the important details do lock in, later. In the course of that discussion, how many "trial runs" of great stories have we mentioned? Joss Whedon's original Buffy movie? Green Lantern Alan Scott? Saxo Grammaticus' Hamlet? These stories create and recreate themselves over time, because that's what stories -- big stories -- do.
It takes an immense familiarity with a version to keep it locked -- Hamlet is Hamlet; the Harry Potter films dare not stray too terribly far from J.K. Rowling's text, lest they face an army of angry 13-year-old fans. (Which, to a certain degree, has turned the movies -- likable as they are -- into Cliff's Notes of Harry Potter.) But the Harry Potter story has sparked a million variations: the video games, which have a slightly different narrative; the illegal unauthorized "sequels" published overseas, the mountains of fan fiction. They all might be ephemera, but as ephemera goes, it's all a part of the story. It replicates itself, no matter how hard the publishers and movie studios try to make it otherwise.
But if one were to really look at this phenomenon, I think there's really two stories that need to be examined above all others: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Who. More on that, soon. I hope.
A bit about Hamlet
When I was talking the other day about the controlling canon of a story, how there's really one version of a story that, in a lot of ways, controls how the story travels, is retold and changes, two really big misconceptions popped up. The first is that any of this has anything to do with an individual's preferred version of the story -- I might think that, say, whereas the Siegal & Shuster version of the Superman is the original, the current main continuity comic book is the controlling version and, I don't know, maybe Smallville is the popular version (or, let's just say the Christopher Reeves movies, for sanity's sake. But it's really probably Smallville.) But there are a million other renditions of them, many of which I prefer to any of these, particularly cool, offbeat versions like the Superman: Red Son comic. But preference doesn't have anything to do with it. Secondly, just because a version of a story isn't the controlling version, or even the popular version, doesn't make it not a valid interpretation of the story. Frank Miller's Batman: The Dark Knight Returns is an influential book, and an awesome one, at that, but it's probably not the version of the story that any informed Bat-aficionado would think of as the "real" version. Doesn't make it any less valid an interpretation, or detract at all from its quality.
And really, this happens mostly with stories that permeate. Some stories travel over time and stay mostly intact, with only minor differences in the way the story's told. Take Hamlet, for example. There were older versions of Hamlet before Shakespeare -- there's a legend that was recorded in the 13th century by the historian Saxo Grammaticus (yes, I totally had to look that name up again) and even an alleged earlier Elizabethan play on the same subject, which no one really knows much about. Whatever original version exists of that story, it's for all intents and purposes lost. But Shakespeare's Hamlet has been the controlling version for centuries, with a consistent text to follow the story from all the way through.
No one really messes much with Hamlet's plot. Oh, it goes through all sorts of odd tribulations, getting set on a spaceship or during the Roaring '20s or whatever, but basically, Hamlet always stays Hamlet. But the interpretations, of which there have been many, have brought us a seemingly unending cascade of Hamlets. Of course, we have really no idea how Richard Burbage's original portrayal went down, but film renditions and taped stagings have given us all sorts of versions to compare. Lawrence Olivier's probably the most famous version, one which suffered great criticism for cutting out the political elements of the play, which, personally, I feel give it its shape an urgency. (But hey, as I've said before, some details are more important than others.) You see that a lot, though. Kevin Branaugh gave us a more stately an persuasive (if somewhat hammy) version, and Mel Gibson brought a sort of visceral energy to the role, making him a man of action trapped by inaction, which I actually think is more clever than he usually gets credit for. Personally, I'm very fond of the recent David Tennant version, but I don't know if that would qualify as the rendition that's either most lodged in the public consciousness at the moment, or indeed, would be one that's considered the most iconic. I think those distinctions would need to be earned over time, at least absent a mass media push that accelerates the whole process.
But no, Oliver's is probably still the iconic version, the rendition that shapes all other versions after it. It may even still be the most popular one. But really, the differences between versions of Hamlet are just shadings. You go too far, and it becomes something else entirely. If we're lucky, it becomes Hamlet 2, complete with "Rock Me Sexy Jesus." Otherwise, it's just something that would be Hamlet only in name, like the Halle Berry Catwoman movie was. Like I mostly fear the new Buffy the Vampire Slayer film will be.
