The White Peril 白禍

This is from Ghost of a Flea:

I have not listened to this one in ages. How is it Stock Aitken Waterman got away with releasing the oddly similar backing beat to "Venus" by Bananarama?

He is referring to Kylie's much-spat-upon version of "The Locomotion," and I believe the answer is this (yeah, I'm sure it's on the Internet in a 1000 places): Kylie was one of the celeb guests at some charity performance-thing, and on the spur of the moment, they asked her...or everyone...to sing something. Anyway, I think she and some friends decided to improv their way merrily through "The Locomotion," and it went over so well that someone decided it'd be great to, you know, milk it for maximum profit by releasing it as a single. When S/A/W produced, they naturally weren't going to give it the full Rick Astley--it was just a one-off lark by a television actress whose amateurishness was part of the charm. So the fact that it sucked isn't all that much a stain on anyone's record. (The fact that Kylie's later covers of "Tears on My Pillow" and "Celebration" were made to suck with malice aforethought is another thing entirely.)

Actually, another funny story I've heard a bunch of times is that after the sessions for "The Locomotion," S/A/W said the usual "This was fun, stop by the studio and maybe we can get something bigger together" stuff, and when Kylie showed up as planned, they'd forgotten all about it. They had to write "I Should Be So Lucky" on the spot. Don't know whether it's true.

This sort of thing leaves me speechless:

Some attendees clearly resented the Republicans who came in from all over the country to attend the official inauguration balls.

"There's this Republican head-in-the-clouds mentality - we just want to have a good time, because we gave a lot of money to the Republican National Committee," said Denise Ross, 31, of Arlington, Va.

She also lambasted their fashion sense, recalling seeing women in open-toe sandals and fur coats.

If it were just Denise Ross, 31, of Arlington, VA, who thought this way, I wouldn't mind so much; but it's not. She crystallizes an entire mentality, so just in case any of her fellow-feelers happen to wander by here, I'd like to set a thing or two straight:

Americans love Washington because the great temples of our republic are there. We know that it houses plenty of dedicated public servants who focus more on the service than on the public, and we're grateful to them.

Let's be clear, though: DC and its environs are a cultural backwater, a fact known around the world. For every self-abnegating true-believer--unshowy and discreet--you encounter what seems like a dozen smug types who appear to have come to Washington in the belief that simply being close to the Center of Power lends profound importance to their every memo, meeting, and trip to the bathroom. Yes, New York and Los Angeles have their obnoxious superiority complexes, too--New York's in its general where-it's-at-ness, and LA's in its inescapable talk about "the Industry." But those cities also exalt the transformative power of the imagination. That's more obviously true of LA, which creates movies full of make-believe, but it also inheres in New York's advertising and investment banking, which fund and publicize people's dream projects and test whether they have a receptive audience in which to flourish.

Washington's magnetism, in the age of lobbies and lawyers for everything, comes from the flat, decidedly un-dreamlike coercive power of legislation and regulation. LA attracts people who want to rule the public by becoming stars and capturing their hearts; Washington attracts people who literally want to be involved in making the rules that boss people around. (And, obviously, while I'm saying "DC" and "Washington," I'm referring equally to Fairfax County and southern Maryland.)

And--make me barf!--that goes quadruple for style. How dare anyone in that metro area criticize other people's fashion sense! This is the place where every outfit is chosen to make sure it can't offend the sensibilities of someone whose ass might need kissing. J. Press mannequins are dressed with more flair, idiosyncratic confidence, and presence than I've ever seen on a Washingtonian.

As for fur coats with open-toed shoes...well, that's not an obvious combination. I can see it being pulled off with ease, though, by a lady of a certain age. She would have had to keep her bosom and legs presentable, and to have relaxed into herself enough to be stouter than she was as a girl. And she'd need a positively obscene number of diamonds--drop earrings, clearly, if not chandeliers. But why not? Inauguration day only comes once every four years, and a more self-critical soul than Ms. Ross might have a chance to learn there are clothiers in the world besides Talbots.

