Month: October 2024

I have experienced many different emotions during Presidential elections – anger, bewilderment, even elation. However, I have never felt bereft – until now. Despite my strong views as to how I would like to see this come out, I cannot help feeling disconnected from the whole process. It’s as if this were happening in a different country that I cared about but was not a part of – like England. Debates about the impact of this or that statement or action by a candidate on their chance of success leave me cold.

I have no doubt that my disaffection is caused by the fact that the rules of engagement have clearly changed. I felt passionate about the outcome of prior elections but viewed them in the context of an ebb and flow of American politics. There were exaggerations and misdirection, but it was all within certain parameters of conduct. Candidates had to be careful not to overstep those parameters or risk, presumably, alienating voters. Those parameters are now gone.

I have developed defense mechanisms to limit witnessing the devolution of the American electoral system. I read only headlines, not articles. I shun conversations about the election as if they were the plague. I watch TV clutching the remote ready to instantly mute any political commercials that airs. While the old Tom Wamser would have reveled in watching a Presidential candidate nominated by a party that has declared war on the LGBTQ+ community swaying arrhythmically to a song praising unfettered gay sex, I now avert my gaze.      

When I look back on my assumptions about the American electorate, I flog myself for my naivete. I knew people were gullible and easily led, but I still harbored some belief that they at least appreciated veracity and at least a pretense of decorum. I was obviously wrong. The myth that a candidate had to “appear Presidential” has been exposed and destroyed.

I also knew that people only engaged with issues at the most visceral level. After all, there had to be some logic behind throwing all that money into ignorant, reductive, meaningless TV ads. Still, I bought into the idea that issues did matter, even if only at a surface level. Silly, silly man. What matters is lashing out at bogeymen created by inane media images and gross generalizations.

All people care about is their side winning. Everything is justifiable if you prevail. The consequences are meaningless. Who cares if we have a country that regards the system as rigged so long as you can use that lie as a hook to secure more support. Any fabrication is appropriate if it results in victory.

I really don’t know what to do with this estrangement from the process. I know how much our lives can be impacted by the outcome of the election, but can’t get by the sense that we have, as an entire country, already lost. The lies and obfuscation will not stop on November 5. I seriously doubt that once that genie is out of the bottle, and it is out, it can be shoved back in.

Sometimes various strands converge to lead me down rabbit holes that are hard to get out of. This happened when I stumbled upon a quote from author Saul Bellow where he allegedly said – he later denied it – “Who is the Tolstoy of the Zulus? The Proust of the Papuans? I‘d be glad to read them.” The quote is cited as a defense of the Western canon of literature, and a comment on the supposed dearth of literary art in the third world. In reply to this quote a writer named Ralph Wiley retorted “Tolstoy is the Tolstoy of the Zulus.”

The obvious question in considering Bellow’s statement is “Can we dismiss other cultures because they have not produced denizens of the fine arts internationally recognized?”. The answer is, of course, a resounding no. Given the chance, writers such as Chinua Achebe, Ngugi was Thiong’o and Yaa Gyasi have proven they are every bit as talented and profound as their Western counterparts.

But Wiley’s response troubled me as well. Is it true that Zulus can read and appreciate Anna Karinina, or is the cultural gap too wide? Can I fathom the art of a society as different from mine as that of Papua New Guinea? Does my failure to understand their art make it any less important? The authors cited above make clear that many themes are global, but still there are no doubt nuances that are untranslatable.  

As I was pondering this debate, I came across a statement by Neil Gabler in his book, “An Empire of Their Own”, which explores the founding years of Hollywood. While discussing the transition from silents to talkies, he posited, in essence, that film is the most accessible artistic expression and is at its most accessible when a story is told through pictures alone, without the interference of dialogue. As such, silent movies were the ultimate universal art form.  

I have always had a fascination with silent movies, those odd flickering dinosaurs best known for over-expressive acting, outrageous physical comedy and people moving about at a speed that doesn’t look quite human. They seem like a time machine transporting us back to a long-gone age. The aspects that can render them unwatchable for many, I find captivating.

There is no doubt something was lost when the talkies hit the theaters. Silent directors had become masters at conveying plot with image alone. The visual was more than sufficient to convey their intent. To the extent title cards were used, they were supplemental. That simplicity of storytelling was somewhat lost when sound became the norm, as anyone who has had to suffer through a voiceover can tell you. Even today, the best filmmakers understand that a striking image is worth more than 10 minutes of chatter.  

