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version seven. http://demongin.org |
A Small Sound of Silence
Live! Tonight! Sold-out!
Friday, 2005-01-14 | Classic Gin, Film
I recently received the following bit of exposition from a certain Peter Celauro. Peter, a life-long and dear friend of mine, wrote to respond to my abusive and arrogant criticism of Peter Jackson's 'tryptych travesty' (those are all my words; none are his). I've decided to reprint his good letter in its entirety.
Peter is a journalist by trade and alumnus of California's prestigious Pepperdine University; his very well-written and humorous essay is, I think, a nice pointer-count to my usual belletristic and bellicose rhetorics of harm.
Without further ado:
DEMONGIN
01.11.05 - The Groznyj Grad Interrogations (II)
Response
6). What does the popular success (or lack thereof) of a film say about it?
"Popular success doesn't say anything about anything, man" was going to be my response until you said I couldn't say it. A moment's consideration, however, did what it never fails to do: bring me back to high school.
Consider, if you will, the Dave Matthews Band. Today, they're little more exciting than the hilarious "shit on boaters" anecdote that they've so graciously blessed us with (as well as any excitement you may or may not draw from listening to their albums or watching their music videos). But four years ago, to merely utter the words <91>Dave Matthews Band" in the halls of Hinsdale Central was to call an all-out shirts and skins tackle football game in the cafeteria; feelings were hurt, knees were scraped, and everybody walked away from the experience pissed off. This phenomenon is partly due to the highly competitive arena that is high school, in which knowledge of self and one's own tastes in comparison to those of one's peers can quite literally make or break your "rep." ("Hey look, Ubatuba's wearing whitie tighties!")
The other part of the phenomenon is a universal truth about taste <96> nay, about expression. You mentioned in an earlier Demongin that "all writing exists to be read by a party in addition to the author" (1.02.05), noting also that both the log and the journal will at one point be the subject of scrutiny. This is true not only of the written word, but of any opinion or notion that makes it out of your head and into the ears/eyes/consciousness of another person. To say, write or demonstrate any opinion at all is to draw a line in the sand and force the listener/reader/watcher to step to a side. When a certain Arthur Bamford wore a DMB shirt to Hinsdale Central's cafeteria in 1998, he essentially said to those around him, "I support Dave Matthews Band (for whatever reason)," and anyone who saw the shirt was instantly with or against him.
Now, I use this example because of the way the "anyones" in this case aligned themselves. In the DMB debate, the line in the sand was, in actuality, more of a cross in the sand. (Feel free to grab a piece of scratch paper and make yourself a visual aid). There was group A, the upper-left quadrant of the cross, or those who supported Dave Matthews Band because they enjoyed the music. There was Group B, the upper-right quadrant of the cross, or those who spoke out against Dave Matthews Band because they disliked the music. The bottom half of the cross belonged to Groups C and D. Group C, the lower left quadrant, was made up of those who supported Dave Matthews Band because they wanted to be accepted by the members of Group A or wanted to set themselves apart from the members of Group B. (You may have known them by their more common moniker, "poseurs," or "posers" in Highschool English circa 1998). Finally, there was group D, the lower-right quadrant: those who spoke out against Dave Matthews Band because they disliked the members of Groups A and C, they disliked being a part of any group, their allegiance to the ska/punk scene demanded complete exclusivity, or their poor complexions and bad breath kept them from having a girlfriend (which would make anybody pissed off, dawg). Group D, I might add, was composed of the worst kind of poseurs: those whose lack of self-confidence or self-awareness forced them to consistently lash out at everyone around them, but they weren't quite sure why.
Now, we know that every expression or statement of opinion draws a line in the sand. But we also know that not every expression draws a cross; some people like mayonnaise, some don't, and that's that. But Peter Jackson's interpretation of LOTR, like the Dave Matthews Band, demands a cross in the sand because of its audience <96> or perhaps more importantly, the self-image of its audience. In high school, there's a hell of a lot at stake; namely, the pussy-to-loneliness ratio, which is dictated by your "rep," which is dictated by the acceptance of your opinions or beliefs by those around you, which is dictated by what your beliefs are and to whom you express them. Thus, Dave Matthews Band mattered to EVERYONE, because who doesn't love pussy and hate being lonely?
For LOTR, the stakes were much higher and the audience much greater. LOTR was important to the literati or lovers of literature, the geekwads or lovers of fantasy and science fiction, the moviegoing public or lovers of action/love/big-budget movies, the teenyboppers or lovers of Orlando Bloom, and the media or lovers/documenters/perpetuaters of American pop culture. In short, LOTR mattered to everybody, because a) everybody belonged to one of those groups and b) in those groups, what you thought of LOTR was a deciding factor in what everyone else thought of you.
So where does that leave us? Like I said, my first reaction was "popular success doesn't say anything about anything, man," because which group you're in only matters if a) you care which groups your peers and enemies are in or b) somebody bigger than you from a rival group is giving you a wedgie.
But after some consideration, we know now that there's a hell of a firestorm going on out there that we just can't ignore. And even though we're mature, distinguished college graduates with thick skins and resilient egos, every once in awhile a school-dividing band or box-office smash comes along and draws a cross in the sand. What to do when the cross is drawn? In my limited experience in the cafeteria of life, I've found that the best plan of action is, as it usually is, to do what Art Bamford would do: throw on your headphones and go on 'bout your business.
And cover up your undies, for God's sake. I don't want to have to help you off that coat hook again.