*******

And finally, check out the accompanying picture of Barney Frank. Will the man never learn not to assume that deadly petulant expression in front of the camera? He looks like he went to his plastic surgeon and said, "I was hoping we could do sort of a Barbara Mikulski thing...."

Why do ads targeted at gay men always have to feature shirtless kouros figures, ask Michael and Chris? (It was especially fun to read this complaint on a blog called "boy's briefs" with a masthead photograph of a few hundred shirtless men milling around in the sun.)

I think part of it has to do with the kind of advertising they're looking at. I don't exactly make a habit of reading Out or The Advocate (or, if it's still around, Genre) when I'm back in the States--all that contemptuous muttering tends to make people at surrounding tables look up from their coffee--but you see plenty of ordinary ads there with properly clothed people.

Unsolicited mail and cheapo ads tucked in 2" X 2" boxes on back pages are placed by different companies. They target not "gay men" in general but the lowest common denominator--by which I mean both the types of guys who organize their entire lives around making pick-ups and the sucker in all of us who falls for non-reasoning that says, "Buying XYZ will unleash pleasures akin to having a romp with that muffin there in the picture." It's not as if you didn't see farm and automotive equipment being pitched to straight men with pictures of busty women in bikinis and pink workgloves, too.

Personally, I find these things tedious more for (warning: old, tired complaint ahead) the homogeneity of the men than for anything else. Back in the Calvin Klein bus ad era, the N'aired chests and improbably defined muscles were allusive and stimulating. I still remember smiling up at the giant Samsung ad (with the brawny man with a microwave under his arm) across from Port Authority whenever I came back to New York from home a decade ago. Now that every picture of a gay guy outside Honcho looks like that--usually showing the face with a bland Ken doll expression, too--it's played out and enervating. Seeing a guy with a jaw full of whiskers and a chest resurfaced to look like vinyl, my first thought these days is less like Mmmm! and more like I hope you keep your nails trimmed, 'cause you are gonna be feelin' the itch day after tomorrow, honey!

Amritas, gallantly looking for ways to show solidarity with others of his genetic heritage by sharing their aggrievedness, found a piece on plastic surgery. He can't seem to get too worked up over it, though:

Although I think "racial anorexia" is an exaggeration, I never understood the appeal of eye surgery or hair lightening for Asians. I don't necessarily think eye surgery makes Asians look more Caucasian because there are Asians born with 'double lids'. But I prefer the 'monolid' look (which some Caucasians naturally have!). And I don't think light hair goes well with Asian complexions. It looks fake.

"Racial anorexia" is the Naomi Wolf-ish word the writers of the original piece at Model Minority used to describe...um, I don't know exactly what they're describing, but it sounds like some sort of inferiority complex that makes Asian-Americans compulsively erase their Asiatic features. That's what the rest of us get for recklessly walking around looking white all the time.

I think Amritas is right about the looks stuff. The reason that the Japanese categorize eyes as 一重 (hitoe: "single-layer") and 二重 (futae: "double-layer") is that both kinds of eyelids are common here. And some people, like my boyfriend, have single-layer eyelids but don't have particularly small or sleepy-looking eyes.

He's also right about the hair. When Asians bleach their hair and wear it in a way you might call "decorative"--meaning, punkish and playful and frankly artificial, the way people do when they dye their hair green or purple--it sometimes looks cool. The natural-looking blond shades that can be achieved with today's dyes don't usually flatter Asian skin tones, though.

Speaking of skin, it's weird that no one involved in Amritas's post mentioned it. Meaning, you can make the case that wide, alert eyes and angular features are prized because they look white, but it's only fair to acknowledge also how porcelain smoothness and evenness of tone is associated with Asian complexions. Come to think of it, there's a whole general constellation of this stuff: white guys who generally go for Asian women get sick and tired of having people assume that they like 'em docile, petite, mysterious in manner, and barely-above-jailbait in appearance. I've seen educated urban white girls get really, really worked up over this supposed phenomenon. (I say "supposed" because anyone who thinks Mother doesn't rule the household in Asia just as firmly as she does everywhere else is mistaken.) To the extent that stereotyped standards of attractiveness prod people into changing essential part of themselves, it cannot be said that Asians are always seen as the ones who need to change.

