Do Ask and Make Them Tell

I used to think it was rude to shut down politicians. I’ve changed my mind. Now I believe it’s our best chance at reviving American democracy. It may be the only way to get our questions answered.

Contemporary politics is suffering from a dearth of public servants. What we too often get these days are the toadies of private interest groups. The latter pay plenty to airbrush their mouthpieces and train them to stay on message like mimicking parrots. Listening to modern politicians is often like being trapped in a room with a five-year-old piano student has just learned “Chopsticks;” after a while the tedium of repeated notes makes you crazy. It doesn’t seem to matter what the real issues are these days, oily pols just slide out from under them and spout well-rehearsed sound bites.

Somebody needs to remind politicians that they have a duty to answer the question that was asked, not the one they practiced in the seminar room. For heaven’s sake, if I ask one of my students to answer a question about the Civil War and she writes an essay about Vietnam, she fails. So let’s hold politicians to that standard. We must do so, because most journalists will not. To put a point on it, they too have been bought and sold by special interest groups that have wined them, dined them, and convinced them that the only way to be a “player” is to be embedded. In “press conferences” these days even NPR lobs more softballs than you’ll see on a summer Sunday in the park.

There are encouraging signs that disgruntled Americans are taking matters into their own hands. In her recent swing through Iowa, Michele Bachman insisted she only wanted to talk about the economy and declined to take questions. Not good enough for seventeen-year-old Gabe Aderhold, who wanted to ask Bachman about the suicide of gay teens in her own Minneapolis suburb. When she ignored him, he shouted out, “I am a second-class citizen because of you, Michele.” Bachman was forced to backpedal--and what else could one who thinks you can “cure” gays by “praying” do but backpedal?--by jumping into her golf cart and speeding away. Rick Perry didn’t fare any better in New Hampshire. When asked by a child how old he thought the earth was. “You know, I don’t have any idea,” said Perry as he tried to move on, but his answers weren’t much better on Social Security, unemployment, or global warming. I live in Massachusetts, where making fun of New Hampshire is an official sport, but let me offer a bold prediction: Rick Perry won’t fare well in the New Hampshire primary. Folks up that way know horseshit when they smell it, and Perry left so many deposits that Granite Staters will remember in February.

While we’re on the subject of all shine, no substance, let’s give the Cowardly Lion Award to Scott Brown. In an “appearance” in Western Massachusetts last week that was shorter than the senator’s list of accomplishments, Brown came, he waved, and he ran away the moment questions were asked. That’s right, a man who thinks he deserves to be a U.S. Senator didn’t take a single question. Apparently he can’t even hit a lobbed softball or two. Brown can win reelection without Western Massachusetts and that’s his only hope; he didn’t have that many fans here before he came, and he exited with even fewer. Let’s get folks in Eastern Massachusetts to force Brown to talk about the Tea Party baggage he hauls in the back of his famed pickup truck.

To this emerging trend I say, good on you Paul and Paula Plebian. Keep on asking those questions and if the pols don’t answer them to your satisfaction, keep on asking until they go away. Let’s ask Mitt Romney why a guy who doesn’t think the rich should pay higher taxes is tearing down his 3,000 square foot oceanfront home in La Jolla, California, to put up an 11,000 square foot replacement mansion. While we’re at it, let’s ask him what a guy who already has homes on Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire; a townhouse in Boston; and a 9,500 square foot home at a ski resort in Utah actually knows about the middle class.

Let’s ask all Republicans why they won’t allow rich people to pay another nickel in taxes, but they do support repealing the current 4.2 percent Social Security payroll tax and letting it rise back to 6.2 percent, its level before President Bush temporarily lowered it. That’s a tax hike that impacts only incomes of under $106,000. (For the record, I support raising it. I also support removing the $106k cap.)

