Here’s a straw in the wind that I’ve been waiting for, and a possible indication that our pop culture may soon begin to catch up with 21st-century reality.

The Independent reports that the Brits’ love affair with memoirs about misery and wretchedness is over.

Depravity, drink, drug addiction and abuse are hardly the most uplifting subjects for a leisurely read. But for years, misery memoirs have been the toast of the book world, with stories of human suffering generating huge sales. But new figures suggest readers have reached their pain threshold and the mis lit boom may be over.

At its height, profits topped £24m a year and authors could be sure that the more they plumbed the depths of despair and depravity, the deeper publishers would reach into their pockets. But industry research firm Nielsen now estimates that sales for the top 10 best-selling misery memoirs will be down from £3.87m last year to £2.59m this year.

Regular readers know that I’ve been appalled at the poverty of imagination that’s been on display in the pop culture for a long time. The wretched-family-and-dysfunctional-child memoir has been one of the most prominent features of this trend. There is no more grappling with big ideas in the culture; instead there’s the obsessive focus on the minutiae of miserable everyday life and on the unique ways in which individuals suffer their particular wretchedness.

It’s a fucking bore! Leon Wieseltier agrees with me (sorta)!

The decline of The New York Times remains worthy of comment, as does the poverty of imagination in American theater and film.

I’m no expert, and there are plenty of people discussing the culture, in depth, all over the interwebs. What I am, though, is a very disappointed reader and movie-goer, because I’m not being presented with any big stories and big themes—books or music or movies or plays that address things that are way larger than individuals and larger even than the sum of individuals—that get my juices flowing.

Two decades ago Tom Wolfe called for more novelists to stalk what he called the “Billion-Footed Beast“ (subscription to Harper’s required). You can read all about it here, at the NYT blog Paper Cuts.

Wolfe has for decades complained that in about 1960 American novelists made the decision to turn inward, to take their work in abstruse directions and to reject realism. All this was a disaster, Wolfe has maintained, especially because the social changes in America during this period offered such rich material. With “Bonfire,” he set out to reclaim the ground once occupied by Theodore Dreiser, Sinclair Lewis, James T. Farrell and the other Americans of the first half of the 20th century who wrote in the tradition of Balzac, Dickens and Zola.

About two years after “Bonfire” came out, Wolfe published a famous essay in Harper’s, “Stalking the Billion-Footed Beast,” (subscription required) laying out his theory in detail, and what really struck me while reading it again was that he could have written it yesterday and hardly changed a thing. He has gained no followers.  [e.a.]

More’s the pity. There is one exception: Jonathan Franzen, whose novel The Corrections was in fact a correction to the obsessive inward-looking trend in writers—a sprawling social novel in the tradition that Tom Wolfe had talked about (albeit, one with postmodern touches as well)—as James Collins notes in Paper Cuts:

The only book I can think of that has reached for something like the same realistic density, sweep and accessibility is “The Corrections” by Jonathan Franzen. But the core of that book is a bourgeois family drama, and so it is really more like a gargantuan short story than a novel of the type that Dickens or Balzac would recognize.

Franzen himself addressed the discouraging landscape of contemporary fiction in a 2002 essay titled “Mr. Difficult,” in the New Yorker. It’s not available online. It provoked a dispute between him and Ben Marcus a few years later; discussion here.

Though Marcus’ essay extends over 13 pages of small text, at its core is a very simple premise: Contemporary American fiction has lost its innovative edge and its interest in language as art, and Jonathan Franzen is largely, if not exclusively, to blame. In particular, Marcus focuses on Franzen’s 2002 essay “Mr. Difficult,” in which Franzen chronicles his growing disenchantment with the novels of William Gaddis, and more generally with the modernist-inspired ideal of “difficult” literature—the belief that “the greatest novels were tricky in their methods, resisted casual reading, and merited sustained study.” Writers like Gaddis, Franzen argues, are “Status” authors, who see themselves (again, in the modernist mold) as obligated only to their art, and who for the most part ignore the interests and desires of the reader. With some reluctance, Franzen places himself in an opposing camp: “Contract” authors, who place a high value on the relationship between narrator and reader, who primarily see the novel as a device for social and cultural communication, and who take human life (rather than, say, language or ideas per se) as the ultimate subject of their fiction.

While I’m waiting for all these novelists to sort themselves out and to start to grapple with 21st-century realities—and there’s a new generation of writers who seem eager to engage—I enjoy dipping into old pop culture favorites.

Like this 1961 movie (based on—gasp!—a trilogy of books! in French! which inspired a Broadway musical!), which was featured on TCM last night:

Do the echoes of agitprop help or hurt Barack Obama?