Gabler’s comments sent me down another path, one already partially occupied by the Bellow/Wiley exchange. Were silent films a medium that could be appreciated both in remote Africa and Paris? Could cultural differences be overcome through moving images in a way they could not by other artistic mediums?

There is an argument to be made. Silents eliminate the need to struggle through extensive descriptive prose, find a museum to roam through or differentiate between doric and ionic columns. It is easy to inhale the power of an image. Fritz Lang’s vision of the future in “Metropolis” can be immediately consumed in a way that Issac Asimov’s intricate “Foundation” world cannot. That does not mean it’s better, just that it can reach a wider audience.

However, silents do express a sensibility that reflects the culture which produced them, just as talkies do. “Birth of a Nation” is a uniquely American film, unfortunately. Similarly, the silents of Mikio Naruse and Jasujiro Ozu highlight tensions rooted in Japanese society. To suggest that anyone, anywhere can grasp these films is questionable. Can a rural society that has never even conceived of a robot, let alone struggle with issues of capitalism, get “Metropolis”?

As I internally debated the universality of silent movies, I started reading the book “Radiance” by Catherynne Valente. Valente creates an alternative history in which the Edison family ruthlessly enforces patents on film technology so as to make the production of sound films so expensive that silents continued to reign. Audiences had become so used to silents that they rejected those few films where sound is used. (Note: I cannot recommend Valente’s book, as creative as it is. If you want to read novels on a secret film history, I would suggest “The Book of Illusions” by Paul Auster or “Flicker” by Theodore Roszak).

In Valente’s world, Gabler’s argument is ascendant. Silent films have become an art form that binds not only nations, but worlds (she has space exploration and colonization beginning in the 19th century). While history’s path as laid out by Valente seems unlikely, it is based on some fact. Thomas Edison did try and ruthlessly enforce his motion picture patents in the early 1900’s, until he lost an antitrust suit in 1915. Regardless, I cannot fathom a sole diet of silents.     

Amid this canoodling, I needed to watch a film from the 1920’s for my Criterion Challenge (a topic for another post). I chose the G.W. Pabst film, “Pandora’s Box”, starring Louisa Brooks. Released in 1929, this German production, this story of a femme fatale who leads men to their doom, is considered among the greatest in silent cinema.

“Pandora’s Box” both validated and refuted Gabler’s arguments. The storyline is likely universal (I assume that men everywhere blame women for their failings). The images were sufficiently evocative that the few title cards were almost extraneous. The direction was superb, wonderfully capturing the locales from elegant to seedy. Even the acting was sufficiently understated so as not to convey the characters’ emotions without eliciting laughter.

Yet, lurking in this movie, fairly near the surface, is an antisemitism that is particularly chilling considering the time and country in which the film originated. The lead character, Lulu, is identified as Jewish by a menorah prominently displayed in her apartment. Her “father” – the exact nature of the relationship is unclear – is named Schilogh!!! With that genealogy established she is explicitly compared to the mythical Pandora, who introduced all evil into the world.  

No doubt someone unfamiliar with German history could watch this movie and simply enjoy it as the misogynistic romp it is, assuming you like that kind of thing. However, to fully “appreciate” it, the context is essential. The film would play much different in Tibet than it would in Berlin. (I am sad to say that, based on Letterbox reviews, and the Wikipedia article on this film, its problematic nature goes by most Americans as well).

Not surprisingly all this pondering has led nowhere. The questions remain unanswered. That may be for the best. We cannot avoid the culture that shaped us, but we can also open ourselves up to other cultures as well, even if the understanding is not exact. No one art form can fully bridge that gap, but, if it’s well done, each can bring to the table a universality that can open up worlds. That’s enough for me.   

We all love a good scam. Whether it’s reading about hustles like the Abscam entrapment or the Madoff Ponzi scheme or watching movies like Catch Me if You Can or The Sting, we enjoy the intricacies of plans that take others for a ride. Heaven forbid, however, it happens to us.