This is not to equate Buffy with Hamlet. Indeed, it's a mark of Hamlet's power that it can travel centuries without suffering too much indignities or variations, excepting novelties such as the aforementioned (and very fun) Hamlet 2 and the comic book Kill Shakespeare (which I've not actually read yet, but hear good things about.) No, Buffy is a new myth, and as such, is probably actually more vulnerable to being batted around and reshaped than something like Hamlet, which everyone has a notion about. Hamlet is ingrained in the culture, whereas Buffy, which is certainly culturally relevant, is still, to the majority of the corporate forces involved in her fictional existence, just a brand.
And really, this happens mostly with stories that permeate. Some stories travel over time and stay mostly intact, with only minor differences in the way the story's told. Take Hamlet, for example. There were older versions of Hamlet before Shakespeare -- there's a legend that was recorded in the 13th century by the historian Saxo Grammaticus (yes, I totally had to look that name up again) and even an alleged earlier Elizabethan play on the same subject, which no one really knows much about. Whatever original version exists of that story, it's for all intents and purposes lost. But Shakespeare's Hamlet has been the controlling version for centuries, with a consistent text to follow the story from all the way through.
No one really messes much with Hamlet's plot. Oh, it goes through all sorts of odd tribulations, getting set on a spaceship or during the Roaring '20s or whatever, but basically, Hamlet always stays Hamlet. But the interpretations, of which there have been many, have brought us a seemingly unending cascade of Hamlets. Of course, we have really no idea how Richard Burbage's original portrayal went down, but film renditions and taped stagings have given us all sorts of versions to compare. Lawrence Olivier's probably the most famous version, one which suffered great criticism for cutting out the political elements of the play, which, personally, I feel give it its shape an urgency. (But hey, as I've said before, some details are more important than others.) You see that a lot, though. Kevin Branaugh gave us a more stately an persuasive (if somewhat hammy) version, and Mel Gibson brought a sort of visceral energy to the role, making him a man of action trapped by inaction, which I actually think is more clever than he usually gets credit for. Personally, I'm very fond of the recent David Tennant version, but I don't know if that would qualify as the rendition that's either most lodged in the public consciousness at the moment, or indeed, would be one that's considered the most iconic. I think those distinctions would need to be earned over time, at least absent a mass media push that accelerates the whole process.
But no, Oliver's is probably still the iconic version, the rendition that shapes all other versions after it. It may even still be the most popular one. But really, the differences between versions of Hamlet are just shadings. You go too far, and it becomes something else entirely. If we're lucky, it becomes Hamlet 2, complete with "Rock Me Sexy Jesus." Otherwise, it's just something that would be Hamlet only in name, like the Halle Berry Catwoman movie was. Like I mostly fear the new Buffy the Vampire Slayer film will be.
This is not to equate Buffy with Hamlet. Indeed, it's a mark of Hamlet's power that it can travel centuries without suffering too much indignities or variations, excepting novelties such as the aforementioned (and very fun) Hamlet 2 and the comic book Kill Shakespeare (which I've not actually read yet, but hear good things about.) No, Buffy is a new myth, and as such, is probably actually more vulnerable to being batted around and reshaped than something like Hamlet, which everyone has a notion about. Hamlet is ingrained in the culture, whereas Buffy, which is certainly culturally relevant, is still, to the majority of the corporate forces involved in her fictional existence, just a brand.
November 30, 2010
Addenda to Yesterday's Post
Just as I was thinking further this morning about Green Lantern John Stewart, and the confusion between so many radically different versions of the Green Lantern trope, a new installment of Andrew Wheeler's excellent "No More Mutants" essays on diversity in comic books was posted online. Today's topic: "Black Label."
Writes Wheeler:
Writes Wheeler:
"Thankfully the name Black Goliath was dropped after only four years, and the character’s nephew and successor goes by Goliath. We’re unlikely to see another character saddled with a name like that any time soon, even while the Thor Girls and the Lady Bullseyes continue to accumulate. Yet we do still see black versions of white characters, dating back at least as far as John Stewart, the black Green Lantern.