Meghan Daum examines the issues:

Fairey told me he thinks it’s solely his use of red that makes some people uneasy. I’m not so sure. He’s an artist; his adoption of propaganda tools — the graphic style, the underground distribution, and, OK, the color red — is at least in part ironic, a comment on political-machine communiques, a subversion of them. Although, let’s be honest, most people don’t look at the world through the meta-tinted glasses that this genre of art requires. They may get a whiff of critique, but what if they get a stronger whiff of something they can’t quite identify? And what if that confusion leads to some form of heebie-jeebies when it comes to Obama?

Still, the most radical aspect of this whole phenomenon is not the artwork itself but how it conveys Obama’s sharp divergence from the generic, easily digestible cultural coding that’s always been associated with getting elected. As Fairey says, Obama has “radical cachet.”

But if you like Obama and you’d like to see him elected president, it’s worth asking yourself exactly why none of the other candidates has dipped an ironic toe into agitprop, and whether their freedom from images that conjure mass idol worship, however archly, might not help them in the end. [e.a.]

One of those images was mounted on a fence around the corner from my polling place. It creeped me out—because I know agitprop, and I didn’t like it associated with Obama: it was a huge turnoff.

Daum claims there’s Hillary merchandise too, so:

It’s all commodity. As a result, no one’s commenting.

Maybe. For now. But things change.

Here’s Em, blasting “White America”:

“White America”

America, hahaha, we love you, how many people are proud to be citizens of this beautiful
Country of ours, the stripes and the stars for the rights that men have died for to protect,
The women and men who have broke their neck’s for the freedom of speech the United States
Government has sworn to uphold, or
(Yo’, I want everybody to listen to the words of this song) so we’re told…

I never would’ve dreamed in a million years I’d see,
So many motherfuckin’ people who feel like me, who share the same views
And the same exact beliefs, it’s like a fuckin’ army marchin’ in back of me, so many lives I
Touch, so much anger aimed, in no particular direction, just sprays and sprays, and straight
Through your radio waves it plays and plays, ’till it stays stuck in your head for days and
Days, who would of thought, standing in this mirror bleachin’ my hair, with some peroxide,
Reaching for a t-shirt to wear, that I would catapult to the forefront of rap like this, how
Could I predict my words would have an impact like this, I must’ve struck a chord, with somebody
Up in the office, cause congress keeps telling me I ain’t causin’ nuthin’ but problems, and now
They’re sayin’ I’m in trouble with the government, I’m lovin’ it, I shoveled shit all my life,
And now I’m dumping it on…

[Chorus]
White America, I could be one of your kids, white America, little Eric looks just like this,
White America, Erica loves my shit, I go to TRL, look how many hugs I get, white America, I
Could be one of your kids, white America, little Eric looks just like this, white America, Erica
Loves my shit, I go to TRL, look how many hugs I get…

Look at these eyes, baby blue, baby just like yourself, if they were brown, Shady lose, Shady
Sits on the shelf, but Shady’s cute, Shady knew, Shady’s dimple’s would help, make ladies swoon
Baby, {ooh baby}, look at my sales, let’s do the math, if I was black, I would’ve sold half, I
Ain’t have to graduate from Lincoln high school to know that, but I could rap, so fuck school,
I’m too cool to go back, gimme the mic, show me where the fuckin’ studio’s at, when I was
Underground, no one gave a fuck I was white, no labels wanted to sign me, almost gave up, I was
Like, fuck it, until I met Dre, the only one to look past, gave me a chance, and I lit a fire up
Under his ass, helped him get back to the top, every fan black that I got, was probably his in
Exchange for every white fan that he’s got, like damn, we just swapped, sittin’ back lookin’ at
Shit, wow, I’m like my skin is it starting to work to my benefit now, it’s…

[Chorus]

See the problem is, I speak to suburban kids, who otherwise would of never knew these words
Exist, whose mom’s probably would of never gave two squirts of piss, ’till I created so much
Motherfuckin’ turbulence, straight out the tube, right into your living room I came, and kids
Flipped when they knew I was produced by Dre, that’s all it took, and they were instantly hooked
Right in, and they connected with me too because I looked like them, that’s why they put my
Lyrics up under this microscope, searchin’ with a fine tooth comb, its like this rope, waitin’
To choke, tightening around my throat, watching me while I write this, like I don’t like this,
Nope, all I hear is, lyrics, lyrics, constant controversy, sponsors working ’round the clock, to
Try to stop my concerts early, surely hip-hop was never a problem in Harlem, only in Boston,
After it bothered the fathers of daughters starting to blossom, so now I’m catchin’ the flack
From these activists when they raggin’, actin’ like I’m the first rapper to smack a bitch, or
Say faggot, shit, just look at me like I’m your closest pal, the posterchild, the motherfuckin’
Spokesman now for…

