Film Gems, Part Deux

Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman in a romant...

Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman . (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

(The title of this blog is a very bad pun from a very bad movie, please ignore.)

In my previous blog about wonderful small films, I left out some of my favorites.  So here’s a few new ones for your delectation and delight.  I recommend them on rainy or snowy Sunday nights when they haven’t started the new Downtown Abbey season (let alone the new Sherlock season) and your significant other (should you be so fortunate as to have one) is snoring or screaming that his team (her team) should have so won that game and the score (45-3) does not at all reflect the team’s talents.  Put some popcorn in the microwave, pour yourself a favorite libation, and settle down on the sofa (or better still, in bed) and watch one or more of these (NOTE:  this essay is filled with spoilers, so if you haven’t seen any one of these (and why haven’t you by this time?), you may want to watch first and read later):

Dirty Dancing

Dirty Dancing (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

First, and because I just watched it again, is Dirty Dancing.  I can’t imagine how I came to forget this one in my previous blog about my favorite small films, because this one is just perfect.  Set in the sixties at a time when the old-fashioned summer resorts in the Adirondacks were beginning to disappear (the last of them left is the Mohonk Mountain House and if you haven’t gone there, turn out the sofa cushions for all your spare change and GO, it’s fabulous, even if real expensive), this is a film about coming of age and about figuring out what’s really important in making your life your own life.  It stars Patrick Swayze, perfectly cast as the pro dancer hired for the summer, Jennifer Grey (who really should not have had that nose job she later had and which she admits wasn’t her smartest career move), and Jerry Orbach, an actor/singer/dancer who never did a bad show.  The story is simple, a young girl goes on vacation (under protest) with her parents to a summer resort in the Catskills (North Carolina subbed in the actual filming, which you don’t really need to know) and discovers that the staff is having a great deal more fun than the guests, dirty dancing to the fantastic rock music of the era.  She discovers that Johnny Castle’s (the Patrick Swayze character) dancing partner has gotten “in trouble”.  Yes, that kind of in trouble.  So Baby (the character’s  nickname) borrows money from her dad so that the girl can get an abortion.  Unfortunately, the only time the abortion can happen is during a dance contest at a competing hotel that Castle has to take part in.  So Baby has to learn the mambo really fast.  They do the contest, but she can’t do the lift.  Just too scared.  Complications arise because the abortion was botched, Baby’s father (who is a doctor) helps the girl recover, but believes that Castle is the cause of the abortion being necessary (which he is not, it’s a nasty little weasel who’s working at the resort), and then Castle gets fired for robbery, at which point Baby has to admit right out loud that Castle could not have done that because they were together all night and nobody thinks they were dancing.  The final scene is what we’re all waiting for, the one where Castle says “Nobody puts Baby in a corner” and they dance to “I Had the Time of My Life” and she does the lift and everything works out perfectly, including the weasel getting what’s coming to him.  All that would be fine, it’s a great story, but what really fills your heart is the wonderful dance numbers, the montage sequence of Baby learning how to dance which is funny and charming, and the love story between the rootless man and the too rooted young woman.  If you don’t cry at the end of this one, you may want to check your pulse.

The other Patrick Swayze movie to watch is, of course, Ghost.  With Demi Moore being a dewily lovely and sad young widow and Whoopi Goldberg being a hysterically funny fake psychic who suddenly starts (to her considerable chagrin) channeling a real ghost– the ghost of Patrick Swayze, it’s about how hard it is to actually say I love you and how important it is.  Among other delights, this small movie has probably the only genuinely sexy scene in the movies in which the conceit is that she’s throwing a pot on a potter’s wheel at the time, all to the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody”.  Patrick Swayze died far too soon (as if there’s a good time for a person, whether or not he or she is a brilliant performer, to die), but these two movies show him at the top of his form as a tough man who could be and was incredibly tender.  And man, could he dance.

Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze, in one of the m...

Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze, in one of the most famous scenes from the movie “‘Ghost’ getting musical treatment”. Variety . . Retrieved 2010-11-08 . (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

While we’re on the subject of romantic movies, I didn’t include Casablanca in my earlier blog because it isn’t considered to be a “small” film, but instead plops itself in the top ten of any best movie list anybody cares to put together.  But Casablanca is simply my favorite film.  For others who love it, I would recommend getting the Aljean Harmetz book “The Usual Suspects” which details the making of the film while using those details to talk about wider implications of politics, filmmaking, refugees and the themes and memes of World War II.  Casablanca is a film based on an unproduced play called “Everybody Comes to Rick’s,” in which the themes of refugees, of a man who  “sticks his neck out for nobody” and a woman who broke his heart long ago were central.  In the film, they form the rock upon which is built an edifice of the self-sacrifice necessary to win the war (Casablanca was released in 1942, just in time for the Allied invasion of North Africa, a nice little marketing tie-in, I have to admit).  The triangle of Bogart-Bergman-Henreid is echoed by the huge triangle of war-love-sacrifice that a lot of people were wrestling with whether they, like the Americans at home to watch the film, were in the background and simply worrying about loved ones, or if they were on the front lines.  The film is filled with great lines that are still funny, poignant and fresh today:  “I’m shocked, shocked, I tell you, to discover that gambling is going on here.  Your winnings, sir.”  “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”  “Here’s looking at you kid.”  “I’m a drunkard.  And that makes Rick a citizen of the world.”  “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”  “Round up the usual suspects.”  And so many, many more.  I watch this once a year (more often would be too self-indulgent, and this is, after all, a movie about not giving in to self-indulgence) and I cry every time.  People need, I think, something larger than themselves to believe in and to work for, and this movie is, if it is anything, about those things that are worth fighting for and worth giving up something just as precious for.  Watch it and love it.

Cover of "3:10 to Yuma (Widescreen Editio...

Cover of 3:10 to Yuma (Widescreen Edition)

There always has to be a Russell Crowe film in any of my listings of favorite films.  This time I’m going out on a limb, just a bit, and suggesting 3:10 to Yuma in which he portrays with his usual genius a Very Bad Man (this is also this blog entry’s nod to the Western).  It’s a remake of a Glenn Ford film and the plot is that the Pinkertons finally capture Ben Wade, who is the Very Bad Man, and they have to get him to the train (the 3:10 to Yuma) to get him to prison and out of the way of his gang, who are bent on freeing him.  Into all this comes a young rancher, Dan Evans, veteran of the Civil War, who lost a leg in that war.  He is being forced out by the big bugs around his neighborhood and his elder son despises him for cowardice.  As played by Christian Bale, he is a man of conviction, morality, and desperation.  He HAS to come up with the money it will take to pay for water until the rains come.  The rest of the movie is the journey to Yuma.  Ben Wade is indeed a Very Bad Man, and yet he comes across as the least vengeful, spiteful and nasty person in the film, except for Dan Evans, whose nobility gets frayed as time goes forward.  By the end, the two actors provide a master acting class during several scenes in which they’re just talking about their lives and their beliefs (in Ben’s case, his more or less lack of any kind of belief).  The last scene has Evans’ son realizing what his father meant all along and he decides NOT to kill Ben Wade.  You can watch what this does to Ben Wade simply by looking at Russell Crowe’s remarkable eyes.  The movie is about morality, yes, but it makes its point obliquely.  The unswervingly moral man dies, but because of Dan Evans’ principles and his willingness to die for them, the Very Bad Man goes through a kind of redemption that is personal, that may not last, but that is completely real.  The only problem I had with the film is that at the end, Wade, in his jail cell on the 3:10 to Yuma, whistles for his horse and you know he’s going to get away.  This was, to me, superfluous — the point was already made earlier when Wade told Evans that he’d been jailed in Yuma before and gotten out with no trouble.  That quibble having been quibbled, it’s a wonderful Western with terrific acting (including the secondary characters, a panoply of great character actors which features Peter Fonda in a deliciously evil turn as the chief  Pinkerton man).

Cover of "1776  (Restored Director's Cut)...

Cover of 1776 (Restored Director’s Cut)

Speaking of Very Bad Men, let’s turn to a film about Very Good Men.  The story of the men (and a few of the women) who fought for or against the Declaration of Independence was made into a nifty Broadway musical before Warner Brothers made it into a movie called 1776.  The musical numbers fit the show so closely that there isn’t one that could be called a break-out, they’re just too specific to the plot.  But the lines, the wit, the sense you get of men who are fighting for philosophical principles at the same time they’re fighting for politics, economics and personal liberty, and the acting and singing, all are simply topnotch.  I cannot imagine this film being remade now because the actors that were hired for it fit their roles like their own skin.  In fact, most of the people who were in the Broadway show were hired to play the same roles in the movie and that does not happen very often.  William Daniels is of course superb as John Adams (“you’re obnoxious and disliked, you know that sir”), Ken Howard is dignified and tall as Thomas Jefferson, red-haired, calm and more interested in his new wife (Blythe Danner in a small role but oh so winsome) than in all of Congress’ shenanigans, Howard De Silva proves once again that sometimes one simply IS the role one plays with Franklin’s mellow wit and enjoyment of life’s pleasures (“not everybody’s from Boston, John”).  So many more.  And the moments:  the dispatches from George Washington with, always, a drum roll before the Congressional clerk reads his signatures, the song “Mama, Look Sharp” sung by a very young boy acting as a courier about his horrific experiences at Concord, and the brilliant and searing  “Molasses to Rum to Slaves” number by John Cullum which is a history lesson in brief about the slave trade:  “hail, Charleston, hail Boston, who stinketh the most?”.  There’s love, there’s mutual respect and affection (the scenes between John Adams and his wife Abigail (played by Virginia Vestoff who, sadly, died shortly after the film was finished) are taken almost without modification from the couple’s letters to each other over their long and loving marriage), there’s the tribute to the combatant who has lost his battle to remain with the mother country but whose respect for the men he fought is such that he promises to fight on the rebel side, there’s the huge and fateful compromise that allows the Declaration to be passed unanimously and there’s Franklin’s words, passed down to us from the time, that “if we do not hang together, we will most assuredly hang separately.”  A super film you’ll get lost in, and the factual changes to make it more dramatic are mere nitpicks — the great sense of this grand thing that had never been tried before comes through and one is awestricken that the United States actually got started and even more awestricken that it’s still stumbling along as well as it is.

And, finally, for this iteration of favorite films, another small gem from Britain:  Truly, Madly, Deeply, which is Alan Rickman at his wonderful best.  Another ghost story, this one of a woman, played by Juliet Stevenson, who simply cannot get her life back on track after the death of her lover.  In this film, Rickman portrays the dead lover who haunts her in a funny, charming and poignant manner, all for the express purpose of getting his love to start living again.  It truly is funny and you truly will cry.  And it is all about truly living and making the most of what you have left and using it to find what is coming up next for you.

Reproduction movie poster for Truly, Madly, De...

Reproduction movie poster for Truly, Madly, Deeply (1991) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So here’s a loverly weekend for you, filled with some of the sexiest men and best actors you could possibly want (and quite a few really good actresses if you, dear reader, are more inclined in that direction), with stories about love, sacrifice and redemption, great, lasting and sometimes funny lines and with themes that actually matter.  Leave the strange new comedies that seem to be mostly about boys not growing up for another time.  Go ahead, get lost in love and adventure with a really good movie, of which the above are merely suggestions.

Romantic Movie Stories (June 1936)  Carole Lom...

Romantic Movie Stories (June 1936) Carole Lombard – UNGUARDED HOUR … Superwoman is Dead (June 16, 2011 / 14 Sivan 5771) … (Photo credit: marsmet541)

What’s In A Category?

Gail Willwerth Upp, actress, writer, editor, director, lover of the mountains and lover of life.

Gail Willwerth Upp, actress, writer, editor, director, lover of the mountains and lover of life.

 

In all my social media accounts, I am asked to categorize myself.  What is it I think I am, what do I do, how do I wish to present myself to the thousands (all right, tens) of people who want to read what I have to say?  In all of them, I say, more or less in this order, that I am an actress, a writer, an editor, a director, and (to be totally soppy about the whole thing), a resident of a mountain paradise (more or less, but don’t ask me what I think of it in January) and a lover of life.  What in the world do I mean?  It’s not like there aren’t whole scads of people out there using some of the same appellations about themselves on their Twitter, Facebook and blog accounts.  So this (rather self-serving) blog is about what I do mean when I characterize myself by those terms.

Let’s look at them one by one:

Actress.  First, this usage is deliberate.  I know it is considered politically correct these days to call a female who acts for a living a “female actor”.  This drives me wild.  There is nothing wrong with the term actress.  As people are divided into two sexes (and many more preferences), so are the casts of plays, movies, television shows and videos.  Calling those who portray female characters who are themselves female (this is getting complicated in today’s world, isn’t it?) “female actors” is like calling a wife a “female husband”.  Actors come in two genders because the work they do comes in two genders, so let’s stop being weird about this and go back to using the perfectly understandable and respectable term “actress,” okay?