Stewart was followed by James Rhodes, the black Iron Man; Steel, the black Superman; Michael Holt, the black Mister Terrific; Shiloh Norman, the black Mister Miracle; Josiah Bradley, the black Captain America; Jason Rusch, the black Firestorm; Crispus Allen, the black Spectre; Jackson Hyde, the black Aqualad; and Ultimate Nick Fury, the black Nick Fury.
This is a derivative approach, but most of these characters have at least had a chance to headline their own books, which is more than can be said for most other black superheroes. I’m reminded of something Avengers editor Tom Brevoort said; 'Whenever your leads are white American males, you’ve got a better chance of reaching more people overall.' Are these latter day black Goliaths the only way to sell black heroes to an audience that reflexively rejects them? Is it easier for readers to accept a black superhero if he’s wearing hand-me-down clothing?"
Wheeler's done some excellent work on the subject, and his occasional columns are all very much worth reading.Thoughts on Heroes and Stories
First off, I should just have a disclaimer on this blog that says, "Read everything Charlie Anders has ever written." Current case in point is her fascinating essay, "We Meed More Vampire Slayers -- Just Not More Buffy," wherein she, as usual, hits the nail on the head.
Writes Anders: "But after more consideration, I had a more nuanced feeling about this remake. First of all, the absence of Whedon's involvement is a symptom, not the cause, of the likely suckitude. Second of all, we need more heroes like Buffy — but more than that, I desperately want to see what the next thing after Buffy is. And third of all, there hasn't just been a shortage of strong female heroines since Buffy went away — there's been a shortage of strong heroes and stories about heroism, period. We're in a weirdly cynical era where we have tons of heroes but not much heroism."
She goes on to make a fascinating case about heroes in recent popular culture, how they're mostly "wish fulfillment and shininess, with no real heroism depicted on screen. Just as we're suffering from a villain recession, we also haven't had a hero who sacrifices, and does the right thing in spite of the cost, and saves people. Not in a while anyway."
But I don't know if I'm entirely willing to concede the point on heroes in the 21st Century. (The 21st Century, for our purposes, having begun in the mid-'90s or so. These things are never as neat and precise as you want them to be.) Indeed, it's a subject that I've been poking and prodding at for some time now, always feeling I'm only scratching the surface. Probably because I only ever am. But before you dip too deeply into the realm of what makes a hero and the few contemporaries (that aren't revamps) that might hold that title (although I think Harry Potter should definitely get the nod, as well as Aang from "Avatar: The Last Airbender") I think there's one major element of storytelling -- and the nature of contemporary stories -- that needs to be considered: controlling canon.
I talked about this a while back when I was writing about Buffy. Stories have always traveled and mutated over time -- a tale told by peasants in Germany gets written down by Charles Perrault, and then a different version by the Brothers Grimm, and then a different version by Disney Films, and then yet another version by Bill Willingham. On the one hand, we know which ones are best known -- most likely Grimm, Disney -- but there's always a sort of ... certainty ... that comes when one is confronted by the real tale. Grimm and Disney may be popular, but the old German folktale is still, in its odd way, in control. We can feel its certainty. With folk tales, one suspects its a function of the intrinsic darkness of the original stories, the warnings they were meant to convey still resonating.
With contemporary stories, though, it's tougher. Most of the new myths have corporate patrons, who are invested in spinning the story over and over again, in a variety of forms. Batman, for example, stars in five or so comics at any given time (often more) all set in the same continuity, as well as usually one or two that are not. ("Imaginary stories," if you will.) He's also the lead in a couple popular movies directed by Christopher Nolan, which are somewhat different from the popular movies directed by Tim Burton, or the TV show starring Adam West. And then there's the video games, the TV shows, what have you. The story gets told over and over again, each time a little different, but somehow all Batman. But what version of the story is in control ... is the guiding force that drives the others. One might argue it should be the current movies, with their overwhelming audience, but that doesn't seem to be the case. They're still, in most ways, dominated by the comics -- the core of that myth being the original Bob Kane and Bill Finger comics from the 1930s. But really, if you ask anyone who cares deeply about Batman what the real version of Batman that's out right now, they'll most likely point to the mainstream DC Comics titles.
