The Pen is Mightier than the film noir...

So it's three in the afternoon and you stroll into a bar, looking to use the bathroom. You think the place will be empty but sure enough, there's some sad kid sitting at the bar, savoring the unhappy hour special (that's what they call it when you drink alone before 5 in the evening). He's wearing a long black coat, patched at the elbows and missing a few buttons. He's got a notebook nestled in his armpit, and there's a row of empty shot glasses in front of him. He's not a picture of style, but you notice he's making an effort. His heavy boots sorta shine. He's got his hat on sideways, and it almost looks cool, and as he downs another shot and wipes his mouth you think, I better give this one a wide berth.

But as you sidle towards the door, ready to make your exit, he catches sight of you. "Hey," he shouts, like you're just the man he was looking for. "Hey wait a second!" And you stop, guilty, hands in your pockets to show you don't want any trouble. "Yeah what?" you mutter. The kid wipes his mouth and takes off his hat, and you realize he needs to spend some time with shampoo and a razor. Oh - and he isn't a kid, either, because his hair is gray at the temples. He's just awfully skinny, like it's been a while since he stood still long enough to eat.

"How do you feel about this whole election scam?" he asks, like he's just talking about the weather. "To be honest," you stammer, "I haven't really been following the news..." "You haven't been following the news, huh? The men in power are pulling the wool over your own fucking eyes and you don't give a damn?" He's calm about it, though.
"Whoa, man, I don't know why you're talking to me..." you say, stalling, wondering where the bartender is and whether this is some kind of setup, and if men in black hats are gonna bust down the doors at any second and take all your cash and leave you duct-taped to a bar stool, penniless and desperate. "Who are you, anyway? Why are you here?"

"Oh, my name doesn't matter, but it's Gerald White if you're asking. And I'm here because this here Jack Daniels is just about the only date I can get in this town anymore." He smiles, revealing uneven teeth. And suddenly you know who he is. You've seen his name in the headlines. Gerald White spent months stalking the local Senator, nearly went to jail, had his phone lines tapped by the FBI and the CIA and the FDA for all you know. Badgered the officials up at City Hall until they broke down, and he came away with a real cockamanie tale about how the state senators had been gerrymandering the Southern counties - something about taking down the Hispanic vote.

Some people call White a hero, but in your opinion he's a goddamn trouble-mongering son of a bitch who just makes normal people uncomfortable. He's a journalist.

--

So there are a lot of stereotypes about journalists. That they drink a lot, and wear shitty clothes, don't shower and can't get dates. They're a weird cultish bunch who speak their own language. And in a world where you get points for blending in, journalists make an effort to stand out. Normally I don't go for this kind of thinking, but since I started taking photojournalism class, I've found myself once more on the fringes of polite society. Last week I walked for miles to get a weather shot. I found myself way out on Noyes Street, freezing cold and starving hungry, so I ducked into the first restaurant I saw to warm myself up. Of course, it was lunchtime, and the restaurant was full of people eating with their friends. And there I was, chowing down totally alone, feeling like an outcast and wishing I had a sign that read, I swear, I have friends, this is the first time I've eaten alone in my life. But it's not. I did it just last quarter, stranded between trains on my way downtown to do an interview.

Last night I go to see my sister sing in a church. I bring my camera because these days I can't part from it. I slide into the last pew, entirely alone, shrouded in my warm black coat. The couple in front of me has two young kids. And as the kids cavort and the choir sings, I think, This would make a perfect shot for my weekly photojournalism assignment. Out comes the camera, as quietly as possible. I slide it open, scooch down the pew until I'm at just the right angle to snap a shot of the little girl on her mother's lap. Fuck permission. I'm gonna get my shot off first. And the kid moves. I wipe my brow and put the camera down. I wait. Soon enough she's back, reading a little brochure, and looking so damn cute I just know I have to get this shot. I inch down further, wondering if the parents are on to me. But it doesn't matter - everyone knows that if you get a kid in the shot, it's a surefire feature. And again, the kid moves. By now I'm sweating in my coat, but I also have a bad cold, and I start to cough. I don't have water, but as I dig through my bag I come across a sketchy plastic bottle left over from a party the night before. I ease it open and take a big sip. Shit. Vodka. So there I am, sitting alone in the back row of church, drinking and trying to take covert pictures of other's people's kids.