[Chorus]

So to the parents of America, I am the derringer aimed at little Erica, to attack her
Character, the ringleader of this circus of worthless pawns, sent to lead the march right up to
The steps of congress, and piss on the lawns of the White House, to burn the casket and replace
It with a parental advisory sticker, to spit liquor in the faces of in this democracy of
Hypocrisy, fuck you Ms. Cheney, fuck you Tipper Gore, fuck you with the freest of speech this
Divided states of embarrassment will allow me to have, fuck you, [vocal melody],
He, hahaha, I’m just playin’ America, you know I love you…

David Harsanyi wonders where all the superheroes have gone:

In a world crawling with merciless terrorists, corrupt politicians and sociopath hedge-fund managers, we need a fictional hero to save us.

Or are we so unsure of ourselves, so morally conflicted, that we can’t even win in fantasy?

Well, not quite.

Back in 1941, Captain America, a purely political creation, was charged with a single task: to kick Nazi butt. The Captain, in fact, confronted the Germans before the United States did, in one issue punching Adolf Hitler’s lights out.

I think we’re a little confused. Also: it’s hard to make a comic book about kicking Terrorist butt. How do you draw “Terrorist”? Not to mention: how do you draw “Terrorist” without being accused of racism or something?

Or perhaps we simply exaggerated the threat.

On the other hand—to call some people “superheroes” means that you’re privileging them. Brad Bird made a really popular movie about that a while back.

I’ve been saying for a good long while that we’re living through a very fallow time culture-wise. Luckily we have such a rich and deep pop and high culture that we’ll have enough to satisfy our souls for a good long time in the unlikely event that nothing new and exciting catches fire culturally.

As for stories that tell us something about how we live now and who our heroes are … well, that’ll have to wait. People aren’t ready to tell those stories yet.

But “we’re the ones we’ve been waiting for,” so maybe something will come of that.

Daniel Day-Lewis and Helen Mirren also stole a beautiful moment from an otherwise brisk, businesslike, and banal Oscar telecast.

As did Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova:

Watching the Oscars paid off!

I loved the movie Once!

And the song “Falling Slowly”

And I love Glen Hansard for saying: “Make art! Make art!”

And I love Jon Stewart for bringing Marketa Irglova back out onstage to get her moment to encourage artists everywhere!

Wooohooo!

One day perhaps the captains of the various media industries (old and new) will understand their vast power to shape public opinion among the ignorant, distraction-loving, and narrative-seeking masses [e.a.].

LONDON (AFP) - Britons are losing their grip on reality, according to a poll out Monday which showed that nearly a quarter think Winston Churchill was a myth while the majority reckon Sherlock Holmes was real

The survey found that 47 percent thought the 12th century English king Richard the Lionheart was a myth.

And 23 percent thought World War II prime minister Churchill was made up. The same percentage thought Crimean War nurse Florence Nightingale did not actually exist.

Three percent thought Charles Dickens, one of Britain’s most famous writers, is a work of fiction himself.

It’s always been like that, you say. What does it matter? you ask.

It matters because this ignorance can be easily leveraged through the myriad new forms of political propaganda that the Age of Technology has ushered in and unleashed.

It matters because unless we educate people (in an engaging way, not only in a boring PBS or NPR way) in their common humanity rather than pander to their tribal instincts, we are moving backward, not forward.

It means a new era of wars, not “post-partisan politics.”

————
*** Do I really have to remind you that infotainment rules?

Breaking the Waves—an incoherent and sadistic movie—pretty much sealed my interest in the so-called “transgressive”*** back in 1996. Sadism posing as art isn’t my cuppa. Am I surprised to see that the flirtation with sadism continues unabated in 2008? Not really.

Report from Sundance:

Worst Sundance Film: Sex and Self-Mutilation

The worst film …? “Downloading Nancy,” …

Mari [Bello] one of my favorite actresses, plays Nancy. She hires a murderous pen pal on the Internet to come and kill her. (I think it’s because she’s depressed.)

While she’s waiting to be offed by [Jason] Patric, Nancy self-mutilates with a razor blade. She cuts herself all over the place. Not even her shrink, played by “Judging” Amy Brenneman, can talk her out of it. Nancy’s husband, played by British theater star [Rufus] Sewell, has no luck either.