The most recent grand hoax was a doozy, and almost resulted in the sale of Elvis’ Graceland. Subsequent to the 2023 death of Elvis’ daughter, Lisa Marie Presley, “Naussany Investments” went into court claiming that Ms. Presley had borrowed $3.8M and put Graceland up as collateral. Naussany submitted loan documents and Deeds of Trust purportedly signed by Presley to support their claim.

A foreclosure sale was actually scheduled for May. It was only then that attorneys for Presley’s granddaughter went to court to stop the charade. The sale was blocked, and various law enforcement agencies got involved.

The scheme was uncovered as the brainchild of a Lisa Jannine Findley. Findley not only created a non-existent corporation, but numerous personas to support her claim. She reportedly has a history which includes romance scams, forged checks, and bank fraud. When confronted she apparently tried to blame that ever convenient group of scam professionals – Nigerian identity thieves.

The audacity of this scheme is breathtaking. Usually scams are done behind the scenes, in private face-to-face meetings or over the phone, and involve things of interest only to the scamee, like money. This one not only required the sanction of a court but involved one of the most famous buildings in the United States. It was bound to create significant publicity. You have to be impressed by the cajónes necessary to even try and pull this off.

In many ways that audacity was key to this ploy, and its attraction. Who would have thought someone would really try something this outrageous. You can’t blame the Court and Presley family for their initial acceptance of the documents produced. Yet, Findley had to know that sooner rather than later many people – lawyers, reporters – were going to pick the scheme to shreds. Maybe she thought she could get the foreclosure through quickly and disappear with the money. Maybe she just has more hubris than the average bear.

Most scams are not as intricate as this one, which is probably why many succeed where this one failed. We know how easy it is for people to be hoaxed by complete strangers who either promise the moon and stars or present some heartbreak story that would make even baseball players cry. The idea is to get the money fast and melt into the sunset.

I am not sure why humans are so susceptible to these ploys. It would seem that evolution would have honed our radar to look out for gifts falling from heaven, or sob-stories with no support. Wasn’t it beat into the heads of our ancestors that if Kronk in the cave next door told us that there was mammoth meat just sitting out on the veld waiting to be taken something was radically wrong? Did they just fall for the mammoth meat trick time and again, only to return to find their cave stripped of their best flint tools?

Why didn’t we learn that there are certain people out there that can render a story so convincingly they can have us signing over our first-born child? Has the narrative always been so enrapturing that it’s worth the price of whatever we give up, at least until we that time when we cry out “Eine moment, Bitte”? By that time the storyteller has generally flown the coop.

In some ways our gullibility reflects well on humanity. We tend toward trust and compassion, which makes us a target for those who would abuse that trust. We want to think that we are tough, but in reality we are marshmallows constantly on the precipice of believing whatever some silver-tongued shyster has to offer.

We also are eternal optimists. When a treasure trove appears to be dropping from the sky we hesitate, but then say, “why not?”. Why can’t it be me who strikes it rich through sheer luck? Why can’t I be as fortunate as all those rich jerks who are wealthy solely because of the family they were born into?

At the same time, we believe that we are better than that. We won’t fall for the tricks thrown at us. We aren’t going to respond to an email from a Nigerian Prince needing a few thousand dollars before they can transfer their massive wealth to us. We aren’t going to send money to a stranger to bail our grandchild out of jail.

Conversely, we think that those taken in by schemes are sad sack dolts who just couldn’t see the obvious. But when you read about the people involved, they are just normal folk. Yes, they made bad decisions. Maybe they let their greed get ahead of them. Maybe they thought with their heart and not with their head. But they aren’t that different from the rest of us.

I know that I am susceptible. While I have never been scammed, I have been tempted. Once Julie and I went to one of those Buyer Clubs. It was all hush, hush. Everyone there was talked to individually, and we were not allowed to ask questions before the entire group. Still, I was intrigued by their sales pitch. That was until Julie pointed out that their selection was very limited, and we were locked into what they had without seeing it. They wouldn’t even show us their prices until we joined. That’s when we walked out.

Knowing my predilections keeps my guard up. More important is to have someone to sanity check what seems attractive in the moment. A minimal explanation is generally needed to burst the bubble and see the scheme for what it is. Once that happens, we can just retreat to our own version of the Jungle Room and rewatch Paul T. Goldman.

*Sorry for my recent silence. I was having technical difficulties, which hopefully have now been resolved. I hope to get back to regular posts.