Sometimes the stereotypes are true.

Google eyes

I remember Mr. Thomas taking a poll in junior year history class. "How many of you would oppose a tyrannical dictator?" he asked. We all made like the Founding Fathers and raised our hands. "Now what if the dictator guaranteed you three meals a day, and a roof over your head. Nice clothes to wear, and a job you enjoyed, and a way to get to that job every day. What if he guaranteed that your children would all go to college, and you'd be able to afford it, and your parents would retire at ease. What if he guaranteed that you'd make a decent salary and have leisure time and ways to enjoy it? That you'd always have access to affordable health care?" There were only two hands standing. "What if he gave you all of that for free?" The hands went down. The Russians smirked. Because the fact is, there's only one such dictator. We call him God (most of the time) and his kingdom is eternal (or so we're led to believe). We get everything we want for free, but the boss is always right.

I digress. The point is, that poll reminds me of Google. It started as a search engine with a funny name. Then they offered Maps, so we could figure out where we were going. Then Froogle, for buying needed supplies cheap. Then News, so we heard what they thought was worth knowing. Then all of a sudden it was the Google Toolbar, so they could keep an eye on our every move. Soon enough they had taken over YouTube, promising endless hours of amateur moviemaking fun, and even Blogger, turning every illiterate into an auteur. They gave us Gmail, endless storage space for large files and a history that keeps track of every correspondence. It's like they're answering our prayers, anticipating our needs, inventing the perfect service and offering it to the masses for free. Never mind that nowadays, we need a so-called "Google Account" just to log onto the Internet.

And the thing is, who wants a world without Google? We'd rather frolic in the Elysian Fields of the Googlenet, enjoying ourselves under the auspices of a benevolent dictator. I argue that it isn't fear that kills revolutionary spirit, it's inconvenience. It's too damned convenient and fun to live a comfortable life.

But maybe I'm overreacting. If the dictator gives us everything we want, then he isn't really a dictator, is he? He's an entrepreneur. Granted, Google sent AltaVista, LookSmart, Dogpile, Go, Excite and Lycos to a mass search engine grave. But honestly, who was Lycos to me, that I should weep for her?

How to Make Love Like a Movie Producer

I think porn actor Jerry Butler said it best in Vanity Fair, "You see underpaid, overworked girls who are doing anal, and a lot of them are being coerced into it - nobody's actually being pistolwhipped - people pistolwhip themselves - they are victims of their own carelessness, and self-aggression, and excuses."

I guess my big criticism for porn directors is that they don't really care that their performers are off-kilter, emotionally drained and often physically numb during filming. Or that the acts are painful and unhealthy (nearly disastrous for women, especially since Viagra and the Energizer Erection appeared in the 90's). But I imagine an industry that brings relief to millions across America doesn't do that much for its own participants. This numbness Butler alludes to is pretty common among a whole bunch of people who are trying to avoid the fact that they're making a lot of money but none of them feel that great doing it.

And sometimes they're not making that much money anyway. Yes, porn brings in $10 billion annually, tax-free. (What other industry can claim this kind of profit margin?) But the margin appears when directors skimp on set and costumes and pretty much everything. Considering a top actor can do 200 films in a single calendar year, what's the take-home benefit? Any girl who gets $2000 for five hours of cold, painful sex with multiple partners would consider it a poor payoff. And then to get up and do the same thing the next day? There's a reason most of these women don't have degrees in economics. Any cost-benefit analysis suggests that if you take your health and well-being into account, you're really better off flipping burgers at Mickey-D's.
(Unless you're flipping burgers into vats of trans fats, in which case it might be a draw.)

But then again, most women do know that, they don't need a degree to know it. Which brings me back to the beginning: these kids are deranged and self-destructive. And the producers don't care, because they know that's what it takes to make it, and anyway, what does it matter why people do what they do so long as they do it?

Earlier on I said that I had nothing against porn, but I was lying. What I meant was, I don't think it's gross to get off on watching other people do it. In fact, I think it's biological and pretty unavoidable. So why do we get freaked out about it? Sex rites used to be a big part of many (admittedly deposed) religions. Of course, those were the days before AIDS - and before Christianity became a religio-political institution. (Not to say other religions don't have the same status.)