English: Portrait of Sarah Bernhardt as Hamlet.

Portrait of Sarah Bernhardt as Hamlet — not my role of choice but she was quite an actress. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

That said, why do I consider myself an actress?  I am, as we all are to some extent, what I do.  What I spend my time doing I’ll get to later, but it’s not acting.  So how can I call myself an actress when there have been few times in my life when I was actively pursuing acting as either a profession or an avocation?  (Of course, let’s realize this, that for most actresses and actors, they are not spending most of their time acting, they are spending their time trying to get acting work while doing other things to keep body and soul in calling distance of each other.)  And yet, I’m an actress.  So, for me, it must be a state of mind, a way of looking at the world, a way of defining myself.

And so it is.  Acting is central, in my judgment, to the experience of being human.  One of the ways we learn our culture, how to be human in our world, is through watching actors (and dancers and singers, of course, but to a lesser extent because those are more stylized art forms) show us human beings going through human disasters and triumphs, solving problems, reaching (sometimes) epiphanies, or simply getting the guy (or girl).  As a minor example, random research on my part indicates that most of us learned how to kiss from watching actors kiss in the movies or onstage.  When I got my master’s degree in theatre, I was asked in my final written exams to explain the purpose of theatre.  I remember very little of that horrible day, but I do remember the central thesis of my answer:  theatre is life with the irrelevancies taken out, a mirror held up to us so we can see ourselves with meaning.  It isn’t just entertainment, like a circus, a way of passing the time in laughter instead of drudgery for a moment.  Acting can be that, and there is nothing wrong with it.  But acting, at its finest, helps us learn, helps us understand, can even help us adjust our behavior, our insights and our goals in a way that is more useful to others and more fulfilling to ourselves.  Acting–whether in movies or plays or TV shows–doesn’t often reach that halcyon height, but it does so aspire.

And so I am an actress, because I believe, with Victor Hugo, that if one must steal bread to survive, steal two loaves and sell one to buy hyacinths for the soul.  To me, the theatre (in whatever media it comes) and the people who create plays, movies, TV shows, and all their wonders, are the hyacinths for the human soul and even if I am a very junior colleague in so exalted a group, I am deeply proud to be of their company.

The photo of me at the top of this essay is my new headshot, by the way.  I didn’t really plan on it being quite this size, but computers and I have some little issues and inserting photographs into my blogs is definitely one of them.

Writer.  This is what I genuinely do.  I sit down at the computer ostensibly to look at my emails and see if any of those I’m following on Twitter have anything interesting to say (Russell Crowe always does, even if I don’t understand most of what he’s talking about) and wondering what my Facebook friends are up to, just a few minutes, tops, and the next thing I know, it’s three hours later and I’ve started a blog (that’s how this one came to be) or edited one, or opened my novel to the  “start here” place and worked on dialogue or a new chapter.  Writers write.  That probably ought to come first on my category list and yet it doesn’t.  You see, I have acted, I have felt that magic touch me and reach out sometimes, if not often enough, to touch the audience.  But I have not sold anything I’ve written beyond one story that became a television movie (called “Bluffing It”, a movie about adult illiteracy).  So for some weird reason that has no logic whatsoever, I am an actress even though I have never in my life been paid for acting but not yet a writer because I have not been published and earned royalties.  And yet I write all the time.  I have spent over 40 minutes polishing a Tweet (I really hate that term, as my reader knows from prior blogs) so it will say exactly what I mean it to say within the 140 character allotment and I have five (count ’em folks, five, followers (persons of discernment, each and every one)).  I spend time I really don’t have trying to come up with something funny or pointed or at least on topic to comment on Facebook friends’ postings.  And it can take me weeks to get one of these blogs to a place where I’m willing to have anyone read it.  You might notice that not one of these activities can be said to be remunerative, but they sure are writing and I write, even emails to friends (or perhaps especially emails to friends) as if for publication, as if these scribblings, no matter how ephemeral they are, will be in some sense my legacy to this world.

The cover of the first edition of The Great Ga...

The cover of the first edition of The Great Gatsby (1925) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

And so I am a writer, even if I say it tentatively, as if it were presumptuous of me to try to edge into the great consortium of writers in the world.  How can I possibly ever consider myself to be a peer of my most admired writers?  I am all too aware that nothing I could ever write would approach my favorite “good” novel, The Great Gatsby.  Worse, I am just as aware that I’m not likely to write something as good as any one of Dick Francis‘ thrillers (I’m currently re-reading Under Orders and it’s just as terrific as I remembered it).  Of course, on the other hand, I have read or tried to read books which I cannot believe have actually been published, they are simply so bad.  How do the authors (using the term quite loosely in this context) manage to combine turgid, boring plots, uninteresting characters that all seem like the same person, and poor grammar all at the same time?  But then, they’re published and I’m not, so maybe I shouldn’t be so sniffy about them.

The novel I’m re-writing now is entitled Crawfish Blues.  I am deep within the second act, miring my heroine in mud up to her lavish hips (since she lives in the Louisiana Delta, this is not entirely metaphorical), re-structuring her problems to make them, I fondly hope, more cogent, deeper, and more interesting to the eventual reader, should such there ever be.  When I am working on Crawfish I’ll realize that all of a sudden, I’m hungry and it’s time (past time, probably) for a shower, and five hours will have passed without my noticing except for the increasing ache in my upper shoulders from crouching over the keyboard.  Oh well, if I wrote as Jane Austen did with quill and parchment, I would have writer’s cramp.  Writing is, for something one does sitting down, quite physically taxing.

So I am a writer, no matter how tentative.

Editor.  This category is a little more complex, because when I worked in the film/TV industry, I did so as either a picture or sound editor or as a teacher/trainer of picture or sound editors.  Leave it to me to manage a way to remain obscure in this most flamboyantly public of industries.  But you find your niche, sometimes.  Film editing is a vitally important craft to the creation of films whether feature or TV, narrative or documentary.  In fact, in many ways a lot of films are created, not just finished, in the editing room.  And nowadays, with digital cameras giving filmmakers virtually no limit on the amount of footage they can shoot, even on low-budget projects, the editor is vital to organizing and making sense of the footage, carving out a story from all that, well, stuff.  For me, editing is like writing or acting:  it is something into which I lose myself and all track of time.  Some part of my psyche loves the intricacy, the puzzle-like quality of editing film footage, the ability you have as an editor to create the timing for a comic moment that the director (evil grin here) totally missed or the chance to build an almost unbearable tension out of quite simple, ordinary elements.

Director.  I directed plays at various schools in which I taught and worked, I directed plays for summer theaters (and also produced), I directed plays for community and small professional theatre.  Directing led me away from acting.  I went to film school to be a film director.  Unfortunately, I discovered that the job of film director is different in both quality and quantity from that of play director–it almost never has to do with the fun part of play directing, working with actors, and it mostly seems to consist of not having enough time or money but having way too many questions that need to be answered right this goddamned minute.  It also has a lot to do with pleasing people who have no understanding of the craft of filmmaking whatsoever, they only have money.  I also discovered that if I didn’t suck at film directing, I was only about two steps up from that nadir.  That’s when I became a film editor, which I got pretty good at.  (The other reason I moved away from film directing is that work on a film set is only slightly less tedious than watching paint dry.  I have been on movie sets where watching a board warp was almost intolerable excitement.  An editing suite is a carnival ride in comparison.)

The Music Man

The Music Man (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So, I was a director, but now I’m not and I’m okay with that.  At least for a while.  One of the problems that comes with ever having directed a play or even a student film is that it is almost impossible to watch somebody else’s work onstage or at the movies without wanting to do this most complex of tasks once again.  I went to a concert in Estes Park a little while ago, two choirs of locals put together to sing some of the more well-known songs from Broadway musicals.  They did a good job with a medley from “The Music Man” and by the time they had finished Lida Rose, I had cast the whole musical from local talent, figured out who would do the choreography and music direction, and designed the basic set.   By the time I was applauding their efforts, I had figured out how and from where to get the musical instruments and how I’d do the big march at the end (winding through the auditorium).  It gets in the blood, directing.

But then I remember all the things that go with directing a play, especially in a small town where everyone is a volunteer with other demands on their time:  finding the personnel, getting the costumes sorted out, building the set, searching thrift shops for props, forcing busy people to rehearse.  Often it comes down to one person and that person is you (well, in this case, me).  Plus, to direct anything in a small town, you are also the business manager, the publicist, the seller of advertising, the sweet-talker getting donations, the saleswoman finding sponsors or even a spare bit of window where they’ll let you hang your poster (first, design your poster and sweet-talk the printer into giving you a huge discount).

You may have noticed reading this essay (and my social media headers) that nowhere do I consider myself to be anything having to do with selling, marketing, publicity, or shilling of any kind.  Which is probably the most important reason I’m not actively an actress, or a published writer or a working editor or, for that matter, a director.  The part of the job that can be the most important part is getting the job, forcing yourself past the wall surrounding all these professions to reach the inside where the casting directors are, the agents, the publishers, the producers, the directors, the people who make decisions about which actress, which writer, which editor and which director they will hire.  And if I sucked at film directing, let me tell you I really sucked at selling.  When I was a little child, my mother would end up buying all my boxes of Girl Scout cookies because I could not, just really could not, bring myself to go from door to door actually asking people to buy them, no matter how good a cause.  I found it humiliating and I still do.  No, I have postponed necessary phone calls and mailings to get auditions, meetings, whatnot in Los Angeles, New York and here in Colorado for reasons that reach from the sublime (must take a drive around the national park RIGHT THIS MINUTE) to what even I recognize is the ridiculous (I really have to clean the escutcheons behind the doorknobs because they have fingerprints on them–seriously?).  I hate this part of the business of show business with a genuine passion, as much as I love the acting, writing, editing and directing parts of it.  That work I can do.  Selling?  Not so much.

Long's Peak

Long’s Peak

Lover of the Mountains.  This one isn’t, of course, a profession, although many of my friends up here in Estes Park have made it a profession by working for the national park or being a tour guide or hiking instructor.  Me?  I like to look at mountains, not get them all untidy with hiking trails and footprints and litter.   For me, being a lover of the mountains has more to do with the fact that I was born within sight of the Rocky Mountains and that I don’t like flat places and I’m not madly in love with oceans or jungles or humidity than that I want to be out there putting my stamp (literally) on a mountainside.  I’ll walk around a mountain lake and I’ll do some hiking during total eclipses of the sun (that’s a metaphor, folks, er, folk), but mostly I just like to look at the mountains, specifically and mostly Long’s Peak, and feel the peace of wildness enter my soul.

Lover of Life.  Okay, this one is sentimental tosh and I know it.  But it’s true.  I’m one of those who gets a huge kick out of just the simple things, eating and drinking good wine (and better gin) and laughing with friends (I had a dinner party this week during which I forgot to put the oven on to bake the potatoes so we had microwaved potatoes for dessert, which thankfully my guests seemed to find funny) and seeing blue sky and dreaming my (still adolescent and proud of it) dreams and knowing I’m still around and wondering what’s coming next and hoping we all survive it.  I still think in my heart of hearts that this death thing is optional.

As a final word, it seems to me looking back on this essay that apart from the great delight of talking about myself exclusively, what I’m really saying is that I’m a storyteller.  I come by this honestly.  My father never met a story he couldn’t improve upon and I never heard the same version of one of his stories twice.  He also, come to think of it, directed all the plays at whatever high school he was principal of at the moment (which is amazingly true–he had a temper and a definite sense of values that didn’t usually match the conventional wisdom of the time which usually ended up trumping keeping his job, so there would come a time where he got on the wrong side of the school board and we would leave town just ahead of the tar and feathers–luckily this was in Colorado, where there was always another small town that needed a high school principal too desperately to listen very hard to the complaints of the prior school board and that is one of the longest parenthetical phrases I’ve managed to include in this set of blogs so far).  At the end of this essay is a photograph of him from long before I was born or even thought of.  He died far too young and I miss him still.

I am, like him, a storyteller.  I don’t consider, ahem, modifying a story of my youth (or for that matter, my last week) to make it funnier or more interesting or create a bigger point lying, I consider it enhancing, eliding the irrelevancies, just like theatre.  Storytelling is how we became human long, long ago and how we change and get a little better (very very very slowly unfortunately) as humans now and how we will always do so.  A while ago, okay a long while ago, there was a Star Trek episode in which the plot centered around the Enterprise taking a traveling acting troupe from one outpost to another.  I loved that episode and found myself thinking that, should there be such a thing as reincarnation, that’s what I’d like to come back as–a member of a travelling troupe of players being ferried around the galaxy on a starship.