By all means become an equal opportunity question asker. Ask Barack Obama why he caved in on extending tax breaks to the rich when he promised that he wouldn’t. Ask him why we’re still in Iraq when we were supposed to be out by last spring. Make him tell you why a dime of federal money goes to Pakistan and why we should care about Afghanistan. Ask him when the hell he’s going to put forth a health reform package that’s worthy of the name.

Ask those questions, folks, and if the pols won’t answer them, shout ‘em down. If they don’t care what we want to know, why should we care what they think about anything else?

Colin Hay Makes Beauty Out of Tragedy

COLIN HAY

Gathering Mercury

Compass 7-4551-2

* * * *

Colin Hay is best known for his work with the Australian pop band Men at Work, though for the past several decades he’s been a solo artist. His latest album contains ten songs that reflect on his father’s death. That may sound maudlin, but the music is not. As the title suggests, Hay has had some trouble coming to grips with his loss; gathering mercury is, of course, a very hard thing to do. But instead of filling his lyrics with gut-wrenching angst, Hay uses gathering mercury as a metaphor for the way in which those who carry on after the death of a loved one seek new directions. The result is a passel of songs that is touching and sometimes sad, but also thoughtful and hopeful.

The album is also musically diverse. Hay mostly plays electric guitar throughout and works with a band, but he carefully crafts each song’s mood. On the opening “Send Somebody” the guitars are soft and ringing, which gives the piece a folk rock feel. He follows with “Family Man,” whose treatment is what you might get if you mashed some string band music with pop-laced music hall, á la The Beatles’ White album. Later on he gives his “Half a Million Angels” a faint Spanish guitar highlights; on “Far From Home” he pushes the envelope the whole way and plays it reggae tempo. But the cool thing about this recording is that Hay doesn’t dwell too long in any one place. “Where the Sky is Blue” sounds like it was adapted from some old time Appalachian composition; and “A Simple Song” is a folk skiffle blend that lives up to its name.

I suppose an armchair psychologist might say that Hay’s musical rambling is a reflection of his psychic turmoil. Perhaps. Or maybe he’s just a clever musician who likes to mix things up and is making the best of a tragic loss. Yeah--let’s go with that.

The Help Serves Well, but Inaccurately

The Help (2011)

Directed by Tate Taylor

PG-13, 146 mins.

* * *

The Help was a runaway best seller and the film version has been much anticipated. So how is it? It’s actually quite a lot like Kathryn Stockett’s book in that it’s a terrific story filled with memorable characters. It’s also like the novel, Ms. Stockett’s first, in that it is uneven, prone to tying together loose ends a bit too neatly, and of dubious historical authenticity. Stockett, who co-wrote the script with director Tate Taylor, might have done benefitted from working with a director whose resume wasn’t almost as slight as her own, but give both credit: the film has a big heart, even when it pulls too hard on the strings.

For those unfamiliar with the content, the setting is Jackson, Mississippi in the early 1960s, a time in which Jim Crow was Lord and Master of the Deep South and every white family who could afford it (and lots who couldn’t) employed black servants to cook, clean, garden, and raise their kids. Those servants were, simply, “the help,” and most whites gave no more regard for their lives, dreams, and frustrations than one might to the grocery clerk at the local Piggly Wiggly. Nor did they hesitate to refer to them within earshot as “niggers” and speak of the diseases they supposedly harbored. Enter Eugenia “Skeeter” Phelan, an optimistic white college grad whose education and strong bond with her family’s former maid have led her to question the vacuous world of peers whose lives revolve around Junior League, pursuing husbands, manicuring lawns, lacquering their hair, and keeping black folks in their “proper” place. Skeeter’s also an aspirant journalist with the big idea that just might open the door to the New York publishing world: an exposé on how black women feel about being “the help.”