Amritas's mention of white celebrities with features that are usually considered Asian reminded me of something else: several times over the years, I've been at parties where the conversation spontaneously turned to the topic, "What Asian nationality are you mistaken for?" Once, at a dinner party of a dozen people, this was the topic for a good twenty-minute stretch, with guesses submitted about everyone in turn. As in, "Well, Ryu-chan, you have kind of a flat nose, so I think you look Thai." "But his mouth isn't drawn up at the center as much as a Thai person's! He looks more Vietnamese to me. With those earlobes, he could be Indian, though!"

The first time it happened, I was dumbfounded. There's no American equivalent that I've seen. I mean, sure, sometimes people will say they get their cornsilk hair and welkin eyes from their German ancestors, or what have you, but it doesn't become this big group guessing game. (Smug aside: My Atsushi was given what I assume to be the highest possible compliment: "Atsu-chan, you'd never be mistaken for anything except a Japanese." A handsome Japanese. Weary aside: And, naturally, this became yet another opportunity for me to be told, "Are you sure you're American? You look so European! If I didn't know you, I'd guess you were French." No, there's nothing wrong with being French; but I'm not, and I don't like the frequent implication that "looking American" means being pushily fat and having a slightly blank expression.)

[Ten-minute pause while I ogle Robert Conrad, the murderer on this week's Columbo, who is working out in nothing but gym shorts while Peter Falk is questioning him. Woof!]

Amritas is probably right that the only real universal is bilateral symmetry. I think there's a point to be made that, now that cosmetic procedures are more widely available, a lot of people are taking the opportunity to bring their features in line with the perfectly-homogeneous Karen Mulder sort of face, rather than being happy that they have a few distinguishing features. And it's certainly true that that sort of neat-as-a-pin angularity is mostly found in people with Northern European genes. (Mulder herself, for example, is Dutch.) But there are also plenty of white people who don't look like that and get surgery to do so, so whether idealizing it is some special kind of "racial anorexia" strikes me as an arguable point.

Alice has a post about Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston that manages to make a simple, unadorned point. (I mean, I say "manages" because what's unusual is that a post about those two has a point, not that a post by Alice has a point.)

Perhaps Jennifer Anniston is a career-crazed egotist. Perhaps she suffered in silence for years and is still acting more honorably than many people would expect, despite the media calling her a career-crazed egotist as a result. The Beckhams dealt with rumours about David Beckham's liasons with other women by restating their mutual trust in public, and having a third child. Who knows how things will work out for them. Private life in the public eye seems doomed these days, but life out of the public eye fares little better.

No, the point isn't new, but it does need to be made repeatedly. It used to be that people like Zsa Zsa Gabor, Mickey Rooney, or Elizabeth Taylor got married seven or eight times. They had grand, lusty, capricious personalities that fed their art (or, in Gabor's case, her celebrity), they got the attention of millions, and the tradeoff was that the hunger that made it all possible also made their personal lives a wreck. Because everyone knew they weren't like ordinary people, they were presented differently. One of my favorite bars--well, half the gay bars in the world, but only one I'm thinking of--is lined with pictures of stars from the Studio Era onward: Bette Davis, Ginger Rogers, Cary Grant. The literal halos aren't there as you move forward, but the poses are still frankly sculptural and larger-than-life.

Nowadays (I don't think I have many gay readers, but for anyone who's inclined to have a spaz attack at the way I'm treating stardom from the dawn of the talkie up to the early 1960s as one soupy, undifferentiated era--I know, I know; the line I'm drawing is crude, but I think it makes a genuine distinction easier to see), celebrity life and ordinary life have become closer together, and they've both suffered.

