Monday, July 13, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
After Seeing "Frost/Nixon"
One of the themes that’s played throughout Ron Howard’s newest film, Frost/Nixon, is the concern of some on David Frost’s research team that Richard Nixon not be portrayed as a sympathetic figure. After all, the political left was out for blood in 1974. For them, the disgrace and humiliation Nixon had suffered as the result of own actions was not enough punishment. They craved contrition, hoping that, in an unofficial televised trial, Nixon would be further disgraced and humiliated—only this time in close-up detail.
Prior to the film being screened last night in a San Francisco theatre, I overhead one gray-haired liberal woman taking great delight in reminiscing about old Tricky Dick, assuring a few younger moviegoers in the row of seats behind her that, “If you think Bush was bad, Nixon was ten times worse.” Obviously, some old-time leftists were still out for blood, ready once again to delight in disgrace and humiliation—only this time for entertainment’s sake.
Unfortunately for them, the movie did not simply rehash the vitriolic feeding frenzy of the mid-1970s. Instead, as all good art attempts to do, the film set out to challenge its audience’s acceptable assumptions. By its end, the film did not heed the avenging desires of those on Frost’s staff. Rather, it did, indeed, portray Nixon as a sympathetic character—not only a victim of his own shortcomings, but one willing to advance another while sacrificing himself.
One interesting point the film exposes was that Nixon, to some degree, may have been an alcoholic—if not one addicted to alcohol, certainly one subject to extreme blackouts from too many drinks. This same character flaw was exposed in Oliver Stone’s Nixon, in scenes showing Nixon alone and isolated in the White House, pouring himself scotch and scotch. What Howard’s film shows and suggests that Stone’s had not was that Nixon, prone to alcoholic blackouts, may have been unaware of some of his decisions he made as the 37th President.
Unlike Ronald Reagan, who, during his White House tenure, may have been losing his mind to Alzheimer’s, Nixon may have lost his mind due to his abusive drinking. If so, if the pressures of the Watergate probe had led him to drink—and overindulge on many occasions—his drunken behavior may have led him to order or approve actions of which he later had no recollection. Of course, alcoholism cannot excuse his actions. But in today’s world of condoned recovery, it’s hard not to cut Tricky Dick a little slack.
Another aspect of the film lends even more sympathy to Nixon. At one point, after reviewing a biographical file on David Frost, Nixon discovers more than a few similarities between the two men—both are ambitious, both from relatively humble and religious means, both striving for acceptance in a elite world seemingly set on destroying them. Nixon, at one point, acknowledges to Frost that, after their final interview is conducted, only one of them will emerge as victor, only one of them will be vindicated, only one of them saved.
In the end, it appeared as if Nixon, realizing there was no vindication he could ever hope to achieve, allowed himself to fall on his metaphoric sword, allowing Frost to emerge the victor while, at the same time, freeing himself from his own inner demons. Sacrificing his own public image for the sake of another was, ultimately, a final heroic gesture on Nixon’s behalf.
As the San Francisco crowd left the theater last night, I didn’t hear any left-wing bloating about Tricky Dick and his evil, wicked ways. Instead, I heard the collective hush of disappointed epiphanies. And I thought to myself, if it’s true what the gray-haired liberal said, if “Nixon was ten times worse” then Bush, then Bush, time will tell, may not have been all that bad.
Prior to the film being screened last night in a San Francisco theatre, I overhead one gray-haired liberal woman taking great delight in reminiscing about old Tricky Dick, assuring a few younger moviegoers in the row of seats behind her that, “If you think Bush was bad, Nixon was ten times worse.” Obviously, some old-time leftists were still out for blood, ready once again to delight in disgrace and humiliation—only this time for entertainment’s sake.
Unfortunately for them, the movie did not simply rehash the vitriolic feeding frenzy of the mid-1970s. Instead, as all good art attempts to do, the film set out to challenge its audience’s acceptable assumptions. By its end, the film did not heed the avenging desires of those on Frost’s staff. Rather, it did, indeed, portray Nixon as a sympathetic character—not only a victim of his own shortcomings, but one willing to advance another while sacrificing himself.
One interesting point the film exposes was that Nixon, to some degree, may have been an alcoholic—if not one addicted to alcohol, certainly one subject to extreme blackouts from too many drinks. This same character flaw was exposed in Oliver Stone’s Nixon, in scenes showing Nixon alone and isolated in the White House, pouring himself scotch and scotch. What Howard’s film shows and suggests that Stone’s had not was that Nixon, prone to alcoholic blackouts, may have been unaware of some of his decisions he made as the 37th President.