The movie is filled with memorable female characters. There’s already early buzz about Oscar nominations for the two lead black actresses, Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer. Davis is terrific as Aibileen Clark, a dignified woman filled with deep sorrow over her son’s death and simmering rage over racism. Just two things keep her going: her love of the children she tends, and the largely unrealized hope that they won’t grow up to be like their biological parents. Spencer is a ball of comedic delight but barely contained anger as Minny Jackson, though her portrayal is also solidly within classical “Mammy” roles, a script weakness and an anachronism that may scare off Oscar voters. The white roles are also strong. Emma Stone is Skeeter and she strikes the right balance between seriousness, insecurity, outrage, and fear. (She knows that if anyone discovers what she’s doing in advance, she’s in deep trouble and the lives of her informants are in jeopardy.) Most viewers probably won’t notice Stone as much as the two characters whose roles are as outsized as Spencer’s: Bryce Dallas Howard as the despicable Hilly Holbrook and Jesscia Chastain as the ditzy Celia Foote. Hilly is the easiest character to hate since Cruella Deville--a shallow, smug, bullying, self-serving little witch oblivious that she’s trashier than Celia, whom she delights in belittling. Chastain is affecting as Foote, though sometimes it looks as if she watched too many Marilyn Monroe movies preparing for the part. Toss in superb performances from the other maids and a few meaty cameos and bit parts--Allison Janney as Skeeter’s mother, Cicely Tyson as the Phelan’s departed maid, and Sissy Spacek as Missus Walters--and you have a strong female cast, a rarity in film these days. (Spacek clearly had a blast chewing scenery like it was one of Minny’s chocolate pies!)

The weaknesses? Readers of the novel will find Emma Stone a poor match for their mental images of gawky and awkward Skeeter. Stone does her best to hide behind gawdawful glasses, but she’s way too pretty for the part. Readers will also miss the details of Jackson’s self-ridiculing white social world. Ditto the deep backgrounds of maids other than Aibilene and Minny; even at 146 minutes the film had to excise most of these. And don’t look for any strong or memorable male characters; they are as AWOL and ill defined as women characters in typical Hollywood fare.

There are three glaring issues inherent in the film because they were inherited from the novel. The elephant in the room is that this is a story about race told from a white perspective. All doors and windows are wide open to the charge that this is revisionism gone wild. Is this civil rights as they actually unfolded, or is Skeeter little more than a projection of what whites wish they had done, but didn’t? Is Hilly’s downfall real hubris, or a curtain that obscures another decade of deadly racism? (Check out Bruce Watson’s superb book Freedom Summer and get back to me about how much changed in Mississippi by the end of 1963.)

This leads to two other issues. The 1960s and civil rights are present in the film, but mainly as scenery and plot devices. The murder of Medgar Evers, for instance, serves to convince other maids to speak with Skeeter, but we don’t really learn much about Evers or the larger context of the civil rights movement. To put a point on it, without the movement, no maid would speak with Skeeter. And then there’s the issue of the “and they all lived happily thereafter” ending. Okay, the film doesn’t really end that way, but it does wrap up on a self-actualizing note that implies that the pluck and grit of all the likable characters ensures that they’ll land on their feet somehow. Un huh. It’s 1963. Looming on the horizon are urban riots, the murder of Dr. King, black power, the Black Panthers, and lynchings conducted with the same cavalier disregard as the firing of a maid.

Enjoy The Help. Savor its characters. Admire its heart. Just don’t confuse it with history.

Tina Packer Falls Flat as Molly Ivins

Go for the real deal (left) and skip the poor substitute.

Red-Hot Patriot: the Kick-Ass Wit of Molly Ivins

Starring Tina Packer

Shakespeare & Company Lenox, MA

Through September 4, 2011

Review of Show of August 17, 2011

If you go online and search for reviews of Tina Packer’s one-woman show on deceased liberal icon Molly Ivins (1944-2007), you’ll be inundated by praise. Here’s the conversation that Packer’s performance sparked among the four of us who saw Red-Hot Patriot on August 17: Is tepid criticism harming theater by luring people to bad shows? I come down firmly on the side that says we need to return to the days in which a passel of bad (but honest) reviews can close a show overnight. Make no mistake about it: Packer’s performance was dreadful--the sort of bad that makes a person reluctant to shell out for future unknown productions.