Which gives us, in a stroke, three different dominant versions of the story: the original (core); the popular (the films); and the controlling, or "real" one (current comics). Is it fair to leave that last one to the whims of those who probably care most? I'm not sure one has a choice. It's pretty much the way it works, even if the distinctions eventually become harder to parse. For example, a film version of the DC comic Green Lantern is forthcoming, featuring Ryan Reynolds as Green Lantern Hal Jordan. Jordan was the star of the Green Lantern comics in the '60s, and the one most comic fans think of when they think of Green Lantern. But he was also the second character to have that name -- the first being Alan Scott, in the 1040s. Scott's still running around in the comics, and even had a brief cameo on Smallville, but while many, myself incuded, are fond, I doubt anyone considers him the central, driving force behind the Green Lantern mythology. But there have been other Green Lanterns, too, and not just in the comics. The Justice League cartoons mostly feature an African-American Green Lantern named John Stewart -- who was a replacement fro Jordan for some time in the comics, and now a Green Lantern alongside him. Stewart was used in the cartoon instead of Jordan to add much-needed diversity, but -- at least until the movie makes a bazillion dollars, is still the "popular" version of the character. (And you can imagine how a lot of African-Americans felt about seeing the black superhero from the cartoon being played by Ryan Reynolds. Or if you can't, you can read about it here.) Thus, the original version (Scott, in the '40s comics), the popular version (Stewart, in the cartoon) and the controlling version (Jordan, in the current comics) are way out of synch, a dynamic which may hurt the Reynolds movie, or just as likely, which the Reynolds movie will stabilize.
I've now gone waaaaay off course, but I think it's an important place to start when you talk about heroes in contemporary popular culture, because -- with the proliferation of media -- you need to be crystal clear which version you're talking about, and if you're talking about the myth of a character in the abstract, it pays to know which version is in control of that story.
More soon ... and if I have my way, I'll be talking about Shakespeare, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Who ...
Writes Anders: "But after more consideration, I had a more nuanced feeling about this remake. First of all, the absence of Whedon's involvement is a symptom, not the cause, of the likely suckitude. Second of all, we need more heroes like Buffy — but more than that, I desperately want to see what the next thing after Buffy is. And third of all, there hasn't just been a shortage of strong female heroines since Buffy went away — there's been a shortage of strong heroes and stories about heroism, period. We're in a weirdly cynical era where we have tons of heroes but not much heroism."
She goes on to make a fascinating case about heroes in recent popular culture, how they're mostly "wish fulfillment and shininess, with no real heroism depicted on screen. Just as we're suffering from a villain recession, we also haven't had a hero who sacrifices, and does the right thing in spite of the cost, and saves people. Not in a while anyway."
But I don't know if I'm entirely willing to concede the point on heroes in the 21st Century. (The 21st Century, for our purposes, having begun in the mid-'90s or so. These things are never as neat and precise as you want them to be.) Indeed, it's a subject that I've been poking and prodding at for some time now, always feeling I'm only scratching the surface. Probably because I only ever am. But before you dip too deeply into the realm of what makes a hero and the few contemporaries (that aren't revamps) that might hold that title (although I think Harry Potter should definitely get the nod, as well as Aang from "Avatar: The Last Airbender") I think there's one major element of storytelling -- and the nature of contemporary stories -- that needs to be considered: controlling canon.
I talked about this a while back when I was writing about Buffy. Stories have always traveled and mutated over time -- a tale told by peasants in Germany gets written down by Charles Perrault, and then a different version by the Brothers Grimm, and then a different version by Disney Films, and then yet another version by Bill Willingham. On the one hand, we know which ones are best known -- most likely Grimm, Disney -- but there's always a sort of ... certainty ... that comes when one is confronted by the real tale. Grimm and Disney may be popular, but the old German folktale is still, in its odd way, in control. We can feel its certainty. With folk tales, one suspects its a function of the intrinsic darkness of the original stories, the warnings they were meant to convey still resonating.
