Jockocracy: Part Deux

Years ago, Howard Cosell derided a trend in television sports toward “jockocracy,” the awarding of broadcasting jobs to athletes who hadn’t earned them.

I thought about this neologism as I watched Mark Jackson, the ESPN "analyst" assigned to tonight's NBA draft, begin every sentence with the supremely unnecessary phrase, "When you talk about..."

"When you talk about the Chicago Bulls, they need a strong guard."

"When you talk about the state of the NBA, it has many reputation problems."

"When you talk about the first round, there's a lot of quality big men available."

So either he thinks that suppositions of guard needs, reputation problems and big-man availability only become fact when you talk about them, or he is ineloquent.

Occasionally, Mr. Jackson throws us a curve ball (or, in the parlance of the NBA, a verbal dime) by instead saying "When you look at..." Either way, this disregard for basic phraseology is an embarrassment to an occupation whose primary directive is communication.

But there are a few other, all-too-familiar problems with tonight's broadcast that have nothing to do with an overmatched neophyte:

* Stephen A. Smith. This lousy writer turned "personality" is ESPN's "angry" basketball pundit. Like Jackson, he does to language what a certain block of ice did to the Titanic. Unlike Jackson, who at least has a pleasant countenance, Stephen A, as he annoyingly deems himself, conjures up bullshit rage over the most innocuous subject.

* Twelve "Experts", One Desk. When did it become de rigueur to cram enough gasbags around the half-moon desk to form a minion? This has the dual effect of 1) giving each commentator no time to actually say anything; 2) reducing what they do say to a mere...

* Cliché-fest. Jeff Van Gundy, praising a coach, said, "His real value is stressing the right way to play basketball." As opposed to the 29 other coaches who stress the wrong way? Doris Burke, working the crowd, asked mothers of drafted players such probing questions as "Are you proud?" and "How do you feel?" I would have paid a king's ransom to hear just one mom reply, "After the hell he put me through, I feel relieved that his first pro check will pay for my new house."

A Critic Is Made, Not Born

“With the Web, ANYONE can be a critic!”

A colleague recently made this stupid declaration as a rejoinder to my invocation of a witty, negative book review in The New Yorker. His point, I think, was that paid critics have no value anymore since everyone can now write posted reviews.

By this logic, my screwing in a light bulb entitles me to an union card from the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers.

Sadly, in our new digital age, any Middle Earth inhabitant with a computer is a self-proclaimed, and often accepted, writer/critic. But it is worth remembering that true arts critics – David Denby, Roger Ebert, Michiko Kakutani, Anthony Lane among them – care far more about the crafting of their own prose than serving up puerile “like it, don’t like it” proclamations. In fact, fine critical writing is best enjoyed after seeing or reading that which is reviewed, because its greatness lies in the ability to crystallize what makes a performance brilliant (or execrable) or to vividly describe an author’s unique narrative structure.

Contrast that with any of the “reviews” “written” by the cognitively challenged mammals on IMDB or Amazon.com or RottenTomatoes:

* From Paula’s review of Sex and the City: “I still prefer Hitchcock, but there's nothing wrong with enjoying what isn't.”

Forget the flailing sentence structure. The real touch of genius is, of course, the summoning of Hitchcock. Yes, like Sir Alfred, Michael Patrick King has directed a movie and he is a mammal. Any other comparison is bizarre; as comically unnecessary as stating a preference for Tolstoy over James Patterson.

* Speaking of that literary titan, here’s some trenchant commentary by “SamRocks”: “So, I'm addicted to James Patterson. There are many mystery writers who are better, and some who are a lot worse. With Patterson, at least you know that you'll get a fast-paced, action-filled book without a lot of descriptions.”

For one named with such confidence and self-regard, Mr. “Rocks’” defense of his hero is decidedly weak-willed in three ways: 1) the petulant adverb “so” that kicks off his thick diatribe; 2) the admission that “many” are better but only “some” are a lot worse; 3) his pride in Patterson’s dismissal of something as unimportant as, ahem, descriptions. James Michener, eat your heart out.

* “Fubar’s” dramatic pre-review of The Incredible Hulk: “I don’t like to put the car before the horse but I think it will be really cool. Can’t wait!”
I’m guessing that the problem here is not a faulty “t” on the keyboard of Monsieur Fubar’s Commodore 64, nor is his an ironic commentary about the entire industrial/electronic age devouring the soul of our country. No, my hunch would be that he thinks the phrase is as he has written. Meaning that he doesn't read. Meaning that he also says things like “Don’t count your chickens before they’re cash” and “I did it in one felt tip swoop.”