First a disclaimer: I met the late Molly Ivins and heard her speak on two occasions. To paraphrase Lloyd Bentsen loosely, I casually met Molly Ivins and Tina Packer is no Molly Ivins. There were a few zingers in the script--and how could there not be when drawing upon one of the wittiest journalists in recent memory--but Packer’s delivery was wooden, her comedic timing flat, and her attempt at a Texan accent risible. Indeed, Ms. Packer hails from Wolverhampton, England, and is known for her prowess with Shakespeare. Maybe Shakespearean actors think they can do anything, but I can tell you that most high school actresses would have made a better Texan than Packer. In fact, amateurish is term I would apply to describe her attempt. You’ll come away thinking that Packer confused Houston with Euston, a railway station in London. (She also forgot her lines on four separate occasions and had to be prompted loudly from the wings. This too raises questions about her preparation, though I’m slightly more inclined to forgive these slips as she’s also doing a massive women and Shakespeare production.)

It’s a damn shame the show is lame because Molly Ivins was an earthier (sometimes cruder) version of Dorothy Parker, the sort of person who could piss you off with such panache that, like George W. Bush (whom she dubbed Shrub), her worst enemies were often charmed by her. We don’t get much sense of that in Red-Hot Patriot. You can see Packer trying to be earnest, and that’s part of the problem. She’s trying to work Ivins instead of presenting her and her lines come off as labored and forced, whereas Ivins was so natural and spontaneous that she often got into trouble by not filtering herself. A single example to illustrate the difference between the contrived and the natural: Packer performed a story Ivins often told of a friend who, as a boy, was started out of his wits by a harmless snake. The punch line and moral of the tale is, “Sometimes we’re so scared of something harmless that we hurt ourselves.” I’ve heard Ivins tell that tale and she delivered the final line with a gentle, but bemused delivery that said, in essence, “And you know what I mean, nod, wink, nod…” Packer’s retelling was loud, histrionic, and unaffecting.

Even the script could use work, which is surprising given that it includes so many of Ivins’s own words. There’s lots of angst about being--as Ivins described herself--a “freedom fighter,” we’re led to believe her passion was compensation for a damaged psyche. The character speaks of moral outrage, but it’s implied that much of it is rooted in Ivins’s torment over being raised by an authoritarian father, her desire to be one of the boys, and alcohol abuse. As Ivins might have said, “Pigshit!” Yes, she had her personal demons, but spare us the psych 101 analysis. And while I’m on the subject of the script, it’s not exactly “research” to find some of the play’s best lines on Ivins’s Wikipedia entry.

This play ran just 90 minutes, but it seemed longer. It ended to smatterings of polite applause, but the most enthusiastic person to walk out of the building all evening was the young house manager who introduced the show. My advice? Get thee to a bookstore and read Ivins’s wit for yourself. You can buy several of her books for the price of a theater ticket and the money would be better spent. Red-Hot Patriot is simply bad theater. A critic once remarked that when Molly Ivins wrote, “there ha[d] to be a jalapeno in every line.” Alas, Red-Hot Patriot tastes more like red Jell-O.

Tea Party: Trolls, Not Hobbits

Trolls with funny hats!

Remember the Billy Joel song “We Didn’t Start the Fire?” To refresh memories, it was a litany of the world’s woes and wrongs, but also a reminder that the fires were “already burning.” Joel went on to say, “No, we didn’t light it/But we tried to fight it.”

Why the trip down Memory Lane? Because some times we do know whom the arsonists are. I nearly keeled over laughing at the news that Tea Party activists were upset with--of all people--John McCain! Even Old Brimstone himself has his limits, and he called out the Tea Party for being irresponsible. (Imagine!). More to the point, he called them “hobbits,” presumably implying that they were people of small (public) stature with small minds and small ideals to match. Tea Party activists were angered, shocked, and hurt by McCain’s comments.

