The Awakening

Still I’m here
And still confused
But I can finally see how much I stand to lose

from “All These Years” by Mac McAnally;
performed by Sawyer Brown

9/11 woke us up as attacks do. But I think it also made us rethink the assumptions that had little to do with Islamic terrorism or even the fragility of our society. We stopped and took an accounting. And, like the woman in bed with her lover, we began to realize how much we had to lose. We’d liked some adventure the frisson we feel as we near the abyss, a daring easier when our lives are secure. “Yes, isn’t that interesting,” we’d say, tempted by the pyrotechnics of the post-modernists, by the fun of contradictory abstractions. But here the similarity with the song disappears, because the adventure was in our minds we’d left history, human nature, our bodies behind.

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The Edinburgh Festival – and how!

The Edinbugh Festival begins in Scotland’s capital city tomorrow and despite the fireworks of creativity that it always delivers, I think this year is going to be hostage to “Jihad! The Musical!” – “A madcap romp through the wacky world of international terrorism”.

It was written by an Old Etonian and a 25 year old female compatriot.

The Edinburgh Festival opens on tomorrow (Monday), and I await the reviews with interest. In the meantime, here is one of the songs, “I Wanna Be Like Osama” for your evening viewing pleasure.

The chap who plays Osmana is stardom bound, that’s for sure. I’ll let you know when the reviews come out.

Antonioni and Bergman

A&L has collected the obituaries. In one of those B-movie coincidences, on Monday two of the great directors of mid-century angst died – Michelangelo Antonioni, 94, in Italy and Ingmar Bergman, 89, in Sweden. Iowahawk reposts his tribute to Bergman. Podhoretz complains of Bergman’s pretentiousness – arguing that 1982 was the end of that era. Well, maybe. Rewatching several of both these directors’ works in the last year or so has reminded me of what we were when we watched them in our separate youths, and how much my husband and I have developed different pleasures, perspectives, and values in the time since. But these movies are often beautiful in the slow and quiet ways they develop character, in the perspectives of their images, of the gestures that are telling. The piled up photographs as we see Marianne’s self emerge in Scenes from a Marriage or the panic as well as listlessness of L’Aventurra still move me, still seem human. If the people make silly choices, well, don’t we all. Why and how we make them is the subject of the films. We hadn’t seen Autumn Sonata before this year and if it, too, remains as bleak as ever about our failings in our relations as parents and as children, the tangles were bleakly understandable. As implied by this, what I liked best was character in these works and the allegorical seldom holds its own against human complexity. But Podhoretz complains of how they told their tales of angst and fear of the void; I think it is the void that we turned from as the century went on.

I’m not so sure that Podhoretz isn’t reflecting the fact that some time in the eighties we said to ourselves, snap out of it, suck it up, do something. Of course, it might have taken some of us a few more years. And it seems to me an obituary is a time for gratitude: I (and I suspect many others) owe many pleasant moments in the theater to these two directors. So, most of us have found a way out of that hole as the century continued, though how strong the ladders we found may prove is not something we know – will know. In the mid-nineteenth century Matthew Arnold described a darkling plain, but love, domesticity, faith, nation, work, duty helped; the ways out were similar a century later. These two directors have taken similar themes, but the difference in their expressions also help us appreciate two quite different sensibilities, cultures.

More importantly, perhaps, we’ll always have (and love) “Dover Beach” and I suspect we will always have some understanding of these two at their best.

Cimrman’s Place in the Collective Dream

Our culture comes to us through food and language. Food is sensual pleasure and necessity; we remember the love with which a grandmother put a piece of pie in front of us, the thought of the groaning holiday table. And if food reinforces the sensual memories of our families, language allows us to see through a culture’s eyes, words filled with history and nuance, words coming from old derivations that are microcosms of our linguistic (and cultural) history. But for this time, let’s ignore those two and move on to the broader culture music, art, movies, novels that America both creates and synthesizes. Great art speaks to all of us, but each speaks to each of us. Some art doesn’t travel well; some artifacts move people of one culture far more than they do those of another an incongruence between us, perhaps, in what we find “congruent” with reality. We pass our culture on to our children in off-hand remarks, the way we frame debates, the jokes we retell. We don’t do this consciously, but that culture saturates our conversations.

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Wisdom from the Country

While John Jay reads Russian lit in Russian, I listen to country music. But “the immortal Sawyer Brown” has thoughts on the relation of truth to narrative as well:

The phone rings: it’s the call of the wild

And the clothes we wear have finally come back in style

We got some tall tales that we love to tell

They may not be true

But we sure do remember them well

From “The Boys & Me.