Unlike Ronald Reagan, who, during his White House tenure, may have been losing his mind to Alzheimer’s, Nixon may have lost his mind due to his abusive drinking. If so, if the pressures of the Watergate probe had led him to drink—and overindulge on many occasions—his drunken behavior may have led him to order or approve actions of which he later had no recollection. Of course, alcoholism cannot excuse his actions. But in today’s world of condoned recovery, it’s hard not to cut Tricky Dick a little slack.
Another aspect of the film lends even more sympathy to Nixon. At one point, after reviewing a biographical file on David Frost, Nixon discovers more than a few similarities between the two men—both are ambitious, both from relatively humble and religious means, both striving for acceptance in a elite world seemingly set on destroying them. Nixon, at one point, acknowledges to Frost that, after their final interview is conducted, only one of them will emerge as victor, only one of them will be vindicated, only one of them saved.
In the end, it appeared as if Nixon, realizing there was no vindication he could ever hope to achieve, allowed himself to fall on his metaphoric sword, allowing Frost to emerge the victor while, at the same time, freeing himself from his own inner demons. Sacrificing his own public image for the sake of another was, ultimately, a final heroic gesture on Nixon’s behalf.
As the San Francisco crowd left the theater last night, I didn’t hear any left-wing bloating about Tricky Dick and his evil, wicked ways. Instead, I heard the collective hush of disappointed epiphanies. And I thought to myself, if it’s true what the gray-haired liberal said, if “Nixon was ten times worse” then Bush, then Bush, time will tell, may not have been all that bad.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Welcome to Obamerica
Here's a short documentary by a New York filmmaker chronicling his experience attending -- or, at least, attempting to attend -- the historic inauguration of Barack Obama as the 44th Prez.
More than a documentation of disorganization and poor-planning on behalf of the Obama transition team, these images give a glimpse of our country's future health care system under an equally attentive Obama administration.
Sit back, see the change, and hope.
More than a documentation of disorganization and poor-planning on behalf of the Obama transition team, these images give a glimpse of our country's future health care system under an equally attentive Obama administration.
Sit back, see the change, and hope.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
The Spirit of San Francisco
Perhaps no one epitomizes the spirit of San Francisco more than Janis -- child of the conservative south, outcast, dispossessed. She traveled west and found a stage to play out her internal drama.
Like her, so many in this city come from small points across the country. They, too, have sought their stages -- some in private, some in public, some succeeding, others failing to tame their own dark souls.
Count yourself blessed to see this goddess sing.
Like her, so many in this city come from small points across the country. They, too, have sought their stages -- some in private, some in public, some succeeding, others failing to tame their own dark souls.
Count yourself blessed to see this goddess sing.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Airport of Brotherly Love
After a short flight from DC on USAir, I landed in Philadelphia. Because my connecting flight to SF was on United, I had to walk from terminal C over to terminal D. Walking through any unfamiliar airport can be a daunting task. No matter how clear directional signs may appear to locals—for visiting fliers, the signs might as well be written in Braille.
I followed the crowd from terminal C but mistakenly wound up in terminal B. Turning around toward terminal D, I should have gone right but turned to the left, and rather than heading down toward the gates, I wound up accidentally exiting the terminal and having to pass back through a long security line.
The security line snaked down the corridor, and the people waiting were mostly grumpy, complaining about the slow rate at which they were advancing. After about ten minutes, once I approached the roped entryway, I saw there were actually two security lines—one slow line where dozens of people within the rope maze went slowly back and forth on their way toward security, plus another empty line with a straight shot at security.
The empty line was guarded by a young woman, an airport employee who seemed more concerned with picking her teeth with her press-on nails than watching out for potential terrorists. After a quick, cursory glance at my ID and boarding pass, the young woman directed me into the slow back-and-forth line. After another few minutes, after I advanced another few inches, the young woman opened the rope to the straight-shot line and permitted a half dozen passengers to proceed directly to the TSA security guards.
I was shocked, and so were the other passengers around me, all of us wending our way through the snail-paced maze. After another few minutes, after the young woman permitted another dozen privileged people into the straight-shot line, I started staring over at her, locking my eyes on her, waiting for her to finally notice me. When she did, I shrugged my shoulders and jerked my head toward the people who had just passed by—as if to ask, “What the fuck?”
The young woman shrugged as well—as if to say, “Whatever.” Then she calmly looked away, picking at her teeth again with another press-on nail. Hungry and having to pee, I waited a moment, then slipped surreptitiously under the rope that kept me in the slow line and stepped into the straight-shot line. Then, just as I started to head toward security, I heard the young woman call out from her stool: “Sir! Oh, sir! Please, stop!”