Which cliché best applies here? How about: If you can’t take the heat get out of the kitchen. When was that last time the Tea Party said a single positive thing about America, its leaders, or anyone to the left of Adolph Eichmann? Aren’t these the people who put a “target” on Representative Giffords’ office? Wasn’t it Representative Lamar Smith of Texas who said that liberals are more dangerous than terrorists? Gee, I thought maybe it might be a tad more dangerous to follow the advice of Representative Michael Burgess (Texas again), who said that he wanted to “tie up” the government by bringing impeachment proceedings against President Obama.

Or how about this one: People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. The Tea Party is upset because McCain called them hobbits! Good grief!!! These are people who wear t-shirts with Obama’s features exaggerated and captions saying “Beware of dog.” They also routinely call him a “monkey” and rallies are replete with signs using the “N” word. (Small-minded? A lot of photos show they can’t even spell; “niggar” is a favored sign.)

You bet the anti-Tea Party rhetoric is harsh, which brings me back to Billy Joel. We didn’t start the fire--the Tea Party did. Its behavior is that of the classic bully: throw your weight around until someone bigger (and smarter) shows up to put you in your place. Then cry and claim you’re being picked on. I’m in a no-compromise mood. I see absolutely no reason to respect these clowns or give a damn about their poor little hurt feelings.

I’m sorry that McCain called them “hobbits,” because hobbits are noble and lovable. Tea Partiers are not hobbits; they’re vicious little trolls. They are also anti-American, anti-freedom, and post-sanity. They started the fire; I hope it consumes them and leaves only ash.

Note to Tea Party: Put Up or Shut Up (and Go Away)

Let's give the snakes their own dens!

I’m sick of the Tea Party. It’s not just the constant whining and the “We can’t” attitude. It’s more than the fact that many of its followers are dumber than a lobotomized salamander and the rest are boorish bullies. It even goes beyond the fact that a lot of Tea Partiers advocate overthrowing the government, sentiments that would land the average lefty on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. I’m just tired of the pure hypocrisy of those supping on tax dollars moaning about Big Government. So here’s my challenge: put up or shut up (and go away).

Let’s take these anti-tax, anti-government cranks at their word. Let’s set up regional centers in which the Tea Party can put its bombastic rhetoric into practice. Each Tea Party center will be sovereign and autonomous--free to conduct affairs and pass legislation as deemed appropriate. They are welcome to abolish all income taxes, trim as much waste as they want, teach whatever they want in schools, outlaw abortion, and force people to pray nine times a day if they wish.

Here’s the catch: They get no--as in zero--federal taxpayer monies. They must relinquish control of all federal buildings, programs, property, and accounts. They get no Medicare, Medicaid, Social Security checks, federal loans, highway dough, postal service, military bases, federal contract work, educational subsidies, or anything else they don’t pay for themselves. They must raise their own revenues, fund programs without federal help, pay for their own schools, and figure out what to do with the sick, unemployed, and elderly. No more largesse from American taxpayers.

As a fair test, let’s pilot this with a center in each region:

Northeast--Maine: Normally this honor would go to New Hampshire, but given that old Teabag Paul LePage is now governor of the state, we’ll allow Maine the glory of showing just how far he can take an economy based on wood pulp, tourism, and blueberries.

Mid-Atlantic--Ohio: Yeah, I know that Ohio isn’t really a Mid-Atlantic state, but it has more than enough loose tea leaves to provide a region that--other than south-central Pennsylvania--doesn’t have that many. Ohio is a perfect place to let post-industrialism merge with post-intelligence. (Or is that the intelligence of a post?)

South--South Carolina: Where else but the first state to secede? The US should have let it go back when, so it’s only fair to let South Carolina have a go now. But just like in 1861, South Carolina needs to give back its nine military bases.