With contemporary stories, though, it's tougher. Most of the new myths have corporate patrons, who are invested in spinning the story over and over again, in a variety of forms. Batman, for example, stars in five or so comics at any given time (often more) all set in the same continuity, as well as usually one or two that are not. ("Imaginary stories," if you will.) He's also the lead in a couple popular movies directed by Christopher Nolan, which are somewhat different from the popular movies directed by Tim Burton, or the TV show starring Adam West. And then there's the video games, the TV shows, what have you. The story gets told over and over again, each time a little different, but somehow all Batman. But what version of the story is in control ... is the guiding force that drives the others. One might argue it should be the current movies, with their overwhelming audience, but that doesn't seem to be the case. They're still, in most ways, dominated by the comics -- the core of that myth being the original Bob Kane and Bill Finger comics from the 1930s. But really, if you ask anyone who cares deeply about Batman what the real version of Batman that's out right now, they'll most likely point to the mainstream DC Comics titles.
Which gives us, in a stroke, three different dominant versions of the story: the original (core); the popular (the films); and the controlling, or "real" one (current comics). Is it fair to leave that last one to the whims of those who probably care most? I'm not sure one has a choice. It's pretty much the way it works, even if the distinctions eventually become harder to parse. For example, a film version of the DC comic Green Lantern is forthcoming, featuring Ryan Reynolds as Green Lantern Hal Jordan. Jordan was the star of the Green Lantern comics in the '60s, and the one most comic fans think of when they think of Green Lantern. But he was also the second character to have that name -- the first being Alan Scott, in the 1040s. Scott's still running around in the comics, and even had a brief cameo on Smallville, but while many, myself incuded, are fond, I doubt anyone considers him the central, driving force behind the Green Lantern mythology. But there have been other Green Lanterns, too, and not just in the comics. The Justice League cartoons mostly feature an African-American Green Lantern named John Stewart -- who was a replacement fro Jordan for some time in the comics, and now a Green Lantern alongside him. Stewart was used in the cartoon instead of Jordan to add much-needed diversity, but -- at least until the movie makes a bazillion dollars, is still the "popular" version of the character. (And you can imagine how a lot of African-Americans felt about seeing the black superhero from the cartoon being played by Ryan Reynolds. Or if you can't, you can read about it here.) Thus, the original version (Scott, in the '40s comics), the popular version (Stewart, in the cartoon) and the controlling version (Jordan, in the current comics) are way out of synch, a dynamic which may hurt the Reynolds movie, or just as likely, which the Reynolds movie will stabilize.
I've now gone waaaaay off course, but I think it's an important place to start when you talk about heroes in contemporary popular culture, because -- with the proliferation of media -- you need to be crystal clear which version you're talking about, and if you're talking about the myth of a character in the abstract, it pays to know which version is in control of that story.
More soon ... and if I have my way, I'll be talking about Shakespeare, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Who ...
November 29, 2010
The Funny Business of Talking About Poetry
So, I think I can be man enough to admit that I was terribly unfair to Janice Earlbaum about her "Best American Poetry" blog post. It happens, and for what it's worth, I apologize. However, I think it may be worth talking over what it was that set me off, because it's indicative of a systemic problem in how poetry -- and not just slam -- is written about today.
In the attempt to collectively shed the stodgy, unapproachable image of the past, it seems a great deal of the conversation about poetry has become facile, dominated by an overly hip, overly precious, overly self-conscious gee-whiz, look-at-me voice that -- in a desperate attempt to be seen as cool and not overly professorial -- seems to have lost a good deal of its sense of proportion.
To be fair, I've been guilty of this myself on occasion, so I can see how it comes about: In trying so hard to not be seen as overly serious, it's become commonplace to not be seen as serious at all, even in forums where one expects that poets are mostly writing for a more specialized audience, such as Best American Poetry. When that sort of voiced is used well, and appropriately, it's wonderful. When it becomes the default mode of discussion, or is used in place of saying something new or interesting about a subject, it begins to grate, and worse, begins to insinuate that the subject itself is trivial. (This is actually not so far and away from the criticisms I've lobbed in the past at the Pie & Coffee guys, now that I think about it. Sorry to bring up old wounds, guys!)