All I ever wanted to be or ever hope to be in this life or in any other I  may be fortunate enough to live is one of the hyacinths for the soul that we poor players are and all we can be.  Well, I’d also love to share such a life with the love of my life (this life or any life I’m given), once I meet him.  But as a profession, make mine storytelling, whether it’s writing it, directing it, acting it or (if in some lifetime I’m given the gift of a singing voice) singing it.  Just don’t make me have to sell it.

Arthur Charles Willwerth, my father

Film Gems

Cover of "The Girl in the Cafe"

Cover of The Girl in the Cafe

A recent post by Merry Farmer (merryfarmer.net) about a small and wonderful picture called “The Girl in the Cafe” led me to ponder those small films that just are gems, the ones you think you and your friends and family alone have discovered and that you buy on DVD or Blu-Ray and watch over and over again, much more often, when you come to think about it, than the big blockbusters like “Lord of the Rings”.  So this essay is going to be about just a few favorites among my film discoveries over the years.

To go back in time a bit, let’s first talk about “Mindwalk”.  This was a film made in 1990, written and directed by Bernt Capra, starring Sam Waterston, Liv Ullman and John Heard.  The movie  is subtitled “A Film for Passionate Thinkers,” and was based on a book by the same writer named “The Turning Point”.  Mr. Capra had an epiphany about how the universe and our world really work.  The entire movie is comprised of a conversation among three people who meet at Mont St. Michelle on a chilly spring day.  Nothing much happens except talk, there are very few exciting or weird camera angles or cutting styles, mostly the director just lets the camera run and the actors walk and talk or sit and talk.  And the film is riveting, absolutely mesmerizing.  It discusses time and atomic decay in ways that help a non-physicist finally understand some of what is really going on underneath what we see.  But more than that, the film works to place us, human beings, within the context of what the universe is really about.  A treasure.  “Whatever this movie’s dramatic shortcomings, it’s nonetheless engrossing to let your mind experience this barrage of ideas — that there are worlds within worlds, organisms within organisms, systems within systems; that everything is connected; that few of us think that way; and that, as far as human survival goes, a fully articulated, macro-sensitive world vision is essential.”  (Review in The Washington Post by Desson Howe.)

Mindwalk

Mindwalk (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

For another film from long ago (1968, in fact), let’s look at “The Lion in Winter.”  Not really a “small” gem, but a true jewel nonetheless, the movie is based on, practically word for word, James Goldman’s play of the same name.  When I was a mere slip of a girl, a director’s casting choice had me portraying the sixty-ish Eleanor of Aquitaine, my favorite role.  Now that I’m more the, ahem, right age, I would give a great deal to portray her again.  The movie starred Peter O’Toole and Katherine Hepburn, with Anthony Hopkins as Richard, Jane Merrow as Alais, Nigel Stock as William Marshall, Nigel Terry (later to be seen in “Excalibur,” to be discussed in a bit) as John, John Castle as Geoffrey, and Timothy Dalton as Philip II.  For Dalton and Hopkins, this film gave them their first major roles.  For the gentleman named Peter O’Toole, it was his second superb take on Henry II (his first was in “Becket” which won all sorts of awards for Richard Burton in the eponymous role and for O’Toole, but which is not a favorite film of mine).  Here the pleasure is the acting and the impossibly witty and cogent dialogue.  The film imagines a Christmas court in Henry II’s 57th year (when, as he put it, “I’m the oldest man I know, hell, I’ve got a decade on the Pope”).  He brings his wife, Eleanor, out of jail (where he’s kept her for years because she keeps mounting revolts against him), to Chinon Castle, his favorite winter residence.  And he insists his three living sons attend upon him there.  Oh, and then there’s Alais, the beautiful “ward” who is Henry’s mistress but who is (technically) betrothed to Henry’s son Richard (the Lionheart, of course), who is more interested in Philip of France, the young king, and so round and round we go.  The plot has to do with naming Henry’s heir, and all the plotting and planning goes beautifully wrong since the young men have ideas of their own.  The most interesting thing about this film (or play) is that in reality nothing happens.  It’s like a rondo where everybody ends up where they began, but oh the fun they have stabbing each other in the back or in the front with beautiful daggers of words along the way.  Peter O’Toole was born to play Henry II and Katherine Hepburn crowned her career with a well-deserved Oscar for her performance as Eleanor. Until I do get another chance to play the richest, most powerful and most intelligent woman in the world (up until Hillary Clinton, I suppose), I will continue to enjoy the movie, the very funny words, the bitter irony that lives within the characters, the extraordinary archaic music, and the sense that living in winter in a French castle was slightly south of cozy.

As I said, now it is the turn of “Excalibur.”  John Boorman wrote, directed, produced and practically willed this film into being, finding young and older British stars to inhabit the most iconic characters in all of myth.  The Matter of Britain, it’s called, the story of the Once and Future King, Arthur.  Nigel Terry (see above for his great turn as John Lackland, son of Henry II) plays Arthur, Nicol Williamson plays Merlin, Helen Mirren is beautifully distracting and deliciously wicked as Morgan le Fey and we get one of our first chances to drool at Liam Neeson, towering over everybody as Galahad.  It’s a huge cast, the costumes seem somehow as rough and ready as they would have to have been, and the story is fairly close to La Morte D’Arthur, with a few modern incursions (Igraine’s seductive dance to her husband’s friend and her own seducer Uther Pendragon is not to be missed).  Boorman uses the Carmina Burana as the basis for his soundtrack and it works beautifully, sounding quite strange and medieval and untamed.

The Illusionist (2006 film)

The Illusionist (2006 film) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Let’s move up in time a bit to “The Illusionist“.  This film, starring Edward Norton, Jessica Biel, Rufus Sewell and Paul Giamatti, is set in late 19th Century Vienna and is a story about a magician, the duchess he loves and can’t have, the (wicked and really deliciously bad) heir to the Empire, and the Police Commissioner who, in his words is “no, not entirely corrupt.”  The love story is between the magician and the duchess.  The other two are working with clever might and main to make sure the love story doesn’t happen.  All to the music of Philip Glass and with magician’s illusions that were mostly done on camera.  Edward Norton is always interesting to watch and never plays the same kind of role twice.  Here he is totally romantic as the illusionist who always loved magic and who lost the girl when he was still a boy, then wandered the world to find real magic but found only illusion and never got over the girl.  He comes back to Vienna as a brilliant illusionist who always states that he does tricks, there is no real magic, and he finds his duchess again, about to be married to the Emperor’s evil son.  How he and Jessica Biel (who has never been lovelier or better) trick the bad guys right under the nose of the Police Commissioner is delightful, surprising, inevitable and, yes, magical.  One of the best and most lyrically filmed love/sex scenes I’ve seen in a long time, too.  The movie is beautiful, intimate, charming, and romantic without being in the least soppy.  Just a great time at the movies!

Of course one of Russell Crowe’s films must be a part of this listing.  So the one that I’ll choose for this essay is “A Good Year”, partially because he shows such sweet and passionate romance, but also because he demonstrates a real flair for slapstick that most of his roles don’t let him show.  The swimming pool scene is an especial joy, and how they made a tennis match between him and his vintner both exciting and funny I only know resulted from great acting, good directing and superb editing.  He stars in it with Marion Cotillard, and it’s a story of redemption and love and of finding yourself after not even realizing you were lost.  Freddy Highmore plays his younger self and this is an actor with a major future.  Albert Finney, who as an actor had a major past and is still stealing all scenes he’s in, plays the expansive uncle, who taught Max how to live.  Max (Crowe’s character) has to rediscover the true value of life.  Of course, it’s a lot easier when you’re a rich stockbroker and then you inherit a vineyard and a villa in Provence, but he still has a hard time of it.  It’s funny, truly funny, and sweetly romantic, and Crowe does his usual brilliant job of simply being the person he’s playing and not letting it show.  You can’t catch this man acting.  Take a special look at him stepping in as a waiter at Cotillard’s restaurant on a day where everything’s going wrong, briskly doing his job and getting lots of tips.  (Her response after the end of a long day?  “Here are your tips.  You’re fired.”)  And their first date is charming, managing to show the awkwardness of any first date along with the real chemistry growing between them.  A subplot about his uncle’s possible (probable?) illegitimate daughter (played delightfully by Abbie Cornish) adds to the fun.

Cover of "A Good Year (Widescreen Edition...

Cover of A Good Year (Widescreen Edition)

Now let’s go far back in time, at least movie time.  One of my favorite  40’s films is “Laura.”  A woman is killed and the detective who is assigned to the case falls in love with her from her portrait, her beautiful apartment, and the things he’s told about her by her friends and enemies.  Then it turns out it wasn’t her that was killed.  From there it gets really interesting.  Gene Tierney is gorgeous, of course, but the movie seems to display a mystery about her that entices and fascinates all of the other people in the movie, from the Walter Winchell-esque journalist who brings her into prominence to the southern playboy who supposedly loves her to the detective who becomes obsessed with her.  You really won’t figure out whodunit until the end and you’ll love the music and the delicious black and white photography.  Trust me on this, but don’t trust anybody in the movie.

There has to be a western in this cavalcade and my choice for all-time favorite, best-ever western is a tie.  Ooops, but I’m going to concentrate on “The Magnificent Seven” (the other one in the running is “Shane.”)  “The Magnificent Seven” is a remake of “The Seventh Samurai” and tells the story of a gunfighter hired by the people of a Mexican village to free them of a pest — said pest played with over-the-stop scenery chewing fun by Eli Wallach.  The gunfighter, Yul Brynner, gathers a collection of other gunfighters and misfits, including Steve McQueen, Charles Bronson, Robert Vaughn, James Coburn and others.  Each of them have private agendas that play out during the film, but they call come together in a gorgeously choreographed battle for the sake of the villagers, to Eli Wallach’s vast surprise.  (As the McQueen character says, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”)  The music, by Elmer Bernstein, is beyond glorious and is still used to convey the feeling of the Great American West.  There’s a good deal of humor, but the subthemes of the changing of the West from lawlessness to commerce and law, the ending of the era of the gunfighter, and the haplessness of ordinary people when faced with evil are all deeply moving.  If you haven’t seen it (how could you not have seen it by this time?) please make it a point.

Cover of "Rebecca"

Cover of Rebecca

Moving right along to Hitchcock, let’s talk about “Rebecca”.  “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again” is one of film’s most intriguing opening lines (it was the opening line to the novel by Daphne de Maurier), and the nameless heroine, played by Joan Fontaine, makes you feel her awkwardness in attempting to step into the designer shoes of the evil and memorable Rebecca.  Laurence Olivier plays Maxim de Winter, and Judith Anderson plays the terrifying housekeeper.  If you haven’t seen it before, you’ll go nuts trying to figure it out.  The twist in this film is not only the reason for all the fear and strangeness at Manderley (you really won’t guess it, at least I didn’t), but also the emotional twist that leads to the happy(?) (the question mark is intended) ending comes directly out of Rebecca’s own character.  Enjoy the experience.

Another twisty Hitchcock thriller, this time with a comic bend to the corkscrew:  “North by Northwest” stars an impossibly lovely and cool Eva Marie Saint and an equally impossibly suave Cary Grant in a thriller taking them from New York City on the 20th Century Limited to Chicago.  After that come two of the classic set pieces in film, the chase in the cornfield and the one on Mr. Rushmore.  Too much fun not to see over and over.  Very funny lines, one of James Mason’s best villains, and a classic (i.e., ultimately meaningless) McGuffin (a name apparently invented by Hitchcock to explain, presumably, what everybody’s after).  Tres sophisticated, filled with gorgeous late fifties, early sixties clothes and Ms. Saint’s hair is more perfect than any head of blond hair has ever been or ever will be.

Jumping around a bit, there’s one of my best guilty pleasures, “Gosford Park”.  In this one, it helps to have the captioning on, because everybody’s talking at once, usually.  This is Bob Balaban and Robert Altman at their finest, using their upside down and inside out talents to re-envision the Agatha Christie-type country house mystery.  It’s filled with a lot of the best actors in Britain, of which they don’t come any better, with Helen Mirren as the sinister housekeeper, Michael Gambon as the crude rich man who married up, Kristin Scott-Thomas as the Earl’s daughter who’s married to a man she can’t stand and who sleeps with visiting male servants, Emily Watson as the upstairs maid sleeping with the boss, Clive Owen as the mysterious valet and Maggie Smith stealing every scene she’s in just the way she always does.  The plot is simple.  Who is going to kill the master of the house?  And hurry up about it because he’s horrible!  And then we find out it isn’t so simple after all.  They’re all brilliant, the camera never stops moving, the sets are gorgeous (makes you want to even work in such a house, let alone own it) and I watch over and over again just to be with them in the place and time once more.  By the way, the set design is spectacular and try to notice the floral arrangements the next time you watch it.  Amazing!  The theme of the ending of the era of servants and country houses lies underneath and shores up the whole thing, making it a worthwhile look at snobbery and a group of people who perhaps needed to be made redundant.  But oh how beautifully (and boringly, when push comes to shove) they lived and usually didn’t get a chance to actually love.  As the Balaban character (an American film producer there scouting locations) says to the guy playing Ivor Novello (an actual historical character):  “How do you stand these people?”  His answer.  “I make my living impersonating them.”