Of course, we live in a world where it would be heinously awkward to greet our neighbor after a hard night of ritualistic group fucking in his basement. (I imagine.) Also, I'm conveniently not answering the question of why, if our natural impulse is to watch healthy, happy couples enjoying consensual sex, porn has evolved in the direction of interracial anal gang-bangs. That last is a question I'd rather not answer. Ever. I am all for putting human nature under the microscope, and when things get too disturbing, turning off the light.

Cheese and whine

Looking back over the past three posts, I realize all I've done is wail about how Bollywood/sororities/men/the world emphasize looks over substance. Talk about beating a horse to death after it's died of overexposure. Sorry! More interesting (and hopefully unique) thoughts in the next few days.

I wonder what I would have been like if my mother had demanded - at an early age - that I be a girl. I wasn't a tomboy, it's not like I kicked around in sweats growing up. I ended up in that strange middle place - children of very intelligent, academic-minded parents - who just grow up without a clue. I was never told that sweatshirts and leggings didn't flatter, or that sneakers and short skirts didn't mix. I couldn't operate a blow-drier until ninth grade. (I'm not putting myself down - I could prove Kepler's laws, speak three languages and write novels. I just couldn't put on eyeliner.)

My 13-year-old cousin knows all this and more. I'll go visit and she'll offer to straighten my hair. She'll give me make-up tips. In vain, I talk about current events, politics of race, great literature. Our conversations are about how cheerleading is hard and basketball players are the hottest. And she loves to educate me. She's always asking, "who do you like?" I told her about a boy I liked - choking on the words, by the way, because another of my many flaws is that I hate talking about feelings - and she said, "Well does he like you?" She popped her bubblegum and fixed her eyeshadow while I thought about it. "He thinks I'm smart," I offered hopefully. "He said that?" she asked. "Yeah, more or less." She turned around, real sadness in her eyes. "Oh, jij, that means you two will never get together."
"Why, you think that means I'm not pretty?"
"No," she sighed, like I just didn't see something totally obvious. "It just means you won't."
She was right, of course.

But my question is, where do women learn these things? And how did I learn the opposite? It reminds me of the story of the first time my parents met. "What did you like about each other?" I've asked them both, separately. "I loved how your father was so educated. I remember we had this brilliant conversation about what we wanted out of life, and he and I agreed about so much, and he spoke so intelligently." That's my Mom. Here's my Dad: "I don't really remember much except that your mom looked really pretty that day."

And of course, they've spent the past 25 years in a marriage of four people. The people they expected, and the people they got. It hasn't always been harmonious. The point is, maybe we're all deluded, or at least, maybe delusion runs in the girls of my family. We're deluded at a young age into thinking that intelligent, worthwhile men want the same things from us that we should want from ourselves - fearlessness, ambition, dedication, brilliance, charity, wit - I could go on for hours when it comes to these meaningful adjectives. And what I now realize is that this is all lies. No one cares about these things. In fact, very few people actually want what they should want. And in the end, everyone does what they actually want. And it really just makes me very sad.

Why the rush?

As sorority recruitment begins, various members of Northwestern's Greek scene have been getting their panties in knots over this video by an NU student filmmaker.

The most controversial part of the documentary seems to be when the anonymous rush chair explains how the sorority unanimously and without discussion eliminates unattractive girls. It's harsh, and maybe if I cared more for being attractive it would hurt me. It's no secret that looks matter. What surprises me is how people on campus complain that sororitities exist in a separate moral universe. Scientific research demonstrates that more attractive people get lighter court sentences and better job opportunities, and many other vague benefits economists would group under "the happiness index." And this is in the so-called real world.

The truth is that we live in an era where a woman's beauty isn't just a commodity for men to exploit (as some might suggest). Young people, especially, associate good looks with success. Think of the women who regularly make the news. Even on legitimate news channels, movie stars and pop singers appear almost as regularly as Condi and Katie. Beauty = wealth. Wealth = status, therefore, beauty = status.

It's an equality older than time. It exists in the Bible, witness Old Testament descriptions of Tamar and Esther, among others. The only card that trumps beauty is real wealth. If you're born filthy rich, the standards might not touch you. But as we've discovered, rich people have the resources to make themselves physically attractive. And they do. The dynamic doesn't change.

