MS Art Gallery

rrk '88

Talkin' Pictures

As a kid I couldn't understand why my school chums didn't rush home from P.S. 33 to catch Jack Armstrong on radio. I guess each in his own way wanted to be the All-American Boy in rough play, whereas I chose to be Jack in my imagination. If my friends knocked on the back door between 7:30 and 8 PM on Mondays, Wednesdays or Fridays, I ignored them — lying low on the parlor rug with my ear riveted to the Philco console listening to the Lone Ranger. Radio now  as it's supposed to be doesn't exist.

 Of course, in the golden age of television which learned from radio, I still had to use my ears. Unfortunately, TV forgot that lesson. Notwithstanding that Soaps are loaded with dialogue, the sad truth is that they've been reduced to conversational drivel—O where be ye, Helen Trent and Mama Goldberg? In truth, today's TV is just a backdrop to more important things—like writing this(?). On extremely rare occasions I do actually watch TV, such as in some miniseries where they try to respect the intent of the author, or where the action and body language actually enhance some dialogue that the producers let slip in between gore and battered cars.

In the grand old days, I went to the movies when I wasn't listening to Jack or the masked rider. Young folks might not understand this about old movies: you see, in the 30's and 40's they were required to use English!—no one could accuse Jimmy Cagney of slurring his words. Of course, there was one guy Jimmy was in a couple of gangster movies with who talked like he had marbles in his mouth, but years later José Ferrer gave him elocution tips for his role in Caine Mutiny. Pacino types in those days were unemployed because all the tough guy roles were taken by those who knew our language. Today's tough guy couldn't have gotten a screen test even as a Dead End Kid since the nation then wasn't multilingual—and cussin' wasn't allowed.

In those days they say Hollywood was like a training center where actors actually got better as they got experience. Even though Gary Cooper was always Gary Cooper, he was always a better Gary Cooper. Today, unlike Dustin Hoffman who improves with age, most actors are going nowhere—they just get worse. I blame Brando for that: it's not that most modern actors can't act; they follow Brando's example and just don't want to.

On the other hand, there are some who do want to act, especially the women. Meryl Streep, though no Bette Davis, at least braves speaking roles. Then, of course, there's Jane Seymour, but Hollywood doesn't have anything that meets her standards — bless TV miniseries — same goes for Richard Chamberlain. Still, Tom Conti seems to get speaking roles, but there just aren't enough to go around for those who want to act. Maybe if Hollywood weren't intimidated by the grunt and groan gods, actors of potential could get a crack at emulating Ronald Colman. There might be glint of hope, though, now that Clint has had his fling as mayor; he might just get serious enough to begin to sound like Randolph Scott. No hope for Burt, though. As the senator from Texas might say: "Burt, you're no Cary Grant."

But at least Burt helps others in his school. Oh, well, Casey Stengel couldn't play baseball!

The car-chase czars and the gory hounds should look at the old prints and get back to the script board like Mel Gibson did in taking on Hamlet. If someone with a feel for language could write a speaking role for Rosanna Arquette and Jamie Gertz, both of whom might have been the greatest since the Hepburns — if Julia Roberts hadn't come on the scene — Hollywood just might rediscover talkin' pictures just as they unearthed Don Ameche, the original Jack Armstrong.

 '87

A Matter of Taste

Good taste is a palatable trait that one likes to think he possesses. Unfortunately where there is good taste there is bad—but the latter resides with others, never with us. There are the gauche who have no class, the public offenders who know no bounds, the sports fans who reek of beer. Not us—we pick our noses in private, we are abusive only to loved ones, at an event we imbibe calmly from a silver flask.

Those who will not torment their feet with dress shoes and white sox will scoff at those who do. Among the contemporary fashion plates blest with slender figures, it is admirable that they demonstrate their knowledge of good taste by snickering at the heavyweights who dare to  nature. Those who still love the Bills, refusing to ride with the Cowboys are strictly bush and are relegated to the Hall of Infamy for fandom along side the busts of those who with frustrating integrity rooted for the pathetic Jets prior to Super Bowl III. Those who are loyal to the finer restaurants on the shore are revolted by an invasion of fast-food riff-raff who naively think they are upgrading their eating habits. In the early morning hours it is chic for one to report to work late with a plastic cup in hand but laughable if one shows up 

poor taste for a congressman.

On the other hand, it is good taste to wear ugly sandals on weekends and poor taste when the dress shoe freak relaxes in bare feet. It is in perfectly good taste during leisure for the slender doll to wear her shirt-tail out in quaint straight line fashion, but poor taste should the overweight attempt the same and risk accentuating the tent's expanse. It is fitting that the gourmet lace his silk tie with mozzarella strands while viewing C-Span but disgusting that the junkie drip taco sauce on his sweatshirt during an Archie Bunker rerun. The morning plastic cup enthusiast properly drinks his beer right from the bottle or can, while the lagging thermos carrier continues his ridiculous fetish for obsolescence by drinking his from a glass. The president weekends in his flannel shirt and jeans while congressmen attend hometown barbecues still in blue suit and tie.

The woman of yesteryear who demurely brought slippers and pipe to the old man is an absurdity of history while the modern woman is lauded for supplying her mate with condoms. The old gent who gives up his bus seat to a woman is thought to be suffering severely from paranoia of his past upbringing while today's man is sexy by not opening the car door for his date. The youth who watches his language in the presence of girls is naive—unaware that girls are as foul-mouthed as boys—while the acceptable youth succeeds in out-F-ing the girls. It is acceptable taste to be ingenuous—provided it is outside the symbiotic circle in which one breeds pseudo-sophisticates—but excellent taste to be disingenuous always.

"Every man to his taste" is not really recommended in the slick realm of writing. For the editor is king. He who edits out may be efficient, though guilty of omission. The editor who edits in, may be helpful, but meddlesome. The editor of renowned authors, simply rejects the nameless. It is said that if Hamlet had been placed on the desk of a modern publisher and not rejected out-right, it would be pared to a one act play. Taste is no longer a private subjective slant; it is institutionalized by the closed shop of sophisticated, judgmental establishments.

Sam Johnson's "wild vicissitudes of taste" implies chaos; modern society calls it diversity but at same time those "in the know" put down those whose tastes differ from theirs. Actually and ironically the high-echelon of pace-setting strive for a monolithic society. To pass no judgments is an integrity foreign to them . Alas, it appears even integrity is but a matter of taste one can do without.

Author's collected nonfiction soon to appear on www.lulu.com