“The Girl in the Cafe” is best talked about by Merry Farmer, so I refer you to her at merryfarmer.net, but I must add for myself that Bill Nighy and Kelly MacDonald make their fumbling attempts to reach each other so poignant, so real that they break my heart.

“The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel” is one of my favorite films this year.  And it has my favorite line in several movie years:  “It will all be all right in the end.  So if it is not all right, it is not the end.”  My new mantra for my own life, believe me.  And if only I could age like Judi Dench, funny and brilliant and so so so pretty and loving and warm.  In any event, a group of “the elderly and beautiful” in England realize or think they realize that they can get more for their retirement dollars moving to Jaipur to a “luxury hotel”, which turns out, of course, to be anything but.  Each of them has a different agenda, different hopes and plans, and they go about them with gusto.  The film shows off the brilliant, brightly colored, hot and damp vibrancy and chaos of Jaipur and it shows the reactions, whether positive or negative or simply bewildered, of these babes in this particular wood.  One utterly favorite and beautiful moment:  One of the characters, played by Tom Wilkinson, has come to make a pilgrimage to his youth.  He dies after completing said pilgrimage and there is a continuing misty shot of a great white heron (I think) taking off and flying into the golden light which may seem, in the telling, to be incredibly clichéd, and yet it is absolutely not.  A beautiful moment.  And the whole movie does, indeed, come out all right in the end.

Sense and Sensibility (film)

Sense and Sensibility (film) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

If you would like to see Jane Austen done absolutely right, rent (or preferably buy for future viewings) “Sense and Sensibility”.  Emma Thompson wrote the screenplay.  One of the little extras on the DVD is watching her give her acceptance speech for best screenplay at the Golden Globes, which she does in the form of a letter from Jane Austen to her sister, discussing Hollywood, the film, and modern life.  Hysterical.  The film itself is filled with the best of British actors, one of the most gorgeous men ever (whom Emma, no fool, later married in real life), named Greg Wise, and Alan Rickman, who makes me drool when he plays Snape and so you can imagine my reaction when he plays a Jane Austen hero.  Also, Hugh Grant, just to keep the ladies interested, and Kate Winslet in one of her first roles being impossibly beautiful, willful and brilliant as Marianne.  This is an Ang Lee film, and it’s just one step along the way to his fully earned Oscar this last year for “Life of Pi”.  Brilliant filmmaker and wonderful film, capturing the essence of Austen’s novel and making it sing.  It was shot mostly on location, too, in some of those old, exquisite British country houses.  Last and by no means least, it’s quite funny.

Sandra Bullock is always terrific and, while a lot of us could watch “Miss Congeniality” over and over again, my favorite of her films is “While You Were Sleeping”.  In this film, she plays a very lonesome young woman who wants to have a family.  She has a crush on a man she knows she’ll never meet who comes by her booth (where she works for the transportation authority taking in tokens for those traveling on the El).  When he’s mugged and lands on the tracks on Christmas day, she saves his life and then is mistaken for his fiancée.  And then she falls in love with his quirky and funny and warm family.  And then she falls in love with his brother.  By the time the first guy wakes up, she’s in total trouble, but the whole family is enamored of her and convince the coma guy that she is indeed his fiancée even though he remembers her not at all.  The way she works it out is true and genuine and funny, but it’s her relationships with all her costars that are the gem here, from the guy in her building, Joe Junior (played with gusto by Michael Rispoli), who has a veneer of total and stupid self-confidence overlaid over lonesomeness and need, her boss who finds her dilemma aggravating and impossible to understand, the family friend who promises to help her straighten out her dilemma and just gets her deeper in (her response?  “You’re fired”) and the family itself, with whom she simply falls in love.  Bullock conveys this just by watching them cavort around and it’s heartbreaking.  A lovely, lovely film to watch during the holiday season.

The film that kickstarted Sandra Oh’s career, “Sideways”,  also restarted Virginia Madsen’s and Thomas Hayden Church’s careers and it certainly added to the admiration Paul Giamatti so richly deserves.  A little film about a last getaway to the Solvang wine region before Church’s character gets married, it’s funny, poignant and very real.  Giamatti plays a man who has written a very very very long novel he can’t get published and who is a junior high teacher.  Church plays a somehow totally likeable but absolute jerk who wants to have a last fling before he marries and can’t fling his southern brain around any longer.  Sandra Oh plays one of those people who serve the wine at wine tastings who wants a real boyfriend and Madsen plays Maya, a waitress at a good restaurant who truly loves wine and who finds the magic in it and in Paul Giamatti.  There is a scene when Sandra discovers Church’s real agenda that is such a hoot I will always remember it.  Things get very complicated primarily because the Church character is such a damned fool, but it feels real, for all that, not artificially stirred up the way so many comedies these days seem to be.  And the romance with wine that all the characters have is lyrical.  (I happen to love Pinot Noir the best of all wines, too, so it was especially poignant to me.)

“Office Space” is very funny little cult movie that in an indirect fashion probably led to the British and American TV series, “The Office.”  One of its supporting actors is a very good friend of mine, Joe Bays, and he is beyond terrific, but it’s got even more gems of performance and comedy than that.  It stars Jennifer Anniston and Ron Livingston.  In the Initech office, the insecure Peter Gibbons hates his job and the abusive Division VP Bill Lumbergh who has just hired two consultants to downsize the company. Peter’s best friends are the software engineers Michael Bolton and Samir Nagheenanajar  (they also hate Initech), and his next door neighbor Lawrence.  In an attempt to get around the consultants, Peter’s life deteriorates, what with hypnotists and a scheme to embezzle fractions of cents from each company account which goes just a little awry.  For anyone who’s ever worked in cubicle hell, this film is a kind of medicine.  You’ll swear you’ve met the characters in your own working life, and you know the ones I mean, the ones you have to keep smiling at no matter what.

“Starbuck” is the newest film on my hit parade.  We went to see it as a final treat while I was in LA on vacation early this spring.  It’s a French-Canadian film with subtitles about a schlub (played with sweet brilliance by Patrick Huard) who does everything wrong and gets everything right.  It’s not a spoiler to tell you that he has a very very very very bad day, culminating (and the word is used deliberately) in the discovery that the sperm donation he engaged in when he was twenty has resulted in him fathering (biologically, that is) 533 children, most  of whom are now in their late teens and early twenties.  His life, which had fallen apart before he finds this out, gets even more complicated, but he manages, in his schlubby but loving way, to make it all come out right.  A charming, loving, happy film.  And very funny.

So, with this to perhaps kickstart some new favorites of your own, see you at the movies!

A Night at the Movies (film)

A Night at the Movies (film) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Maps

United States Map 1853

United States Map 1853

I follow Russell Crowe‘s Twitter feed.  He uses his Tweets (I truly loathe that term, by the way) to publicize his work and to express opinions and comments about his life that seem good to him to write about.  I enjoy this glimpse he allows his followers (of which he has many) into his life and work.  Several of his recent Tweets (there’s that stupid word again) have to do with maps.  He enjoys them, apparently, finds them fascinating, and often gets out maps and looks at them to, in his words (more or less, he’s taken down this particular set of Tweets (grrrrh), I think, and I can’t find the quote), plan adventures.

While there are perhaps not too many personality traits a major movie star who lives in Australia and a somewhat obscure, at least so far, writer temporarily in LA but living in Colorado have in common, I too look at maps and plan adventures.  And sometimes dream about the lines on the maps becoming a real journey.

Once I’d read his ‘comments’ (I’m simply not going to use that damned Twitter term again) about  maps, I got down my huge atlas and leafed through the pages, which led directly to my road trip (I drove) from Colorado to southern California.  So thanks for that, Mr. Crowe.  You inspired this essay, but also a real journey following a road map that led me 1300 miles from Estes Park, Colorado to Los Angeles, California.  I guess I won’t thank you for the snowstorm that included itself in my trip, you couldn’t possibly have known, but it did add to the adventure, after all, and that’s what dreamily looking at maps is all about.

Map of the United States Including Western Ter...

Map of the United States Including Western Territories, 12/1848 (Photo credit: The U.S. National Archives)

When it comes to less likely adventure planning, the topographic maps are difficult for me to decipher, so I best like the maps that have highways on them, and cities and towns and parks and cultural activities and historical markers and battlefields and whatnot.  I trace the highways and wonder about the cities, and plan how I would drive from, say, Sienna to Rome, and whether there would be time for a side trip to Naples.  (Italy is one of my favorite maps.)  I look at the railroad lines and markers and think about taking a journey by rail all the way across India (I think it’s still possible to do that; certainly, the map has the little cross-hatched lines that indicate railroads), and what that would be like.  I’ve read novels set in the Raj where the author describes rail cars in which the porter puts a huge block of ice into a pail in the middle of the car so that the passengers will not literally expire from the heat.  I don’t love heat, particularly humid heat, and I wonder whether that would be an adventure or merely an ordeal.

But then, while we can plan adventures by tracing the lines on a map, we can’t really know just from the map whether the journey will be a wonder or an ordeal. One of the nice things about looking at maps and dreaming our adventures is that we can take the journey in imagination and not actually have to get cholera shots or miss connections at the airport or find that the only bathroom is down the hall and always occupied or sit in a railroad car with a block of ice to provide the only air conditioning.  And while there is only so much time (and money) a person can spend traveling, whether in luxury or in intentional (or, as happens more often with travel than we like to think, unintentional) squalor, one can travel anywhere and everywhere in one’s mind.  As long as we have maps.

The ruins of an ancient Chinese watchtower fro...

The ruins of an ancient Chinese watchtower from the Han Dynasty (202 BC – 220 AD), located along what was the old line of rammed-earth fortifications in Dunhuang, Gansu province, China, that once stretched from the Hexi Corridor (in Gansu) to the Tarim Basin (in modern Xinjiang). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Quite a while ago, while waiting for a travel agent to finish with the prior customer, I browsed through the brochures displayed.  One of them, an oversized booklet, was for a company (I’m sure long since defunct) that did ‘adventure’ travel.  Very expensive, as I recall, completely out of my reach.  But one trip I particularly remember was the Silk Road Adventure.  This was before travel was easy or comfortable in the People’s Republic of China and while (I think) the Russians were the current Afghani opponent of choice (not their choice).  So the trip in the brochure consisted of jets (to get to Peking as it was then called), then trains (to follow the China portion of the Silk Road), then a genuine camel caravan (still used then and undoubtedly now to transport goods over the roof of the world), then (I think I recall) hiking with sherpas, and finally a grand finish in Samarkand (still one of the most beautiful place names in the world), after which the traveler, a good deal lighter in the wallet and probably in weight, presumably rejoined the 20th Century.  The maps for the excursion were done in a 19th century style, on a sand-colored background, hand-drawn with tiny pictures of camels and horses and people in burnooses and I traced the route and imagined being part of a caravan on the Silk Road and felt an amazing sense of romance.

I asked for a copy of the brochure and kept it for years, long past its expiration date, and I wish I still had it.  I don’t know whether and how much I would have enjoyed (in the sense that one enjoys the beach at Lahaina, say) the trip, but I wanted to do something that adventurous, that crazy, that really dangerous, and in some part of me, I still do.  So the next place I looked in my atlas after the inspiration provided by Mr. Crowe’s Twitter comment was the Silk Road.  It fills me still with wonder.  People have been moving themselves and their goods back and forth on this trail from the middle East to China for now thousands of years.  It’s rather a boggle to the mind to think of, isn’t it?  Even the words evoke excitement:  camels and howdahs and caravanserai, silks and spices and gold, Persia and Arabia and China.  And it’s all there, right there, on the map as you trace the path.

Silk Road Original text from original uploader...

Silk Road Original text from original uploader: “Extent of Silk Route/Silk Road. Red is land route and the blue is the sea/water route.” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

While I was following the ageless track of the Silk road in the atlas and wondering a bit about which map Mr. Crowe was devouring, I found myself thinking about semantics.  A non sequitur and yet not really.  Semantics is the study of the intersection (or lack of same) between the real world and the words humans use to describe it.  One of the scientific giants in the field was Alfred Korzybski (not a name that one thinks of often, is it?)  He once said (probably more than once, knowing scientific giants):  “The map is not the territory.”  For somebody who loves maps, this is a good thing to remember.  But it’s also a good thing to remember about living life anyway.  You see, you can plan but then the real thing will happen and it usually doesn’t much resemble the plan.  We all make proposed maps of our lives.  And we all find out over and over again that the same thing happens:  we create our carefully planned map, take the first step according to the plan, and then all hell breaks loose.  The road is closed in the only direction we want to go.  Under construction. Isn’t it always?  So we take a detour, and remake the plan to get back to the main road as quickly as possible.  Sometimes the detour works out better for us than the main road.  But other times, not so much.  Because the only bridge on the detour is washed out.  And the towns the detour goes through are nothing like the Paris you just knew you would visit because it was on your map or the New York City you knew you would live in because that was in the plan.  And the people aren’t what you had in mind, either.  Better possibly, more helpful, sometimes not a whole lot of fun.  Probably a lot more interesting.  But not the ones marked on your map.