I immediately thought of yesterday’s visit to the Holocaust Museum in Washington, of what happened to Jews and Jehovah’s Witnesses who stepped out of line at Auchwitz: They were instantly shot or beaten to death or torn apart by dogs. The young woman came over to me and asked what I thought I was doing. I asked what she was doing—picking and choosing who went fast and who went slow.
I didn’t bother telling her where I’d been this morning—at the National Archives in Washington, viewing the US Constitution and Declaration of Independence, two historical documents, both signed in this fair city, each assuring that all men were created equal, that no one was endowed with the inalienable right to make some people wait while others go by.
Instead, I just stood there, staring into her dark brown eyes, while she berated me for not waiting my turn with everyone else in the back-and-forth line. When she was done, when she didn’t direct me to get back in line, I realized that she wasn’t part of TSA, that she wasn’t an agent of Homeland Security, that she was only an overpaid airport employee enjoying an eight-hour ego trip .
So I thanked her for her passionate opinion, then grabbed the handle of my luggage and walked right past all those passive passengers, all of them waiting like sheep to be shorn. From there, it took only a couple minutes to pass through security and reach the men’s room inside the terminal.
Now I’m sitting in the terminal bar, a tall beer on the table beside me, waiting for my greasy Philly cheesesteak sandwich. This morning, in the gift shop of the National Archives, I opened a small book full of quotations by Thomas Jefferson. One of them said (and I paraphrase here), "While the meek will yield to tyranny, only the brave deserve to be free."
Thank you, Philadelphia, for reminding me of the meaning of being an American.
I followed the crowd from terminal C but mistakenly wound up in terminal B. Turning around toward terminal D, I should have gone right but turned to the left, and rather than heading down toward the gates, I wound up accidentally exiting the terminal and having to pass back through a long security line.
The security line snaked down the corridor, and the people waiting were mostly grumpy, complaining about the slow rate at which they were advancing. After about ten minutes, once I approached the roped entryway, I saw there were actually two security lines—one slow line where dozens of people within the rope maze went slowly back and forth on their way toward security, plus another empty line with a straight shot at security.
The empty line was guarded by a young woman, an airport employee who seemed more concerned with picking her teeth with her press-on nails than watching out for potential terrorists. After a quick, cursory glance at my ID and boarding pass, the young woman directed me into the slow back-and-forth line. After another few minutes, after I advanced another few inches, the young woman opened the rope to the straight-shot line and permitted a half dozen passengers to proceed directly to the TSA security guards.
I was shocked, and so were the other passengers around me, all of us wending our way through the snail-paced maze. After another few minutes, after the young woman permitted another dozen privileged people into the straight-shot line, I started staring over at her, locking my eyes on her, waiting for her to finally notice me. When she did, I shrugged my shoulders and jerked my head toward the people who had just passed by—as if to ask, “What the fuck?”
The young woman shrugged as well—as if to say, “Whatever.” Then she calmly looked away, picking at her teeth again with another press-on nail. Hungry and having to pee, I waited a moment, then slipped surreptitiously under the rope that kept me in the slow line and stepped into the straight-shot line. Then, just as I started to head toward security, I heard the young woman call out from her stool: “Sir! Oh, sir! Please, stop!”
I immediately thought of yesterday’s visit to the Holocaust Museum in Washington, of what happened to Jews and Jehovah’s Witnesses who stepped out of line at Auchwitz: They were instantly shot or beaten to death or torn apart by dogs. The young woman came over to me and asked what I thought I was doing. I asked what she was doing—picking and choosing who went fast and who went slow.
I didn’t bother telling her where I’d been this morning—at the National Archives in Washington, viewing the US Constitution and Declaration of Independence, two historical documents, both signed in this fair city, each assuring that all men were created equal, that no one was endowed with the inalienable right to make some people wait while others go by.
Instead, I just stood there, staring into her dark brown eyes, while she berated me for not waiting my turn with everyone else in the back-and-forth line. When she was done, when she didn’t direct me to get back in line, I realized that she wasn’t part of TSA, that she wasn’t an agent of Homeland Security, that she was only an overpaid airport employee enjoying an eight-hour ego trip .
So I thanked her for her passionate opinion, then grabbed the handle of my luggage and walked right past all those passive passengers, all of them waiting like sheep to be shorn. From there, it took only a couple minutes to pass through security and reach the men’s room inside the terminal.
Now I’m sitting in the terminal bar, a tall beer on the table beside me, waiting for my greasy Philly cheesesteak sandwich. This morning, in the gift shop of the National Archives, I opened a small book full of quotations by Thomas Jefferson. One of them said (and I paraphrase here), "While the meek will yield to tyranny, only the brave deserve to be free."
Thank you, Philadelphia, for reminding me of the meaning of being an American.
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