The fact is, sororities screen for the same qualities the rest of us do. The differences might be more stark because the screening process is more obvious. Let's put the infamous Average Joe in the same artificial position recruitment creates. Let's say Average Joe is holding auditions for some new friends. Two girls apply. They both seem kind of interesting, but neither sticks out in his mind. Now, he has to give these girls a number score based on how much he liked them, and the girl with the higher number will become his friend. Like I said, he liked them the same. In fact, the only difference between these two girls is that one is quite pretty, while the other is strictly average. I bet money that Average Joe will, whether consciously or not, give the pretty girl a higher score. Even if Average Joe is gay, and doesn't want to get with either of them.

The fact is, recruitment brings out the worst -or at least, the most animal and unfortunate - in all of us. That's why the video makes people uncomfortable, whether or not they're sorority members. We watch it and think, "we created this. This is us."

So can we blame sorority women for adopting a standard that, albeit ridiculous and no longer nearly as relevant, for many centuries determined all women's fate? Of course we can blame them. College campuses are supposed to sponsor progress. The fact that certain women's organizations are living in the past is lamentable, but let's not pretend that it's unique.

The Princess and the Pea-Sized Brain

So you want to direct a Bollywood film? It's the most prolific movie industry in the world, but crafting a hit means understanding the genre. Here's what a hit Bollywood film involves:

Plot:
Critical, but usually doesn't move until after intermission. Most hits involve a love triangle, a family feud, a crime, a fistfight over a girl, a motorcycle chase, and an old man extolling traditional Indian values. Oh, and a song and dance number. Consider this sample script:

Scene: Mansion. Girl is doing her nails, Sister is using computer.
Girl: I love Boy!
Girl's Sister: (aside) But Boy and I have been secretly dating for months!
Girl: It's too bad his great-grandfather stole my great-grandfather's prize sheep in season of the flooded shearing a hundred years ago, or it would all be okay!
Girl's Sister: Do you hear something? (A motorcycle busts in, Boy is on it)
Girl and Sister: My love! (They notice each other) You bitch!
Boy: (while driving by) It's hard out here for a pimp!
Girl's Father: (roaring through on a second motorcycle) I'll kill you, you lowborn son of a livestock rustler!
Girl: Don't kill him, I love him! (sound of a crash as cycles collide, Father and Boy jump off, start punching each other, Boy falls to the ground)
Great-grandfather: (from beyond grave) Children, it's time to put these petty differences behind us. Girl, I want you too marry Boy. It was decreed centuries ago. Sister, get over it.
All: Yes, dadaji! Perfect solution!
*dance where boy does a pelvic thrust and girls frolic in bikinis*

Yes, it needs work. And I admit I'm an outsider. But this script is fine. The fun thing about Hindi movies is that the burden of cheesy sexual objectification falls on both sexes equally. The girls all waltz around in bikinis and belly-baring costumes, and the men run around shirtless boasting muscle definition that was obviously Photoshopped into the uncut film. Equality, how sweet your face (and body, of course).

What bothers me is the recent trend toward what I must call Jessica Simpson-ification. It's when some highly educated woman appears in the film in the first scene. We know she's educated because her nametag says "Doctor ___." We know she's capable because her friends all whisper about how she's a black belt in Kung Fu. However, she gets dialogue like this: "Hey there, were you like checking me out?" And action like this: kicking some guy in the balls when he stares too long at her exposed ass.

Let's be honest: I too was staring at this girl's ass. Because don't doctors wear lab coats? Don't they talk about melanomas and ruptures and all those fun-sounding medical problems? At least at work...so what's with the rise of the ditz? These actresses are all barking for the song-and-dance scenes, when they get to rip off their restraints, take down their hair, and shimmy around like little Ms. World. And frankly, I think it's rude. If the woman is a doctor, treat her like one. Show her behaving like one, at least when she's on the clock. Take her seriously. If she's a street performer who flirts for cash, then by all means bring on the come-ons! But it's out of character, and it's disrespectful to educated women everywhere to portray them as fools.

But maybe I'm getting overly worked up. Maybe I should just stop taking these films so seriously. Maybe I should sit back, pop in my copy of Dukes of Hazzard, and snag some papcorn for the ride. Maybe I should just admit that sure, Jessica may be blonder than scrambled eggs and tighter than a freshly resined violin, but I could take her word for word on the SAT. Because God knows, I don't have to take everything so personally. Right?