And all these metaphors for life (John Lennon:  Life is what

English: Alfred Korzybski, Polish philosopher ...

English: Alfred Korzybski, Polish philosopher and scientist. Polski: Alfred Korzybski, inżynier, filozof, matematyk (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

happens while you were making other plans) reflect back to Korzybski’s great metaphor that the map is not the territory.  That the life you find yourself living is not the pretty map you laid out in your teen years or early twenties.  Happens to us all.  So when you’re planning your next trip and drooling over your internal maps showing the historical markers (graduation with the medical degree, say, or a June wedding to the investment banker or, for that matter, the blues musician), and the gorgeous views (that beach in Lahaina, the Eiffel Tower), and the lovely long easy journey over well-marked roads into a happy twilight filled with blissful memories, you might want to remember, just occasionally, that some of the historical markers will have been torn down or never erected, that some views (try the trip from JFK through Queens to Manhattan, sometime) are not gorgeous, and your trip might end abruptly (ouch) or even worse in a long unhappy slog through our medical system.  (Abruptly sounds better, doesn’t it?)  Your real adventure will be in some ways better than your plan because it will be real, but it may not be nearly as beautiful or even as adventurous.  All you can know for sure is that it will be different.  The map is not the territory.

But then again, if maps are not territories, sometimes that’s a really good thing.  Let’s ponder, for a moment, shall we, map edges.  What happens and what do you find between the edge of one map and the beginning of another?  That might be the best place, the biggest adventure, of them all.  In all the old maps, toward the edges where nobody knew what anybody would find because nobody (at least nobody who talked to the mapmakers) knew what was out there, you’ll find enchanting and scary drawings of monsters and the legend “beyond here be dragons.”   And you know what, even if all the places in the map have been filled up with ‘real’ information, there are still dragons out beyond the edge.  All who have ever gone adventuring have their own definitions of what a dragon is before the start of their journeys and a probably much different knowledge of those dragons when (or if) they return.

And if there weren’t dragons, what would be the point of looking at the map, planning or engaging in the adventure?  We look at a map, whether of Africa or Asia or, perhaps, our lives, and we want dragons, we want some enchantment.  (At least while we’re looking at the map.  When we make it real and we’re in New Mexico and tired out, and it’s getting dark and starting to snow, and the dragon turns out to be a luxury hotel that somehow has transmogrified itself into the local no-tell motel, it doesn’t seem quite so enchanting.)  Come to think of it, ‘enchantment is a strange word.  In our modern world it doesn’t mean much more than glitter and a fancy dinner and a long walk by the ocean, I suppose, but to be ‘enchanted’ throughout most of human history was to be under the spell of magic and out of one’s own control.  It usually ended all right in the stories, but it was a hard thing to go through.  Sometimes, maybe, just bad water and not enough food, but not all journeys are about getting from one place to another and you can find some major dragons out there, the kind with very bad breath and extremely sharp teeth.

Regarding old maps with dragons at the edges, it isn’t true that early shipfarers thought they’d fall off the edge of the world as if the world were merely a map, but there were points beyond which they couldn’t and wouldn’t go for many long centuries because of some real problems.  Maps are useless on the ocean.  They call it the trackless sea for a reason.  In order to get from one place to another in a ship when you can’t see any land, you can’t use maps, you have to use something called celestial navigation.  In the long, long ago, that was not easy.  It took a while for navigators to figure out the principle of the compass (at least a compass lets you know in what direction you’re lost) and even longer to find out ways to figure out how far north (or south) you are (I think that’s what an astrolabe is for, or maybe a sextant).  During the day, if there’s no cloud cover, or not too much, you can figure out if you’re going east or west by where the sun is, so long as you have some idea of what time it is.  And at night there are stars (again, cloud cover really messes this up) that from experience you know are in certain apparent directions.  But that doesn’t really help you figure out exactly where east or west (or north or south) is.  And those damned oceans are really damned big.  You can figure (and you’d be right) that if you keep going west, you’re bound to run into something, but look at what happened to Columbus.  And finding land of any kind can take longer than you have food or water.  Oooops.

Map of the Galapagos Archipelago (Best Viewed ...

Map of the Galapagos Archipelago (Best Viewed in “Original” Size) (Photo credit: A.Davey)

All of this circles back to Mr. Crowe because he portrayed (and quite well, too) a ship’s captain in “Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World.”  So he probably knows much more, still, about how those tiny ships navigated those huge oceans than I do or ever will (or want to, because that would mean having to deal with arithmetic).  He knows, I’m sure, that ship navigators did (and do) use maps of a sort, which they call charts, because on them they chart their current position from the last known place using the compass, sextant, astrolabe and other instruments of navigation.  Thus, they could chart (more or less, usually less, exactly) where they were at any given moment.  GPS is a lot easier, but where’s the adventure in that?  After all, while you may fall off the edge of the world or get eaten by dragons, at least insofar as the world you left behind would know, you also might find a magical new place that up to now only its inhabitants knew existed.  For a long time, Tahiti was just a myth and that’s how the sailors wanted to keep it.

Another thing about maps.  They provide not only a picture of a place, but a moment in time. There is a romance to old maps that GPS or any other kind of modern navigational aid simply does not have.  Among the fascinations of the early United States map I have (the picture is at the top of the essay and I apologize for the light bloom from the flash) is that its primary inset map is of the Gold Fields in California!  A statement about what was important when the map was published.  In 1853, people were still pouring into northern California by the thousands to look for riches, fighting all the dragons in their way.

Map of Middle-Earth (hi-res)

Map of Middle-Earth (hi-res) (Photo credit: NightRStar)

Finally, there are the imaginary maps created to help us trace the journeys of our heroes in their fantastic worlds:  Middle Earth, Fionavar, Erewhon, the map of London showing 221B Baker Street, the map of Odysseus’ travels, even the nine circles of hell mapped in the Divine Comedy (so-called because it had a happy ending).  Now there’s a map filled with dragons!  When I was little (or littler, at least), I used to make up maps, creating islands and seas and rivers, places to find my adventure and fight my dragons.  Now, of course, the map of the real world seems to have more than enough dragons, and charting a course through the mystical maps of my plans and dreams truly the adventure of a lifetime.

NSRW Map of Australia

NSRW Map of Australia (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So what maps am I looking at to plan adventures now?  Well, as I said, I’m a follower of Russell Crowe, so I am learning about Australia by, among other things, looking at maps and planning adventures.  Sydney is way more south than I thought it was.  That’s one thing I’ve learned about it.  And it’s bigger.  The harbour (that’s how it’s spelled) is beautiful.  Everybody has seen the pictures of the Sydney Opera House at the edge of the water there.  Gorgeous!  There are other big cities on the east coast, Brisbane and Melbourne being two of them.  Australia does have mountains, which I found surprising.  By the way, they call lakes lagoons.  And they call their back country  the bush. (For a long time, I visualized this as a kind of great plains as I would know them in Colorado, with bushes about six feet high dotted about, but that’s not what they mean when they say ‘the bush’.  They mean what Coloradans do when we talk about the woods or the high country or the boonies–it’s simply the Australian term for empty as opposed to developed land.) They’ve got a lot of bush:  the major portion of Australia still looks, according to the maps, like the Great American Desert in maps of the United States in the 19th Century.   They apparently call this GABA, which means “Great Australian Bugger All.”  Hmmmnh.  Adventure?  Or just a hot ordeal?  Well, I can plan all the adventures Australia can offer but still not know what it’s like to be there from a page in an atlas.  And after all, because Mr. Crowe is looking at his own maps and planning his own adventures, he might not be willing to be my tour guide on an adventure (or an ordeal) in Australia.  That could be scary, because he could help.  After all, there might be dragons.

Old map

Old map (Photo credit: Photoshop Roadmap)

Vote! (Early and Often)

Voting

Voting (Photo credit: League of Women Voters of California)

For the humor-impaired (and at this end of the election season, there are a lot of us, especially me), the title is a very old joke, actually based on the sad truth that the votees in days long past would do anything up to and including finding, registering and voting citizens then residing in the cemetery in order to win.  Ahem.  Of course that doesn’t happen these days.  Never, ever, ever.  (That being said with a straight face, which was hard, nothing really changes about human nature.)

But while this post is, as always, about human nature (I’m a human, or so I’m told, so everything I write is from that perspective), and while I promised not to write about politics (oh yeah, right), it is mostly about voting and about doing so, once only of course, on Election Day (or if you’re lucky enough to get a mail-in ballot, as soon as you get it).

So, we’ll be discussing two broad categories relating to voting.  The first encompasses what voting is, how it came about and what it’s supposed to do.  The second is why you should vote.

As usual, I’ll start, as a professor of mine once complained, from the egg.  If history bores you, please go ahead and skip this part.

Human beings started out in very very very small groups.  It is estimated by anthropologists that the first tribes of human beings back in Africa numbered from 40 to no more than 150 individuals each.  They  made their living nomadically, by hunting animals and gathering other foodstuffs; they had very few possessions but had rich languages and oral histories.  In such a small group, true consensus was possible, especially considering that in these groups, the tribe was far more important than any individual in it.

Nomadic Camping

Nomadic Camping (Photo credit: Hamed Saber)

As time passed, hunter-gatherer tribes gradually morphed into small and then larger migratory hunting and herding tribes or into sedentary agricultural tribes.  Depending on the circumstances, the “big man” began to make his appearance.  The big man would bargain with others in the tribe to work for him, tending his crops and herds, in exchange for protection from other tribes, the elements, and the demons or inimical gods.  He got either a percentage of everything the others created or, more likely, most of it.  I would imagine that the others entering into this bargain believed it to be a kind of insurance policy against the hazards of living.  The original bargain would have been one on one with each tribesman.  But as time went on, descendants lost the ability to survive on their own as work became more specialized.  In addition, such descendants often would discover that great-great-great grandpa’s bargain with the big man involved their own loss of freedom of movement and that of their children, in apparent perpetuity.  And so the big man, in consultation with his priests and generals and administrators, made all the decisions for the tribe.  Until, of course, another big man came in with more troops and better gods and more or less mopped up Mesopotamia with the first big man as the mop.  Allegiance by the tribespeople would be switched, forcibly, to the new big man.  Hopefully, at least a few of them would survive the excitement.

None of this sounds very much like voting, and it isn’t.  The original bargain would have been a business decision made between relative equals.  After the decision was agreed upon, of course, one party would find that equality was indeed very relative and that somebody had pulled a fast one.

This evolving form of government led to kingship.  Oddly enough, kingship often did use a kind of voting.  For most of human history (in the Mediterranean basin at least–China, India and the Americas had different ways of developing their sophisticated civilizations), it was by no means a given that a son or daughter would succeed his or her father as king or chieftain or pharaoh or whatever.  The generals, nobles, administrators, priests and other highs and mighties would have a say in who became the next king upon the defeat or incompetence or death of the current king.  That is, a vote.

By the way, the term “queen” was a dynastic and companionate term, meaning primarily that the children of such a designated person were legitimate children of the monarch.  Rulers were kings.  Even if they were female.  While it happened seldom, females did succeed to thrones.  For the most part, sadly, after the hunter-gatherer period, most tribes and civilizations, while honoring the female principle more greatly than they would later, thought of women as dynastic necessities and, at best, personal companions.  And didn’t I put that nicely.

David and Saul

David and Saul (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Considering tribal chieftains becoming kings, in the Bible, there is the story of Saul and David.  Saul was chosen by God to be king over Israel.  Now, Saul, like any proper king at this time, had a harem, not just as a perquisite, but as a necessity of diplomacy and government.  Obviously, he had sons and probably many more of them than were ever listed in the texts.  But instead of any of those sons, the next king was David, also chosen by God, to rule over Israel and make of it an empire.  Was this “voting?”  If you assume that God had the biggest vote, yes, it was.  The generals, administrators, and whatnot had to agree with God’s choice.  Whether they voted with their feet (by this I mean either moving across a line in the dust to stand with or against David or what we mean now by that phrase of leaving town and not letting the gates hit them on the rumps as they did so) or with differently colored pieces of rock, or with force of arms, they voted and David became and stayed king.  For the most part, in these situations, the vote took place once and was not called a “vote”.  Moreover, after the procedure that ratified the kingship, those that voted against him probably did not fare so well.