What set me off about Ms. Earlbaum's piece was the reductive view of slam, and indeed, my opinion worsened when I learned that she had a far more informed view than she was stating. Instead of deflating the cliches of the genre, and pointing to the large and diverse body of work, she instead addressed the topic in a manner that accentuated the tropes. If she had done so on her own blog, I'd have blissfully ignored it, but she was on BAP, and I found the missed opportunity to say something new or deeper on the subject to be infuriating.
My friend Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz, with a reasonableness that demonstrates why she has an NEA grant and I don't, points out that:
"I think in this most recent column she is acknowledging the criticism that people have for flarf and slam (aggressively so), but then she is showing GREAT examples of the two forms, which sort of contrasts that whole point of bashing one-sided piece, yes?
The poets she chose for her slam video, for instance, are definitely ones that we (the slam community) would have chosen to represent us (and have, if you consider Buddy and Andrea have been crowned at individual slam competitions) and who are reflective of what's succeeding the scene today (as opposed to choosing the shittiest poets you can find on Def Poetry, even if those poets never had been in a slam before in their lives), you know? And that's to her credit."
And, as is usually the case, Ms. Aptowicz is correct. There is absolutely nothing wrong with Buddy Wakefield and Andrea Gibson being exposed to new audiences. They are fine poets and do what they do with aplomb. No, my objection is the fact that, even 20 years later, we always seem to be at the start of the conversation, when frankly, I think an audience that's largely familiar with poetry can handle moving up to the intermediate course. I'm willing to bet we can do that without losing too many eyeballs.
But that brings us back to the beginning, doesn't it? Because to talk about things in a more informed, thorough way, one has to shed at least a bit of the hipster, funnyperson persona. It risks being serious, possibly even dry. And I'll admit, a lot of the "serious" writing about poetry in the past has been deadly dull. I can see where one would fear going down that road. But going too far in the other direction is just as self-defeating. Surely, there's a middle ground. Surely, there's a way to talk about poetry in such a way that is both intelligent and engaging.
I think, perhaps, the answer lies with something my late friend (and occasional sparring partner) blogger Jeff Barnard said in a conversation about blogging with newspaper columnist Dianne Williamson. said Barnard:
“I've only been posting what I find I'm interested in enough to say, ‘Hey! Lookit this!' ... My only advice to fellow bloggers and would-be bloggers is this: Don't bother trying to be interestING ... always focus instead on being interestED in what you post."
Sound advice, which I think we could all stand to heed more often.
In the attempt to collectively shed the stodgy, unapproachable image of the past, it seems a great deal of the conversation about poetry has become facile, dominated by an overly hip, overly precious, overly self-conscious gee-whiz, look-at-me voice that -- in a desperate attempt to be seen as cool and not overly professorial -- seems to have lost a good deal of its sense of proportion.
To be fair, I've been guilty of this myself on occasion, so I can see how it comes about: In trying so hard to not be seen as overly serious, it's become commonplace to not be seen as serious at all, even in forums where one expects that poets are mostly writing for a more specialized audience, such as Best American Poetry. When that sort of voiced is used well, and appropriately, it's wonderful. When it becomes the default mode of discussion, or is used in place of saying something new or interesting about a subject, it begins to grate, and worse, begins to insinuate that the subject itself is trivial. (This is actually not so far and away from the criticisms I've lobbed in the past at the Pie & Coffee guys, now that I think about it. Sorry to bring up old wounds, guys!)
What set me off about Ms. Earlbaum's piece was the reductive view of slam, and indeed, my opinion worsened when I learned that she had a far more informed view than she was stating. Instead of deflating the cliches of the genre, and pointing to the large and diverse body of work, she instead addressed the topic in a manner that accentuated the tropes. If she had done so on her own blog, I'd have blissfully ignored it, but she was on BAP, and I found the missed opportunity to say something new or deeper on the subject to be infuriating.
My friend Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz, with a reasonableness that demonstrates why she has an NEA grant and I don't, points out that:
"I think in this most recent column she is acknowledging the criticism that people have for flarf and slam (aggressively so), but then she is showing GREAT examples of the two forms, which sort of contrasts that whole point of bashing one-sided piece, yes?