One more aspect of this post that bears ridicule: the “Can’t wait!” exclamation. I have seen thousands of examples of this breathless nonsense. Your excitement about something yet to be seen is of absolutely no interest to me, and even less to the written-word archives. Please save your Batman salivation for your friends at the Auntie Anne’s stand.

* Finally, enjoy these two posts about The Godfather; one positive, one negative, each stunning in its illiteracy and surrealist logic:

Positive: “I've seen more than my fair share of Marlon Brando films, and in my opinion the character of Don Vito Corleone is this actor's signature role. Truly Oscar-worthy.”

In two short sentences, this “review” contains three unpardonable sins: 1) “In my opinion” is arguably the most unnecessary of all phrases. We know it’s your opinion. It’s certainly not that of James Joyce; 2) The contention that Corleone is Brando’s signature role is laughably obvious -- the world waits for your next bold assertion, sir; 3) Calling a performance “Oscar-worthy” is the equivalent of calling a book “good.” Writing about performance is difficult. That’s why hacks resort to the lazy shorthand of “Oscar-worthy.”

Compare that with David Denby’s description of Robert Downey Jr’s performance in Iron Man: “Downey, muttering to himself, ignores everyone else in the movie for as long as he can. Fixing his eyes, at last, on another character, he seems faintly annoyed that his privacy has been violated. Yet he delivers—to the camera, and to us. He can make offhandedness mesmerizing, even soulful; he passes through the key moments in this cloddish story as if he were ad-libbing his inner life.”

In just a few lines, Denby gets at the compelling smugness of this actor. No empty blather about Oscars. And since an Oscar was given for the stiffly acted, caterwauling performance of Jennifer Hudson, it would be faint praise anyway.

Negative: “When an ethnic group creates an underground crime organization we laud it in films and books, but when real gangs break out they are feared on Channel 5 news. Double standard, right?”

Wrong. Bad behavior is bad behavior. What we “laud” is the craft of the filmmaking, the finely nuanced screenplay, Gordon Willis’s Rembrantesque photography, the operatic but controlled performances, the lush yet unobtrusive score, the juxtaposition of family values and business means.

Then again, what did you expect from someone writing as “Monkey Stick”?

Data Paralysis

On Saturday evening I watched The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, an acclaimed film about Jean-Dominique Bauby, the editor-in-chief of Elle Magazine whose sudden cerebro-vascular accident left him in a state of head-to-toe paralysis (referred to as “locked-in” syndrome). Bauby gradually learned to communicate using his left eyelid, the only part of his body over which he had any control. Eventually, using a communication code devised by his therapist, he was able to write a memoir of his struggle and triumph.

What makes the film uniquely fulfilling is its utter lack of sentimentality and its stirring beauty. Diving Bell was directed by Julian Schnabel who, throughout the 1980s, developed a neo-expressionist form of industrial art that alternates between the intimate and the grand, often within the same piece. He has stunningly transitioned this technique to Diving Bell. The early scenes are steadfastly shot from Bauby’s point-of-view. Only when he resolves to “release his mind” is the camera released, tracking over fields, meadows and food. More than anything, the film is a triumph of directorial vision.

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This all serves as background to the decidedly negative experience I had after returning the film. You see, I received Diving Bell through Blockbuster’s online membership. Their Web site, in its infinite wisdom, gave me three commensurate recommendations: Awakenings, Whose Life Is It Anyway? and The Elephant Man.

Great. So now I’m pegged as the paralysis/deformity movie lover.

In fact, Penny Marshal’s Awakenings is everything that Diving Bell isn’t, and I mean that in the most disparaging way. Robin Williams is in full “look-at-me-I’m-a-cuddly-bear” form. The score was written not in notes, but in dollops of syrup. And the “meaning” (See? We ALL need to be awakened from our daily stupor!) is an affront. Whose Life Is It Anyway? is redeemed by Richard Dreyfuss’s smart performance (the film was made about 10 years before he turned into a schticky caricature), but was directed with all the visual richness of an episode of General Hospital. David Lynch’s The Elephant Man has style to burn, but is a ready-for-prime-time version of his earlier Eraserhead.

Would it not make infinitely more sense to recommend other films directed by Schnabel, or, at least, directors of his ilk who tried their hand at making films in a foreign country? What about other films that shared the screenwriter? No, the fatheads who devised Blockbuster’s business rules have determined the single criterion by which I will judge a movie: level of infirmity.

The final insult occurred when I clicked “Recommendations” in their Web site’s main navigation. It led me to a page with 15 “we think you’ll like these” titles. They include The Chronicles of Narnia, which features a lion as Jesus Christ; The Green Mile, which features a black inmate as Jesus Christ; and Pay It Forward, which features Haley Joel Osment as Jesus Christ.

Hmmm...