(Eventually, in societies that voted in any sense at all, this realization of the consequences to those that voted against the winner led to the idea of the secret ballot, first usually done with black and white pieces of rock (we still use the term to “blackball” somebody), and later by voting booths and ballots with no names on them and so forth.  We’re still struggling with this issue, by the way, especially as we get into a more and more electronic age.  Those that win want to minimize the numbers of those that vote against them.  Those that lose want to convert more voters and all those being voted upon think knowing who is doing what would be useful and convenient.  But the original problem remains.  The consequences of voting “wrong” can still be anything from mildly annoying (more political phone calls anyone?) to dire (no bridge for your town, sonny!).)

A little more history, and, if you’re lucky, a little less commentary.

The School of Athens - fresco by Raffaello San...

The School of Athens – fresco by Raffaello Sanzio (w) Español: La escuela de Atenas. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

One of the reasons that we honor Greece is that at least one of the city states that made up the country–the City of Athens–was one of the first known (or at least the first written about) civilizations that, for part of its history, has citizens that routinely voted on the issues of city government.   While this was very nice, it didn’t last for long.  Most of Athens’ history consisted of tyranny (which term simply meant that one person ran the place and thus didn’t have the negative connotation it does now–although some of the tyrants that ran the place helped give the word its current meaning).   But yes, the first true democracy we know of (or that I know of, at any rate) took place in Athens.  In this sense, “democracy” has a limited technical meaning of rule by everyone entitled to vote.  Now, getting real, this didn’t mean every person who lived in Athens.  Only citizens (those male Greek persons born or naturalized into the city–and usually only those that owned property) could vote and thus only citizens could have a voice in the running of the city-state.  It wasn’t a very large number of people and the theory, or so we are told, is that all of them would gather in the agora (marketplace) and everything, absolutely everything, of concern to the government of Athens would be put to the vote of the citizens and the majority would rule.  (I would imagine that simply for convenience’s sake they would first vote for a person who would run the meeting.)  So, everything from when and if to attack Sparta again to upping that pesky tax on sandals would be literally voted on by all citizens at the meeting.  Even with the few entitled to vote, it must have been quite cumbersome.

And, as happens so often in such cases, the citizens began to be not quite so noble, reverent, thrifty and brave as they had used to be.  They started voting for higher taxes for non-citizens and for such things as hiring mercenaries to fight their wars for them.   And so Athens’ experiment in democracy devolved (or evolved) into the citizens voting for a tyrant (see above) who would make many of these decisions for them, thus letting them actually get on with their symposia or supervising their crops and protecting them from their own tendencies to vote in ways that would be bad for Athens even if good for the citizens individually.  And then, of course, the tyrant realized that the current state of emergency (there was always and there always will be a convenient current state of emergency) meant that a change of leadership would be dangerous for the community, so the voting process became, shall we say, redundant.

Rome

Rome (Photo credit: Moyan_Brenn_BE_BACK_on_10th_OCT)

Rome is the next example in the civics textbooks.  We are told that when Rome was young, before Julius Caesar and Mark Antony and Octavian and others like them, Rome was a republic.  The term “republic” means that citizens (notice a theme here?) vote not directly, but through representatives (in Rome called Senators) to handle the reins of government.  This turned out to be somewhat less cumbersome than direct democracy, but since one voted for a person who then might go to the Senate and vote only his own interests, not those of his constituents, it was slightly south of perfect.  Obviously, however, in Rome as in various republics from that day to this (including our own because our form of government is, I believe, considered to be a representative democracy, which is basically what “republic” means), prospective or current Senators facing re-election would attempt to get the citizens to vote for them instead of their challengers, using all the forms (from bread and circuses to promises of more major goodies that may or may not be kept) of campaigning that we have used ever since.

But, and this is unfortunate, representative democracy has as much potential for corruption and self-interest as direct democracy (oh well, it has less opportunity for corruption than monarchy, tyranny or dictatorship).  Representative democracy, just like direct democracy, has a tendency to devolve (or evolve) into something more “efficient”.  In Rome’s case, this more efficient government came about almost without notice because the Senate grew weaker as the military grew stronger.  Eventually, Julius Caesar, the general, was “elected” by the Senate as First Consul of Rome.  I used quotes around the word “elected” because Caesar had all the armies and I would imagine he ordered their spears pointed directly at the Senate chamber.  Please note that he was not elected Emperor and never actually called himself that.  That came with his successor, Caesar Augustus, Octavian that was, one of the men who conspired at his assassination.  In any event, the Senate remained to “advise and consent” (a position that they technically, according to the United States Constitution, still hold today in our country, among their other duties), but they lost the power to overturn or modify, except through persuasion, any of the Emperor’s dicta.

Cicero Denounces Catiline

Cicero Denounces Catiline (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Isn’t this fun?  So voting as such once again disappeared except as a kind of formality.  And as Rome declined (it didn’t fall at once and people still considered themselves citizens of Rome and under its protection until nearly 800 ad), tribes once again made their appearance in government in Europe.  Interestingly, for quite some time, in the Celtic and Germanic tribes that moved and settled all over Europe, a form of voting once again became a prominent part of government.  A chieftain would be acclaimed (which is a kind of vote, if very public) by his warriors and would run both the civil and military government of the tribe until his death or incompetence.  At that point, perhaps his son would be supported by a faction as the next chieftain, or perhaps it might be his daughter or nephew, or (and this was equally likely) it might be his greatest rival, or that rival’s son, nephew, brother or sister.  Particularly in Celtic tribes, there seems to have been no huge distinction between men and women in terms of their ability to lead a warrior band or run a village, so a sister, niece, wife or daughter might have been chosen.

It would be arrogant and mistaken to assume that these tribes and consortiums of tribes were primitive, barbaric, savage.  Well, okay, they were savage, but then again everybody was.  Most of the tribes wandering around Europe as Rome declined kept in very close communication with Rome.  Many of their nobles and upper classes, at least, spoke Latin.  As Christianity spread, many of the tribes became Christian.  Literacy, while not at the level it would have been in Rome during the first period of Rome’s empire, was not so completely lacking as we have been led to suppose.  Much was lost, of course, and the dark ages were dark in many ways, partially because as Rome pulled back into its own peninsula, the Pax Romana disappeared and the roads were no longer safe.  One was better off piling up rocks into a defensive formation soon to be called a castle and pull up the early equivalent of the drawbridge.  And the warrior chieftains slowly became barons, or earls, and, sometimes, kings (although kings often had less actual power than their chief earls).

img_1007

Early Castle

The form of government most often adopted during the period of the middle ages has been called feudalism, although it might be better to use the term vassalage (which may not be spelled correctly, I’ve primarily heard it used in lectures in my history courses).  A “vassal” was somebody, usually a knight or above (meaning either a single horseman or a chieftain who had more than one horseman under his command) who owed fealty to a higher noble.  “Fealty” means exactly the bargain struck by the big man in the earliest civilizations with his tribesmen — do ABC for me and I will do XYZ for you.  Usually, this meant “fight forty days per year (the usual contract more honored in the breach than in the observance) for me and I will protect your lands from invasion and see to it that the roads are kept open so you can send your cattle to market.”  How does voting matter in all of this?  In many ways.  For example, King John, whose barons rebelled because John was raping every part of the countryside of Merrie Olde England (I’ve been watching Ridley Scott’s  “Robin Hood” wherein Russell Crowe truly kicks butt) for more and more revenue and destroying thereby the revenue sources of the barons themselves, could tell you.  He was forced to sign Magna Carta, which became the basis of many of the principles that have subsequently been voted in to protect the rights of anybody who wasn’t a king.  Let’s not get carried away and assume in ANY of these situations that anybody cared about the rights of those lowest in the hierarchy, by the way.  As I said somewhere above, human nature has not changed.  However, in any event, the barons definitely voted amongst themselves to rebel, to present the King with this document, and force him (because they had most of the knights at arms, the longbowmen, and what was left of the money) to sign it and like it.  (By the way, he apparently repudiated his signature, but there it was, for all who could read it to see.)

Charles I of England

Charles I of England (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

After that, it was a see-saw kind of thing between the kings, who claimed the divine right to rule from Charlemagne and past him, directly from God, to the barons and later the bourgeoisie who kept on voting, sometimes with ballot boxes and sometimes with weapons, to limit the power of the ruler without actually eliminating said ruler.  That is until, first in England, when Charles I left the throne in two pieces, head severed from his body, and second, for our purposes, the U.S., where we voted, first by our representatives to what we called Congress (the Continental Congress that declared war on England), and then by our militia, to get rid of King George III, at least his influence, and, most memorably (for Europe at least), in France where they got rid of an entire ruling dynasty which had pillaged the country for hundreds of years.   Or least started with them.  By the time the Terror had run its course, it’s amazing there was anybody left who could read and write.  All starting with votes.

Now it sounds very nice, doesn’t it, because it means the people have spoken.  Remember, above, where I talked about “citizens”?  In all of these cases, nobody thought it was a good idea for everybody to have one vote and for votes to be counted, willy-nilly, and the winner takes all.  My heavens, in that event, women could vote, horrors, and almost as bad, people who didn’t own property could vote, and you know they’d vote themselves all sorts of things that belong to the power structure, the landed gentry, the business owners, the people who count, who understand what’s what.  Women could vote themselves things like personal human rights, even to the use of their own inherited or earned money.  People who didn’t have property could vote that property be spread around a little better or at least that the property owners might have to pay more tax.  In either event, what’s the country coming to?

More than that, during the French Revolution, which came closer than any other modern state to a true democracy, the choice of the electorate (and/or “mob”) was to lop off the heads of anybody above them in the food chain.  This did not bode well.  And the United States (and all of Europe) took the lesson.

So let’s concentrate on us, or the U.S.   The vote, or suffrage as it is called, and I have no idea why, has always been a part of our way of government.  Of course, those of us who were already here, that is, the Native Americans who got here first, had their own ways of governing themselves.  And in any event, their choices didn’t count.  (By the way, another theme that keeps cropping up is the one where the way I do things is civilized and proper and ordinary and the way you do things is savage and barbaric and must be stopped.  We did that with the Native Americans and are still doing that with countries all over the world.  Ooops.  I sort of promised this wasn’t going to be political.  I lied.)  In New Hampshire to this day, the town meeting is the basic unit of government and actually IS, as far as anything can be these days, a true democracy in that all citizens of the town have a vote on all aspects of governance.  As populations grew in the colonization of north America, true democracies did not flourish; they couldn’t, the meetings, discussions and yelling would simply get too difficult to organize.  Representative democratic forms began to be used, and congresses, assemblies and parliaments to be elected, eventually coming to the notice of that big Parliament across the pond, in London, and to the notice of old King George, who didn’t like what he was hearing.  We here in the U.S. fought a revolution (okay, only partially, there were a lot of other less high-flown and noble reasons) so that the big Parliament couldn’t tell us what to do.

One of the primary grievances was that little nuisance called “taxation without representation.”  This is did not mean that we, meaning colonists (male and white and property owners, of course) in the Americas did not want to pay any taxes (well, of course they didn’t, but they recognized, more than some folk today, that government has a function and requires funds to operate and again I’m talking politics).  No, they did not want to pay taxes while not having any say either in what taxes they were required to pay, the amount of tax, or what was done with the monies gathered by such means.  The Tea Party of today perhaps has moved beyond the reason given very publicly by the original Tea Party that took place so long ago in Boston.  That Tea Party was convened because the English Parliament raised a prohibitive tax on tea (which was always imported because it didn’t then and it doesn’t now grow in the continental United States) to fund its perpetual and ongoing war with France.  Not only did this tax on tea unfairly target certain segments of the population except the poorest (who couldn’t afford tea anyway), nobody here in the colonies had any input whatsoever in creating the tax on tea or passing it or implementing it.  Nor did the colonies like the growing idea that the colonies and only the colonies (which had no quarrel with that country) were going to be paying for the entire damned war England was fighting with France.  The rebellion’s kindling point was that simple, although there was a lot of fuel for the blaze, things that had to do with other taxes, with tariffs, and with other governance that didn’t directly touch on taxation.  But mostly, it was about not having any representatives in Parliament, which meant not getting to VOTE about whether to institute a tax and not getting to VOTE about how much the tax would be and not getting to VOTE about how tax revenues were to be spent.

Constitution of the United States of America

Constitution of the United States of America (Photo credit: The U.S. National Archives)

So there.  So we became a country, and the vote was enshrined, as they say, in the Constitution, with a lot of compromises and, believe me, I’m not even going to touch the Electoral College in this or any other essay.  And it was still limited to white male property owners who were citizens.  Period.