The poets she chose for her slam video, for instance, are definitely ones that we (the slam community) would have chosen to represent us (and have, if you consider Buddy and Andrea have been crowned at individual slam competitions) and who are reflective of what's succeeding the scene today (as opposed to choosing the shittiest poets you can find on Def Poetry, even if those poets never had been in a slam before in their lives), you know? And that's to her credit."
And, as is usually the case, Ms. Aptowicz is correct. There is absolutely nothing wrong with Buddy Wakefield and Andrea Gibson being exposed to new audiences. They are fine poets and do what they do with aplomb. No, my objection is the fact that, even 20 years later, we always seem to be at the start of the conversation, when frankly, I think an audience that's largely familiar with poetry can handle moving up to the intermediate course. I'm willing to bet we can do that without losing too many eyeballs.
But that brings us back to the beginning, doesn't it? Because to talk about things in a more informed, thorough way, one has to shed at least a bit of the hipster, funnyperson persona. It risks being serious, possibly even dry. And I'll admit, a lot of the "serious" writing about poetry in the past has been deadly dull. I can see where one would fear going down that road. But going too far in the other direction is just as self-defeating. Surely, there's a middle ground. Surely, there's a way to talk about poetry in such a way that is both intelligent and engaging.
I think, perhaps, the answer lies with something my late friend (and occasional sparring partner) blogger Jeff Barnard said in a conversation about blogging with newspaper columnist Dianne Williamson. said Barnard:
“I've only been posting what I find I'm interested in enough to say, ‘Hey! Lookit this!' ... My only advice to fellow bloggers and would-be bloggers is this: Don't bother trying to be interestING ... always focus instead on being interestED in what you post."
Sound advice, which I think we could all stand to heed more often.
November 28, 2010
RIP Jeff Barnard
Jeff Barnard, best known for his WormTown Taxi blog, died today, after a long battle with cancer. It feels strange to type those words, even though it had been coming for some time, and his online voice was already well muted. Still, neither the city nor my daily perusal of the local blogs will feel quite right without him.
Don't get me wrong -- Jeff could be infuriating sometimes, and we disagreed sharply on quite a bit, particularly on subjects as diverse as the media and the police (and of course, how the media covers the police). But he was also one of the nicest, most genuine people I've had the pleasure to meet, and he cared very deeply about the city. Jeff always spoke his mind, and I very much respected that, and there was always a sense that he found the way people got worked up over things to be a little bit funny. I respected that, too.
Goodbye, Jeff. You were a great guy and a great occasional sparring partner, and the place just won't be the same without you. You'll be sorely missed.
November 25, 2010
Happy Thanksgiving
Sometimes I forget what a good photographer my mom is, so it was nice to have some photos in my e-mail this morning.
This is where I grew up. And people wonder why I'm prone to homesickness:
This is where I grew up. And people wonder why I'm prone to homesickness:
November 24, 2010
Happy Birthday, Mom!
I think my nine or so years living in New England have slowly unveiled a sort of Seasonal Affective Disorder in me, one that I wasn't entirely aware of earlier in life because, well, I mostly lived in Southern California, where seasons are a quaint concept, punctuated by subtle changes in temperature and the changing of the holiday displays at grocery stores. Autumn has made me moody, and had me missing SoCal something fierce. The past couple years, the cards just haven't been there for us to get back to visit, (discounting one brief visit to help deal with a family emergency), and it makes me a little edgy. I think I'm far more sentimental than I let on, a lot of the time, and I think I'm fairly prone to homesickness.
All of which is a needlessly clunky way of saying I miss home, and I miss my mom. Which are the sort of statements that really shouldn't need any qualifying, aren't they? They strike me as fairly normal impulses. Ah, yes. But we live in a world where we're expected to behave like soulless automatons in public, and not admit that we're normal people who feel love and homesickness, joy and depression, all in the same span of seconds. Bah. Screw that. I'm a moody son of a -- ahem -- gun, and proud of it. I'm not willing to pretend otherwise.
And I do need to get home for a bit, as soon as possible. And I do miss my mom, and hope she has a lovely birthday. With any luck, I'll be home to visit sometime soon.