By the time Nancy meets up with Patric’s Louis, she’s cut herself to ribbons and bleeding all over.

Long ago, I stopped wondering why anyone would greenlight such a picture—the reason is obvious: because some insecure idiot, repelled by the movie but compelled by the notion that he might be missing out on the next best thing since Pulp Fiction, said yes. It’s the same instinct that animates the art world and the world of culture: people don’t understand the “new” but don’t want to be thought of as old school, so they go along with a trend, even if it’s repulsive (because they think it’s sophisticated).

I’ve got no argument with the people making these movies. If they can find backers to fund them and actors to star in the movies and film festivals to showcase them and reviewers to write about them and audience members to pay for tickets, I will lay down my life for their right to make their gross-sounding movies.

But I do ask myself who would want to muck around in the darkest of the dark side and spend years of his/her life writing, directing, producing, editing, and acting in such a film. Not my cuppa, either.
——————

*** I’ve been meaning to write about this for a long time but can never find a moment. In 1996, David Denby published a piece in The New Yorker called “Buried Alive” in which he talks (in retrospect, it looks like a warning) about the effect on our (baby boomers’) children of a pop culture that wallows in the transgressive. Here’s an abstract of his piece.

Also, it’s never a bad occasion to bring back my favorite cultural reference:

Inspired by the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s German Expressionist show of the same name, I wrote about Glitter and Doom here and here.

Benjamin Schwarz salutes Ol’ Blue Eyes:

With this new sensibility, which Pete Hamill has aptly termed the “Tender Tough Guy,” Sinatra created—as several of the pieces in this collection illuminate—the most important model of masculinity for a generation of Americans. He had transformed his persona from that of a skinny, boyish, even androgynous heartthrob with Brylcreemed curls, too-big jackets, sailor suits (!), and floppy bow ties into that of a suave man of authority and sensitivity in crisp, slim-line suits. He appealed not to teenage girls but to their mothers and fathers. The jazz critic Gary Giddins, one of the most astute writers on the singer, summed up the transformed Sinatra: “Above all, he was adult. He sang to adults.”

Yep.

After centuries of being cut off from the greatest works of Western thought—and from standard works of Western thought as well—Arabic-speaking people will soon—finally!—be able to have access to translations of some of the books that changed the world:

It’s been 375 years since Galileo published his earth-shaking Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems, 336 since John Milton wrote Paradise Regained and nearly 40 since James D. Watson had an apparent international bestseller with The Double Helix, about the discovery of the structure of DNA. Amazingly, however, none of these books, and thousands of classics like them, has ever been translated into Arabic, the first tongue of more than 300 hundred million persons worldwide.

Now this situation is being rectified by the sheikhdom of Abu Dhabi, one of the seven Muslim United Arab Emirates, which last month officially revealed its plans to translate 100 epochal foreign-language texts into Arabic by the end of next year.

Karim Nagy, the entrepreneur who is the force behind this effort, which is being funded by Abu Dhabi, says that money is no object:

Nagy said “funding is the least of our concerns. It’s the quality of the translation that counts.” Indeed, Abu Dhabi is the wealthiest of all the emirates and Abu Dhabi city is ranked as the richest in the world. Nagy said Kalima is striving to find a balance between wanting the Arab world to “catch up” with the classics, most of which are in the public domain, and “keeping up” with recent and current literature, which requires copyright clearance.

Also: Nagy has no political or religious agenda:

Nagy insists Kalima has “no political or religious agenda,” and points to its decision to publish John Maynard Keynes’s The General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money and Milton Friedman’s Capitalism and Freedom alongside such Marxist tomes as Reading Capital by Louis Althusser and Dialectic of Enlightenment by Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer. Also on tap is the Yiddish-to-Arabic translation of The Collected Stories of Isaac Bashevis Singer and Ethic s by the 17th-century Jewish philosopher Baruch Spinoza.

Being a passionate devotee of books, I say it is this kind of effort—and not war—that will change the world most profoundly. The question is how long it will take to bring enlightenment to people who have been kept in darkness for so long.

But the desire is there, as Doris Lessing wrote in her Nobel acceptance speech:

The school in the blowing dust of northwest Zimbabwe is in my mind, and I look at those mildly expectant faces and try to tell them about what I have seen in the last week. Classrooms without books, without text books, or an atlas, or even a map pinned up on a wall. A school where the teachers beg to be sent books to tell them how to teach, they being only eighteen or nineteen themselves, they beg for books. … Everybody, everyone begs for books: “Please send us books”.

Yes, let us send books—the very best of ourselves.