Over the next couple of hundred years, it took wars and riots and demonstrations and constitutional amendments to get the franchise (another way of saying the vote) to all citizens who had not been convicted of a felony.  It was less than 100 years ago, no kidding, that women were finally enfranchised.  Less than 100 years.  Various laws and constitutional amendments have made it very clear (and very annoying to those who want the vote to go only to those people who are likely to vote for them) that one cannot require anything of a potential voter except citizenship, a clean police record (at the felony level) and an age limit (which is now set by law at eighteen).  One does not have to be literate.  One does not have to speak English.  One does not have to own property.  One does not have to declare a gender, a sexual preference, a political party (except for primary elections), anything except citizenship, freedom from present or prior incarceration, and age, to vote.  This has been hard-fought and nearly lost many many times, not just in the history of the world but in the history of our country.  It has been most recently on the block in what are called “battleground states” where public officials have passed laws restricting the franchise by requiring various kinds of “proof” that the potential voter is a citizen, such proof being an onerous and unfair burden on certain groups amazingly likely to vote for the other guy.  The courts have mostly shot this down.  But it is still possible for future elections.

And there we are.

Vote!

Vote! (Photo credit: Steve Rhodes)

So now, let’s talk about why it’s important to vote, apart from the constant bubbling up of the issue, its twisting to suit certain groups, even its suppression, apart, if anything can be said to be apart, from the basic rightness of all human beings living in this world having some kind of say in how they are governed and what sort of lives they will live.

First, it is one of the very few duties or responsibilities that the Constitution of the United States asks of its citizenry.  Of course, it is not a requirement.   One of the primary principles of the vote is that it is up to the individual citizen whether or not to exercise it.  Other than obeying the laws of duly constituted governmental bodies, citizens of our country have it rather easy compared to those of many other nation states, especially since congress ended the draft a while ago.  Nobody HAS to sign up to be in a militia, nobody HAS to take part in work gangs to build public monuments or repair roads.  We are supposed to obey laws, stop at traffic lights, and, if we want to, vote.  This doesn’t seem like too much to ask.

Second, and even more important, read my not-too-well abbreviated and biased history, above.  The vote is not granted from above.  In fact, wherever people have had the vote, they have had to fight and work to keep it, because those they empowered by voting them into office had a brutal and constant tendency to turn themselves into kings or tyrants no longer subject to the vote.  Voting is something that the people fight for and must keep fighting for or it is lost.

Third, if you don’t vote, you really don’t get to complain about the government that happens to you after that election day.  I remember once long ago when Nixon was president, a little something called Watergate happened.  There was a bumper sticker I almost put on my car (I don’t do bumper stickers any more than I do T-shirts with funny slogans on them) that stated “Don’t blame me, I voted for McGovern”.  I did vote for McGovern (there were three of us, I think, his wife and his vice-presidential candidate being the other two and I’m not sure about the candidate).  But those who don’t vote, well, they don’t get to say that the president or their congressman or their senator or their governor sucks.  They had a chance to vote the bums out and didn’t take it.

And fourth, in answer to those who say that their vote won’t count, just one vote, so why bother, I read recently that in the last presidential election, in Colorado, the vote went to Obama by the narrowest possible margin in each county.  Your vote does count.  It could be the one vote that tips the balance.  How do you know it won’t?  I do know that if you don’t vote and are eligible to vote, you are one of the reasons why this country is in the shape it’s in.  I’m not suggesting that we have the best of choices in front of us, from local magistrate up to President of the United States.  We have the choices we have.  But if we do not make them, if we do not vote, the quality of people who will run will continue to deteriorate and it will all get worse until it begins to seem almost reasonable to simply let a tyrant take over and run things, for “efficiency’s” sake.  And historically, although it may take hundreds of years, that never seems to work out real well.

Vote!  And by your vote let your elected representatives know what you want for this country.  Oddly, even when I disagree with your views, I want you to exercise your vote.  God knows, I could be wrong.  (Sigh.  It happens much more often than I like to admit.)  And our country, the United States of America, which is based on the idea that the majority of people have the right, the privilege and even the reason to move the U.S. in the direction the majority believes to be best, will undoubtedly survive if I am wrong.  I hope.

Vote!

No-excuse early voting in U.S. states, as of S...

No-excuse early voting in U.S. states, as of September 2007. in-person and postal in-person only postal only none (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Manners

Although I’m not sure I want to reveal this to the world, I read etiquette books for entertainment.  I have a collection of them, the earliest published in in the 1870s, the latest Miss Manners‘ new revision published in 2005.  This is part of my interest in history, because etiquette books help me understand now just how people actually behaved, but how they thought they should behave.  And sometimes, these old books give some form of insight into why.  Furthermore, reading a series of such books over time lets us know the human behaviors that have actually changed, and those that haven’t.

Judith Martin (aka Miss Manners) upon receipt ...

Judith Martin (aka Miss Manners) upon receipt of the 2005 National Humanities Medal (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

If books about the proper use of forks, leaving of cards, and methods of introductions seem a strange source for any such insights, I can only suggest you try reading them.  Just as laws prohibiting something (running red lights, for example) are only promulgated if a lot of people are doing the prohibited action, rules of etiquette behave the same way.  An etiquette book will only write that is is rude or boorish to use the tablecloth as a handkerchief if people are using tablecloths to wipe their noses (which is a really disgusting thought, isn’t it?).    And today’s etiquette books don’t even mention using the tablecloth in such a fashion because apparently the shame of it all finally changed the behavior.

On the other hand, every etiquette book I’ve ever read has long, long, long treatises on training children into the civilized pretence that they’re grateful you came to their birthday party, and that the present is a surprise and delighted in not because it’s the latest toy but because it was so thoughtfully given.  Apparently, human nature is not going to change that fundamentally.

Historically, the role of etiquette in human life apparently has been twofold:  the first, to make it possible for humans to live in social groups without decimating each other; and the second, to help us in the task of arranging our societies hierarchically (that is, to know who is on the same level as we are and to keep the arrivistes out).  But even more basic than that, humans do not have a built-in set of instincts or hard-wired behaviors to help us live in groups, such as gazelles do, or dogs or even gorillas.  Moreover, we live in social groups much larger and more complicated than our DNA was designed to handle.  Even now, it is noticeably difficult for anthropologists to determine whatever social behaviors come “naturally” to humans, even those living in small groups.  So laws are necessary for us, and religious and moral systems, and etiquette.  All civilizations have systems of etiquette, just as they do laws and religions, and all are designed to, well, control human behavior.

So let’s look at the two reasons given above for the use of etiquette in our lives.  The first makes rules from the simplest (when walking up or downstairs, keep to the right) to the most complex (one leaves one of your own calling cards and two of your husband’s when making morning calls) in order to make living in groups of people larger than one’s family, well, easier.  If we all more or less keep to the right when climbing or descending stairs, we get to the subway platform faster (which allows us more time to wait for the subway, but no system is perfect).  The calling card issue, while out of date in today’s world, and too complex even when it wasn’t out of date, does have a logical basis.  Married women (with their marriageable daughters) made the “morning” calls (always made in the afternoon).  They left one of their own cards, sometimes if they had a daughter with her name penciled on it, for the lady of the house to keep, they left one of their husband’s cards (it was assumed he had far more interesting (or at least less boring) things to do with his time than make morning calls) for the lady of the house, and one of their husband’s cards for the gentleman of the house (it was considered rude for a lady to leave a card for a gentleman for obvious but never overtly mentioned reasons that the only possible relationship between a lady and a gentleman not of her own family was, ahem, romantic).  Thus, the husband was taking part in social life without being bothered (which was what he probably had in mind) and all the recipients had bits of pasteboard with names and addresses on them from which to make up their invitation lists.

In High-Change in Bond Street (1796), James Gi...

In High-Change in Bond Street (1796), James Gillray caricatured the lack of courtesy on Bond Street, which was a grand fashionable milieu at the time. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

All of this sounds so arcane and ridiculous to us, doesn’t it?  But it has its present day analogues.  Morning calls became incredibly elaborate, but their original function was to stay in touch with those one wanted to remain friends with, become friends with, or social climb to be friends with.  Today, we use Facebook, Twitter, email, texting, even the incredibly outdated telephone call, to do the same thing.  All this kind of technology we use in our iPhones, iPads and computers today was first created in order to facilitate and ease the human need to stay connected with friends, acquaintances, and whatnot.  It is hard to even imagine today how isolated a family would be in its own house before the invention of the telephone.  What other way then getting out of one’s own house, walking or riding or taking a cart or coach to somebody else’s house and then physically “calling” upon them would there be to maintain one’s friendships before the telephone?  When “calling” first started, even writing a letter was a major issue (some very fine people couldn’t write, some postal systems were dreadful, and postage costs were very high–in eras when a penny bought a loaf of bread, to send a letter cost a penny or more).  And, by the way, it was called a “morning” call because until the 1820s or so, “morning” was all day from arising until dinner–people didn’t usually eat lunch, and “afternoon” as a concept didn’t really get started until the 19th Century.  (This is reflected even in our Bible, where in Genesis the narrator says “and the evening and the morning made the first day.”

I’ve gotten off track.  My point (and, to quote Ellen DeGeneres, I do have one) is that, however simple or elaborate, however common-sensical or ridiculous, the system of etiquette in general and most of its rules in particular are designed to both ease and codify the way we humans behave in groups.  Etiquette is designed to supplement law and morality and to handle those small items of human contact that don’t rise to thou shalt not kill.  Rather, they remain on the level of one just simply does not spit on the sidewalk.  (This, by the way, is a rule that I wish was more honored in the observance than the breach.)

The second use of etiquette is or can be considerably less benign.  Humans, no matter how right or wrong each considers the concept, live in hierarchies.  Even in the most liberal and free of countries, there are hierarchies, some more or less codified, some simply feeling “natural.”  The hierarchies in some countries seem cruelly limiting and immovable to our eyes, those in others may seem so nearly invisible that the country approaches anarchy, but they are always there except in the simplest hunter-gatherer groups (where the principle of hierarchy is anathema and any attempts by any tribe member to behave exceptionally in order to get exceptional treatment is shamed).  Part of this makes sense, as it did to Samuel Johnson, who said (testily, as he said most things) that the idea that the highest ranking person went through a door first was not snobbish but merely practical, designed to get the show on the road (that is a very loose paraphrase of what he said, by the way).  He does has a point.  Although I would say most of us in the United States would not agree with it in principle, there does need to be an order to things.  In the past, in terms of etiquette, the order was often from the top down.  What made it unfair to our eyes was that the people who did the ordering were almost always those sitting at the top or at least those who could convince others they were sitting at the top.  Usually this was not done, at least originally, in any mannerly fashion but by simple force of arms.  After that, of course, the hierarchy was ordained by God and that was all there was to it.  Many of us in the modern era find this rather suspicious, especially given the words of our several religious heritages, most of which state that the humble are quite as important as the, well, important.

Be that as it may, humans were never very good at accepting the idea of a hierarchy unless that human was at the top or could reach it, and so etiquette began to perform a double function.  First, the people on top elaborated their etiquette, as they elaborated their clothes, to distinguish themselves from the upstarts crowding in on them from underneath.  Second, the people underneath (those upstarts) began to copy the manners they perceived in their supposed social betters so they were less distinguishable from the ones on top.  This became quite a race starting in the late Middle Ages when trade and the creation of wealth from other means than plunder got started again.  Its most amusing and appalling recrudescence from our point of view is probably that of sumptuary laws, which defined what each segment of society could actually wear.  Believe me, this was not much of an issue in the Dark Ages, because nobody had good-looking clothes.  But once it was possible to import fine wool or even silk, it became a major THING.  There were even laws in Parliament distinguishing what a middle-class tradesman’s wife could wear (boring black and dark colors with high necks and long sleeves) and what the Earl could wear (silks, velvets, ermine, furs, jewels).  This might seem to some to be as limiting for the Earl as for the tradesman’s wife, but it probably was more galling to the latter than the former, especially when the tradesman became the chief of his guild and had more money than the Earl down county whose castle was falling down.

Why were clothes so important?  Because how else do you determine if somebody is SOMEBODY or just folks?  As Russell Crowe expounded in a recent movie “Robin Hood”, what is the difference between a knight and one of his men-at-arms?  Well, primarily the horse, because nobody but knights could afford them, but also the fact that the knight wore chain mail and tunics in the colors of his heraldry, while the man-at-arms wore coarsest wool in dark colors.  So anybody, whether low or high on the hierarchy, could tell literally at a glance who was who and who was where simply by what they were wearing.  (This seems really odd to us because except at weddings and suchlike, most of us wear jeans and t-shirts (or would like to, even when we can’t), no matter what rung of the social ladder we’re clinging to at the moment.)