Everyday people who just want to live responsible, happy lives think they can do so by imitating Elizabeth Taylor. No, of course, no one actually sits there consciously emulating her, but the idea that commitment isn't really commitment if someone who wanders by strikes your fancy is clearly abroad in the land. Also, it's no longer just actresses who are attended to by expensive psychotherapist quacks; self-help for every Borders shopper is a huge industry.

That's not a new complaint, and neither is the one in the opposite direction: namely, that the obsession with making celebrities seem "real" has made them boring. In a way, the change is a moving reminder of the way regular folks have come up in the world. Most people can't afford live-in nannies or drivers, but even people of modest means play golf or go to health spas and what have you. We have unprecedented riches, to the point that movie-star life basically can't be as different from just-folks life as it used to be.

For the most part, though, it just means that stars look as schlumpy as the rest of us. Page through Vogue magazine to see what I mean--they'll try to cover for it by calling referring to it as "relaxed chic" or "bohemian glamour with a modern edge," but it's really just slovenliness of costume and demeanor. I have nothing against Renee Zellweger or Gwyneth Paltrow, but whenever I see one of them referred to as today's Grace Kelly, it makes me want to scream. There was something unassailable about Kelly; despite her composure, there's nothing unassailable about Paltrow, and that goes double for the gosh-it's-nice-that-people-like-my-movies Zellweger. I'm obviously not going to say that the loss of worship-worthy stars is at the same level of tragedy as the loss of the ability to value homely satisfactions. You can always reach into the past to watch Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, but you can't reach into the past and un-screw up your life. I think the issues are related, though.

It's interesting that Kim du Toit posted a series of pictures of Janine Turner this weekend, because I'd kind of been thinking about her myself.

Atsushi brought back with him a tape of an NHK nature special about Mandarin ducks, not just because I like those sorts of programs but also because of a now sort-of-ongoing joke. When I asked him to pick up another video while he was out shopping, he apparently went to the mystery section and found the series Agatha Christie's Partners in Crime. (The episode he chose, BTW, was The Affair of the Pink Pearl. Yeah, if they ever do start rounding up the queers and herding us into camps, this household'll be the first shoved onto the wagons, baby.)

At first, I assumed he'd picked one of them up because we've already seen all the Miss Marples with the unsurpassable Joan Hickson. Then I looked at the Japanese series title: おしどり探偵 (oshidori tantei: "the Mandarin duck detectives"). This will make sense to those who know the series from twenty years ago on PBS's Mystery! or who read the (badly plotted) novels on which it was based. Partners in Crime--it started as a book of short stories--centered around a husband-wife detective agency. The fun, of course, was seeing how they played off each other. At least, it was supposed to be. The books, as I said, were lame. The series was not, largely because the role of the wife, nicknamed Tuppence, was played by Francesca Annis.

Annis has been known at home in England for decades--I think she's most famous for playing Lady MacBeth. But she also participated in one of the gayest sequences in movie history--at the end of Joseph Mankiewicz's Cleopatra, as one of the queen's handmaids. She's not the one that gets to answer Octavian's retainer ("Was this well done of your lady?") with the gay-coronary-inducing line, "Extremely well--as befitting the last of so many noble...rulers," while sliding poisoned-ly down a polished stone platform. Annis is, rather, the one who hands Elizabeth Taylor the fruit basket, after which there's a brief but unforgettable shot of the darkly glossy figs being stirred from below by the asp.

Speaking of darkly glossy, by the time of Partners in Crime, Annis was mature and beautiful rather than pretty. The scripts frequently called upon her to feign innocence while asking a client or suspect some key question, and she did it expertly: the eyes widen and flash with what looks like guilelessness to the person addressed but can be recognized as shrewdness to the television viewer. And unlike today's flat-voiced starlet types, she could curl her voice up, down, and through syllables very expressively. Wonderfully pert carriage, too. It's a shame, as I say, that the plots made Charlie's Angels look intelligent.