All of which is a needlessly clunky way of saying I miss home, and I miss my mom. Which are the sort of statements that really shouldn't need any qualifying, aren't they? They strike me as fairly normal impulses. Ah, yes. But we live in a world where we're expected to behave like soulless automatons in public, and not admit that we're normal people who feel love and homesickness, joy and depression, all in the same span of seconds. Bah. Screw that. I'm a moody son of a -- ahem -- gun, and proud of it. I'm not willing to pretend otherwise.
And I do need to get home for a bit, as soon as possible. And I do miss my mom, and hope she has a lovely birthday. With any luck, I'll be home to visit sometime soon.
"It's a Ritual Sacrifice. With Pie"
The other bit of pop culture news buzzing about right now as the holidays approach is the resurfacing of the new Buffy the Vampire Slayer movie which absolutely no one wants. I've already said my piece about this one, but Joss Whedon's official statement was pretty classic:
"This is a sad, sad reflection on our times, when people must feed off the carcasses of beloved stories from their youths-just because they can't think of an original idea of their own, like I did with my Avengers idea that I made up myself."
Oh, Joss. Don't ever change.
(And speaking of the extended Mutant Enemy family: Watch "Terriers," with executive producer Tim Minear, late of of "Angel," "Firefly" and several "Buffy" episodes that reporters keep insisting he worked on, despite his protests. It's fantastic television -- snarky and surprising, more than a little demented and always very, very human.)
"This is a sad, sad reflection on our times, when people must feed off the carcasses of beloved stories from their youths-just because they can't think of an original idea of their own, like I did with my Avengers idea that I made up myself."
Oh, Joss. Don't ever change.
(And speaking of the extended Mutant Enemy family: Watch "Terriers," with executive producer Tim Minear, late of of "Angel," "Firefly" and several "Buffy" episodes that reporters keep insisting he worked on, despite his protests. It's fantastic television -- snarky and surprising, more than a little demented and always very, very human.)
Pop-Culture-A-Go-Go
Tonight, there will be a new "Dancing with the Stars" champion. It may very well be Bristol Palin. I don't know, I've not watched much this season, because I knew it would annoy me. And while I will do many things that threaten to annoy me because I see some potential value in them, watching a bad season of "DwtS" isn't one of them.
However, Nick Mamatas has a great run down on the strange political drama that Bristol Palin's supporters seem to imagine themselves in, including this great bit reposted from some god-forsaken corner of the Internet:
"On the upcoming Monday, I will use ALL 100 fake e-mail account and ALL 500+ votes for Bristol. In fact, I might even “create” a few more fake ones.
Why not? I can stay up ALL night long and keep on voting. After all, there’s NOTHING the liberals or ABC can do about it. Hell, since the contest is winding down, we might as well admit it since everyone who tries to create the fake accounts actually CAN exploit it. If the liberals can’t do it, I guess we’re just smarter than they are.
BRISTOL is going to win because none of the liberals can stay up all night long and keep voting with as many fake accounts as the rest of the Tea Party and other supporters."
And this, as I said in the comments, is where the breakdown in communication is happening. Because they are seeing themselves in a grand liberal vs. conservative drama, when in reality, it is a "conservatives vs. fans of dancing" drama. Or, to put it another way, it's "Footloose," sans Kenny Loggins. Mostly.
However, Nick Mamatas has a great run down on the strange political drama that Bristol Palin's supporters seem to imagine themselves in, including this great bit reposted from some god-forsaken corner of the Internet:
"On the upcoming Monday, I will use ALL 100 fake e-mail account and ALL 500+ votes for Bristol. In fact, I might even “create” a few more fake ones.
Why not? I can stay up ALL night long and keep on voting. After all, there’s NOTHING the liberals or ABC can do about it. Hell, since the contest is winding down, we might as well admit it since everyone who tries to create the fake accounts actually CAN exploit it. If the liberals can’t do it, I guess we’re just smarter than they are.
BRISTOL is going to win because none of the liberals can stay up all night long and keep voting with as many fake accounts as the rest of the Tea Party and other supporters."
And this, as I said in the comments, is where the breakdown in communication is happening. Because they are seeing themselves in a grand liberal vs. conservative drama, when in reality, it is a "conservatives vs. fans of dancing" drama. Or, to put it another way, it's "Footloose," sans Kenny Loggins. Mostly.