Knights of the Temple II

Knights of the Temple II (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Oddly enough, this has repercussions to this day.  Certain professions have uniforms, sometimes explicitly so, sometimes simply an unwritten compact.  Beat cops and traffic patrolmen wear uniforms, as do all members of the military on duty.  So do janitors, usually, and doctors and nurses.  Laboratory technicians wear lab coats, insignia of their profession, while supreme court justices and district judges wear judicial robes, insignia of theirs.  The members of church choirs wear robes, too, their uniform.  And we all know a lawyer or accountant when we see one, because they always dress (whatever their gender) in business suits.  There are many reasons for uniforms, but they all are based in the simple problem of recognition of a professional or social group by those not members of that group (or even by other members of the group).  Doctors wear scrubs because their own clothes are less sanitary or at least less easy to keep sanitary, but the scrubs are relatively uniform in appearance so we can all tell when we’re in the emergency room which is the woman who’s actually going to stop the bleeding.  Some uniforms become amazingly complex and dazzling (look at the picture of a general in the Marine Corps one day and you’ll see what I mean), while others stay simple or become more simple through time (those judicial robes are the descendants in spirit of the elaborate churchly or noble robes of the Renaissance).  I suppose there could be a rather sniffy moral to be drawn at which uniforms get fancier and which don’t, but I’m reaching the end of this essay and I’d rather not be sniffy anyway.

Again, uniforms and sumptuary laws are an example of the use of etiquette as a means of organizing society vertically, as it were, just as rules like not touching the water fountain with your mouth help to organize social groups horizontally to make life simpler, easier, more elegant and more pleasant for everybody in an equal way.  Etiquette has gotten a bad name over the centuries for the vertical organization, because it is basically not fair or equal.  Unfortunately, for many of us, we’ve thrown the baby out with the bath water and decided all etiquette was wrong or limiting or constricting because some etiquette has been used to exclude.  Which results in a lot of spitting on the sidewalk, attempting to go up stairs which are filled side to side with people descending them, making ascent impossible, and such outrageous situations as no more morning calls.

Manual on Courtly Etiquette, Volume 10 (稿本北山抄,...

Manual on Courtly Etiquette, Volume 10 (稿本北山抄, kōhon Hokuzanshō) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

An Exploration of Envy

A few weeks ago, I posted a blog about one of the seven deadly sins:  sloth.  As I said then, I planned to revisit these sins, at least in my blog, if not in actuality.  And then move on to the seven cardinal virtues if I ever found out what those were.  So today’s post explores the sin of envy.

First, it’s rather interesting that the sin is envy rather than jealousy, a state of mind with which envy is often confused.

The Seven Deadly Sins (ca. 1620) - Envy

Envy--Image via Wikipedia

Jealousy is defined as:

1.  resentment against a rival, a person enjoying success or advantage, etc., or against another’s success or advantage itself.
2.  mental uneasiness from suspicion or fear of rivalry, unfaithfulness, etc., as in love or aims.
3.  vigilance in maintaining or guarding something.

Envy is defined as:

1.  a feeling of discontent or covetousness with regard to another’s advantages, success, possessions, etc.

The first definition of jealousy and that of envy, I think, is where the confusion reigns.  But the basics are clear.  Envy is a feeling of wanting what someone else has, something one does not have oneself, while jealousy is more a fear of losing what one has or resentment about what somebody else has.

So, heavens above, when envy’s very definition is more benign than jealousy’s, why in the world is envy the sin?  Perhaps it has to do with the fact that in scripture, God states that he/she/it/them/whatnot is “a jealous God.”  I presume this means in the third sense of the definition of jealousy, that of guarding vigilantly.  So, perhaps it would be kind of difficult to name jealousy a sin if God is proud of being jealous.

But since it’s envy that’s the sin, let’s explore it.  In the first place, aware all my life that envy is a sin, I have worked not to envy other people’s lives or possessions.  This works about as well for me as it probably works for you or anybody who isn’t Mother Theresa or the Dalai Lama.  Oh,  come on, of course I envy those people, whether they are my friends or strangers, who much more effortlessly than I maintain a slim figure; or those whose health and fitness leaves mine in the dust (literally, usually); or those with better taste, greater talent, more attention from the world, better publicists, a publisher, an agent, a close friendship with Ridley Scott, prettier things, better clothes, more money, and a greater ability to attract the close, ahem, romantic attention of the gender they prefer.  Or an Oscar.  And when some competitive specific something takes place, such as a writing contest, I envy the winner (which I almost never am).  And these feelings can make me miserable, at least for a while.

What does that mean, then, for me?  That envy is an awareness of what I lack, whether that be a thing, a person, a character trait, an opportunity, or a place in the world.  That I, for the time I feel envious, feel lacking, feel less than.  So it’s an uncomfortable emotion, one I don’t enjoy, one which taints my world.  And one which results in, usually, a sequence of mental and emotional events.  The first event is, of course, a deep desire to wrap myself and a tub of Haagen-Daaz (rum raisin for choice) in my warmest comforter and watch old movies without really seeing them.  Done judicially, this is not the worst possible response to an envy crisis (in my case, I don’t eat sweets, so some gluten-free crackers and hummus usually substitutes for the ice cream and I’m more often likely to read a Georgette Heyer novel than watch an old movie, but the principle is the same).  At least, it’s not the worst response if you unwrap the comforter and stop eating the treat at least about the time the movie ends or you finish the novel.  Cocooning in this fashion for much longer than that unfortunately has a tendency to become the problem, rather than address it.

The second event, in my case, is usually a long out-loud monologue (one of the advantages of living by myself) while taking a hot bath in which I denounce everyone or anyone who has what I wanted, explaining to those who made the choice that left me lacking where they went wrong, and then by the time the bath water cools explaining to myself that things aren’t so bad, that perhaps the achievement or possession or person I’m forced to do without is not that desirable, and finally–and here’s where I get down to the real problem–what I did or did not do that made this misery happen.  There’s also the chance here to inject a small dose of realism, often along the lines of the simple fact that with the possible exception of those miserable souls that get perfect SAT scores and Olympic gold medals, every single one of us knows that somebody out there is better at whatever it is we’re doing that we are.  So between figuring out what I could have done better and facing a certain reality that no matter how much I give something my personal best, there’s still a likelihood that somebody else in a world of seven billion people is going to outshine me, I often manage to pull myself out of the slough of despond, as John Bunyan would have put it (and he put it so well, I’m pretty sure he spent some time there).

The third event in this marathon comes when I start to think about what I have to do to fix this, which pretty much boils down to how I can change what I’m doing in order to obtain this whatever it is I want and feel cheated out of, or, alternatively, how I can stop wanting it.  There is a third option, too, which comes under the heading of acceptance of reality.  This kind of takes care of all possibilities, after all.  But let’s look at them with a little more focus.  If what I’m envying is an achievement someone else has made; then thought, action, some change in behavior might possibly get me that something.  And so I will start to think of what it will take, and if it will take more than I am willing to expend.  If what I’m envying is a thing that can be bought or made, my thoughts will turn to whether I can afford it (a log house, uh, no; a pair of red jeans, yes), whether I need it (an iPad, no, a new set of tires, yes), whether I want it and how desperately (an iPad, YES, a new set of tires, no).  And so forth.  If what I’m envying is a state of being (serenity anyone?) or a person who either I will never meet or who has demonstrated that he’s just not that into me (Russell Crowe, anyone?), then I must determine if anything I can do can change that situation.  So, in other words, my job after identifying the enviable thing, person or whatnot, is to determine why I don’t have it, if I can achieve the desirable thing/person/situation through my own efforts, if the achievement is worth the effort it would take to obtain it, and, finally, if the enviable thing, person or whatnot is unobtainable by me through any means I can devise, if I can let it go or, at the least, accept that I won’t be able to get it (at least not right now or through anything but sheerest luck) and find some way to live with that.  This last has to do with learning to live in the real world, in which there are much fewer enviable things than there are people who want them and so, even were I to do my absolute best, to do everything possible, to be completely and always exceptional, luck will indeed play a part.  My getting an Oscar, in other words, does not depend on my abilities and efforts alone.  Meryl Streep got her third Oscar for best performance by an actress last night.  It was her 17th nomination.  I rest my case.

An Enviable Thing

Whew, that’s a lot of mental work to go through just because I want an iPad.  But after all it depends on how much something is wanted, needed, and thus how deep the lack, the hole in the soul.  I can live without an iPad (well, I suppose, if bamboo shoots were stuck under my fingernails, I’d have to admit that).  And, besides, and this is not a rationalization, the longer I wait, the cheaper they’ll become.  Selling my novel has to do with effort, expertise and possibly talent, so I can create a plan and follow it that will get me closer than I am now.  (Obviously, finishing the darned thing is completely up to me and step one to selling it.)  Russell Crowe?  Or any such heart’s desire that is not a thing or an achievement, but another person?  Well, not so much.  It’s not a reasonable thing (person, forgive me) to want some person as a possession and assume that will mean they love us as we wish to be loved.  The slave owners of the old South spent a lot of time justifying their position and insisting that the slaves loved their masters and wouldn’t have it any other way.  We know how that turned out.  We want another person to love us unconditionally, but we don’t take into account the wishes, the tastes, the desires, the PERSONHOOD, of that other person.  Russell Crowe, Johnny Depp, Colin Firth–any or all of these wonderful actors may enchant me, but I have no way of knowing whether that enchantment comes from their own selves or their incredible (and true) talent in creating a character.  Perhaps, indeed probably, it is the character or even body of work that I have fallen for.  These men have lives, tastes, problems, personalities, that I know nothing about and may or may not like.  It’s like assuming I know exactly what the afterlife will be.  I’m virtually certain that whatever my assumptions, the afterlife will be something else that I cannot even imagine.  So as long as I don’t take up stalking as my next hobby, so long as I recognize that this is a person, no matter how desirable, no matter how enviable, I’m not going to get, AT ALL, I can still enjoy watching a movie starring one of the three with warm feelings in my breast.  Or somewhere.

Image representing iPad as depicted in CrunchBase

Image via CrunchBase

But does this, short of stalking, theft or murder, rise to sin?  I’m not at all sure.  Looking up at those definitions at the top of this blog, jealousy sounds more like a deadly sin to me.  So, as we did with sloth, let’s look at the advantages to the establishments (both religious and civil) of defining envy as a sin.  There is an old prayer in centuries-past England that goes something like “God bless the squire and his relations, and keep us all in our proper stations.”  That can argue anything from active oppression to mere complacency, but I can tell you this, the squire and his relations telling the lower orders that envy is a sin are reinforcing this pleasant (to the squire and his relations) state of affairs.  It is much easier to have a lovely life if the laborers underneath are tugging their forelocks and bending their knees in between scrubbing the floors and plowing the fields.  Now this makes me sound much more radical than I am, but then again I lived most of my life in an America where us forelock-tuggers have not just the opportunity, but practically the mandate to quit that, get an education, find a job that doesn’t require forelock-tugging and move up in the world.  It doesn’t seem to be as easy to do that now as it used to be, but then, it probably never was as easy as it seemed.  It’s just that here in this country it was not only possible, it was something each of us was supposed to do.  As opposed to other countries in which whatever slice of heaven or hell you got born into, there you were, stuck for the rest of your life with only eternity to look forward to.  Another quote that has informed my thinking on this, this time from Emile Zola and translated (badly) from the French:  “The French authorities have, in their infinite wisdom, declared that it is as illegal for a prince to sleep under a bridge as it is for a peasant.”  I believe this is from “L’Assimoir,” but I’m not sure.  So envy, like sloth, is a sin that is very useful for those who are defining sin, and a lot more troublesome for those who have to live under that definition.

So, parsing what we’ve put together about envy so far, I believe it can be two things, separately or at once.  Envy can be debilitating, a way of hiding in your room because you’ll never have what you want and everybody else does and the world sucks.  Or, envy can be a spur to action.  That person has what I want, so I’ll figure out a way to get it.  Put in that sense, envy is a root cause of all achievement in the world, goading the hired hand who envies the farmer into saving his pitiful earnings until he, too, can own a piece of land of his own.  Of course, envy can cause us to do very inappropriate things to get what we want, starting with lies and moving right up through every kind of crime, including murder.  But kept in bounds, envy is at least one of the reasons why people get college degrees, lose weight, dye their hair, wear attractive clothes instead of sweats, work when they don’t feel like it, and actually create.  It might not be the best reason, and it undoubtedly will not be the reason given in the bios, but it’s there, working away all the time.

When it is debilitating, envy is then something to rise above or work through.  There is an old aphorism that states that if each person in the world put their own dirty laundry out in a square and then could choose to take anybody else’s, we’d all take back our own.  Because that’s another thing about envy.  We often envy without knowledge, thinking that what somebody else has is worth any amount of worry and care and misery to get, when if we only knew, we’re  better off without it.  This has never been said better than in a poem called “Richard Cory,” by Edward Arlington Robinson:

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich – yes, richer than a king –
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.