Northern Midwest--North Dakota: I was tempted to go with Wisconsin, but it looks like Cheese-Staters are starting wake up, so let’s go with a traditional anti-government hotbed. Give it a whirl, North Dakota, but don’t come crying on Uncle Sam’s shoulder when the Red River floods again. Get your self-reliant butts off the sofa and stack those sandbags.

Midwestern Heartland--Kansas: A no-brainer. Here’s my Cliff Notes review of Thomas Frank’s What’s Wrong with Kansas? Everything. So let’s free Kansans to pray over their problems and see if that works.

Far West--Utah: Hell, anything to make John Huntsman stay home and lure Mitt (“I Can Be Anything”) Romney off the campaign trail. Utah is also a good test case because it’s so friggin’ white (95%--98% if you don’t count the Utah Jazz) that if it survives on its own, maybe we really can blame all the “colored folk” for America’s troubles. But about those National Parks… no NPS staff or money.

Southwest--Arizona: Texas might be a logical choice, but to pick it might mean imposing a Cold War-like Berlin solution on Austin, so let’s go with ‘Zona. They are now free to build a fence as high as they want on the Mexican border, but they get no Homeland Security agents to police it.

Non-Continental US--Alaska: I can see it: the 24-hour All About Sarah Show. Why the ad dollars alone will be enough to buy every Alaskan an icemaker. Don’t spill any North Bay oil, though, ‘cause you’re on your own, baby!

An eight-state trial… that’s sixteen percent, which is more than Gallup surveys. If it works, run up the surrender flag, declare the US a noble experiment that failed, and let the rest of the states strike whatever deal they can--independence, regional consolidation, Wal-Mart takeover, merger with Canada…. But I’m placing money on the fact that a year of no government will lead the citizens of these states to hang Tea Party activists and beg for forgiveness.

Sensational New/Old Release from Suzy Bogguss

SUZY BOGGUSS

American Folk Songbook

Loyal Dutchess Records 1006

* * * *

Suzy Bogguss fans--and if you’re not one, why not?--will be delighted with her latest record, American Folk Songbook. Bogguss, you may recall, was a country music queen in the 1980s and 90s--back in the days when they could airbrush and package her as a lil’ darling. When she decided she wanted to take time off to raise a family and maybe do something a bit different, Big Music dumped her like a hot potato.

Well… she’s now a graceful woman of 54 with a stunning voice and in charge of her own destiny. Her Website tells of how she had a revelation when appearing on A Prairie Home Companion. The audience went nuts over her rendition of “Red River Valley,” which became the germ of an idea to pluck seventeen old chestnuts from the American standards bag instead of making another Nashville flavor-of-the-month record. You’ve heard everything of American Folk Songbook a billion times, but Bogguss will make you feel like “Shady Grove,” “Erie Canal,” “Shenandoah,” “Wayfaring Stranger” and other such ilk are as fresh as a “Wildwood Flower.” Speaking of the latter, you’d better have the chops to do a song that everyone in America associates with either the Carter Family or Joan Baez. No fear. Bogguss presents mature full-throated renditions of everything on the record. Her controlled vibrato in turn stuns and soothes. Like the person fully in command of her craft that she is, Bogguss makes each song the star, not herself, as if she’s the conduit connecting the American past to the present. This is also the ethos of the top rate talent that backs her--folks such as Stuart Duncan (fiddle, mandolin), Pat Bergeson (guitar, harmonica, Jew’s harp), and John McCutcheon (hammered dulcimer). Nobody’s showing off here; as the liner notes accurately note, the goal was to keep everything “simple and beautiful.” Mission accomplished. By the time we get to the final track, “Beautiful Dreamer,” we are ready to roll into the sweet arms of Morpheus.

This album should receive serious attention for a Grammy Award. And wouldn’t it be delicious irony if it wins?