And I realized while watching it this weekend that it was Francesca Annis whom Janine Turner had been reminding me of, which had been driving me crazy because I couldn't figure it out. One of the cable channels here has been broadcasting, for the last few months, this Lifetime serial about a women's clinic. It's called Strong Medicine, and the first time I happened on its opening credits, I noticed that it was produced by Whoopi Goldberg and was set in Philadelphia. So, of course, I was hoping that it would turn out to be some socially-conscious soap with campy, contrived subplots about women put in horrible positions by the Nasty Patriarchy. I mean, I grew up around people in straitened circumstances and do not dismiss real desperation lightly; by contrast, central-casting desperation, when done with sufficient ham-fisted ineptitude, can be a fiendish delight. And, you know, Whoopi Goldberg as executive producer? Very promising.

My stars, I was not to be disappointed. See, the Rittenhouse Hospital has an OB-GYN for the paying customers who's a luminously beautiful, kind of fragile white girl (this would be Turner's character). She gets to help the well-off with their genteel diseases and need for fetus-threatening surgery. She also gets to fence with the doctor who runs the free clinic. The free clinic, which serves The People, is headed by Dr. Chica Sista-Girlfriend, a Latina single mother who had to work her way through med school, fights for patients who are invisible to the system, and is always there for her son but still works her ass off at the clinic because she Really Cares.

The supporting cast has the unintended-comedy thing down pat, too. There's a male nurse-midwife--a scruffy, gentle-voiced vegan who prescribes massage therapy and stuff. The joke is that people sometimes think he's gay, but we viewers in the tribe know he's not because he quite clearly doesn't think his penis was made for anything except taking a wee-wee. Oh, yeah, and the hospital receptionist is a reformed hooker. She's a black woman. Guess what her assigned personality trait is.

No, really. Guess.
You lose. The correct answer is "shallowness." Kidding! Kidding! Of course, our reformed-hooker receptionist is actually a SASSY black woman. Whoopi Goldberg is looming over this show, after all. Now, the great thing about a program on this kind of PC autopilot is that you don't actually have to watch it to watch it. You can run the vacuum cleaner over the dialogue, go change loads of laundry, and cook in the part of the kitchen from which you can't see the TV, and as long as you saw today's subplots being set up at the beginning, you know exactly what will be happening when you come back in 20 minutes. Of course, you may be wondering why I'd bother, anyway. There are two reasons. One is that the commedia dell'arte levels of subtlety make many of the scenes irresistibly hilarious--and, as you might imagine, the more manipulatively heart-tugging, the funnier. The other is that, when Turner comes on screen, you can't look at anything else. She's given bad hair and make-up, and her chief job is to be thrown into emotional tizzies over her patients' predicaments, but you get the sense that she's overplaying because the director is pushing her to. In the scenes that don't have some kind of sociological point, when she's allowed to relax, the lower register in her voice comes out--both sexier- and more intelligent-sounding than the shrill "On my count!" breathiness she uses when things get frenetic--her brow unfurrows, and she seems as if she really could be a doctor trying to keep her equilibrium. She doesn't actually look or sound like Annis, and the personality traits she's portraying are different. Nevertheless, the effect is similar, because her voice becomes very musical, her eyes look keenly alert, and you get the feeling that she's graciously pretending to be acting in a better show than she really is. Added on 7 January: Revealing the dangerous murder-obsession we all know grips every private gun owner, Jeff at Alphecca also just posted something related to Agatha Christie, listing his favorite books of hers. All good ones. He's also correct that the movie adaptations of Ten Little Indians are all frightful. Directors just can't resist changing the setting to a shadowy, creaky old house and slapping on a happy ending in place of Christie's original very bleak one. I do think, though, that besides the abominable Miss Marple movies with Margaret Rutherford, the very worst Christie adaptation is the 1982-ish all-star The Mirror Crack'd. Angela Lansbury plays Jane Marple in lace-trimmed plunge necklines and with incessant, annoying tosses of the head. Elizabeth Taylor and Kim Novak humiliate themselves in roles as rival has-been actresses; and Rock Hudson walks around clearly thinking that, by comparison, it may not have been so bad to have to pretend to be in love with Doris Day, after all. A complete train wreck, and not a fun one, either.