Smells Opaque to Me

While at a friend's home last weekend, I caught the unmistakably acrid scent of one of those ubiquitous Yankee candles. Following my nose to the restroom, I discovered the culprit: Midnight Pomegranate. Although it smelled (unlit, mind you) more like an Old West whorehouse than the sublime Persian fruit, it wasn't the olfactory assault that I found most offensive. It was the adjective. What, I ask you, would have been different about Noon or even Brunch Pomegranate?

Yes, yes...I'm well aware that our fine candle manufacturers are selling romance and emotion, not merely aroma. But allow me to list some other puzzling candle (oh, excuse me -- "aromatherapy") names. Find the romance in these:

* Fall Festival -- Ah, yes. The heady blend of cheap, oily carnival rides, junk food and human sweat (these torture marathons are typically run at the end of Summer).

* Ocean Water -- I can almost taste the salt and dead plankton now.

* Farmhouse Apple -- There's a reason apples are sprayed and processed before getting to your supermarket shelves: to purge the farmhouse manure.

* Velvet Petals -- Velvet? I'm sure you'd agree that nothing smells quite as delicious as tufted fabric in which the cut threads are evenly distributed in a short, dense pile.

* Beach Walk -- Essence of sunburn, grit and chafing.

* Vanilla Lime -- Sweet bean plus tart citrus? Not since Roosevelt and Stalin has there been a less comfortable alliance.

* Wedding Day -- What exactly is the smell of broken dreams and deferred hope?

Tragedy Porn

There may be no more horrifying teaser than, "Tonight -- a two-hour Extreme Home Makeover." This "wholesome" show, in which a freshly traumatized family wins an insta-McMansion, is actually a revolting display of "reality" TV at its most false...and exploitive.

Consider the poor sods who have lost their family matriarch, spawned a mental cripple, been denied payment for an amputated limb, or gotten screwed by the local contractor. Are they deserving of a new dwelling? Of course. But first, they must endure today's most insidious device: the on-camera confessional.

Go ahead. Count how long the EHM lens lingers on the quivering, melted faces of distraught family members choking out their pain. All the while ABC happily counts its Sears money, hoping that millions continue to watch at home, chewing their schadenfreude-flavored cud.

Arguably more painful to watch -- and certainly more painful to listen to -- is the show's raspy, shrieking ring-leader, Ty Pennington. This bullhorn-toting madman, who occasionally moonlights as a spokesperson for an ADD drug (isn't he a walking advertisement for its lack of efficacy?) flies around the construction site as if nails are in his nads. He goads. He prods. He cajoles. He cares, dammit! And, of course, he and his lovable crew speak in clichés by the pound about the "amazing" and "brave" people whom they serve with the piety of Jewish carpenters.

I am tired of the reflexive moral elevation patronizingly bestowed upon victims of circumstance. Sometimes, the dying aren't brave. They're just dying. And for that matter, most of us do not need to have suffering pressed into our collective cornea to gain "perspsective" (another popular bromide of Ty's witless builders). Life gives us a daily dose, thank you very much.

If the hacks behind Extreme Home Makeover were truly interested in filming reality, they would observe the grim faces of the neighbors slightly out of camera range (behind Ty's belching, ozone-destroying bus) as they wonder to what lengths they would go for seven plasma TVs.

Her Annoying Holiness

Perhaps it is her perpetual invocation of “angels on earth.” Maybe it’s her honey chil’ patois fueled only by the presence of black guests. Possibly it’s her cameras-at-the-ready, “they need me” appearance at every international disaster (at least, the ones covered by ABC News). Or could it be her shameless, bug-eyed, bitten-by-rabid-squirrels studio audience?

For these and dozens of other reasons, Oprah must be sent away, camera-less, Steadman-less.

Living the Dream in the Big Apple

You live in Coffeyville, Kansas. Save for the occasional dip into Oklahoma, you've never set foot outside of the state. But that is about to change.

You've gathered the requisite funds for a three-day stay in New York City. The possibilities are endless. But you have a dream that extends well beyond Broadway, the Met or the splendor of Central Park. Television is your muse. You were born for it. And though a neophyte, you head straight for the media mecca, Rockefeller Center.

It is raining, but you don't care. The ink on your pithy, home-crafted poster runs, but you don't care. Elbows are in your face, but you don't care. You are in the presence of Al Roker.

And so what if your fellow screaming cattle keep you slightly outside of Al's immediate orbit. So what if Matt Lauer's contract has a stay-inside-during-inclement-weather clause. So what if the on-air "talent" would sooner spit on you than share a dialogue when the cameras are off.

Clearly a quarter of your face was visible! And methinks your caterwauling about Bobby Sue's birthday was audible. Kudos to you. You've made the big-time.