It's the Banality, Stupid!

A liberal acquaintance informed me he had something for me this Christmas. I thought it a bit odd as we aren't much more than nodding acquaintances. He told me it was a Catholic Calendar but that I should prepare myself; I was liable to be shocked.

"Bloody hell," I thought. "If this clown is going to foist some blasphemous image of the Blessed Mother on me I'm liable to clock him."

When he gave me the gift calendar I was puzzled. On the cover was a picture of St. Benedict, which seemed quite appropriate given that is the name our pope has taken. While he stood there with a self-satisfied smirk on his face I leafed through it trying to figure out what the deal was. It seemed a perfectly orthodox calendar with each month highlighting a different saint. Finally it dawned on me. Somehow I managed to stifle my laugh reflex. All the saints in the calendar were black. I was flabbergasted that he would think this edgy. I have doubts it was edgy 40 years ago. I resisted the urge to tell him I was routinely getting spankings from my grandfather in Birmingham when I was a pre-schooler for regularly sharing my candy and ice cream cones with my little black friends in the neighborhood. They didn't stop until gramps decided I was stubbornly and hopelessly reprobate and began introducing me in beer joints as his "damn little negro-loving grandson" (this quote has been sanitized for your protection). I decided not to mention my black son-in-law to him. What the heck; let the poor hick have his moment. I'm sure he has regaled some of his lefty friends with the tale of how he left me speechless.

A few years ago I attended the announcement ceremony of a candidate who shall remain nameless. She started off as the front-runner for the office she sought. Her speech was insipid and vanilla, but at least it was energetic. She was for fuzzy bunnies and all things bright and beautiful or some such. Fair enough...anyone who has been in politics has heard a variation of that theme a thousand times. But then she said, "Now some people have said I shouldn't tackle such controversial subjects. But I'm not afraid to take on the tough ones - and I'm going to do it because it's the right thing to do." That time I couldn't help it. I did start laughing out loud. Fortunately, only a few people near me noticed. She rapidly lost her front-runner status. Wonder of wonders, the anti-fuzzy bunny lobby had nothing to do with it.

These things came to mind as I read the critics' breathless reviews of the new movie, Brokeback Mountain, about two gay cowboys in the old west. I appreciate high art, even when its themes run counter to my moral sensibilities. I love Leo Tolstoy - and think his Anna Karenina is arguably a better novel than War and Peace. The homosexual love story in Virgil's Iliad is moving and my admiration of Plato is not in the least diminished by the frequent homosexual themes in his work.

The problem with the American left-wing glitterati is NOT that they deal with challenging, cutting-edge, and daring themes. Rather, it is that they rarely venture beyond the safe bounds of the prevailing orthodoxy. They treat themes that would have been bold 30 years ago with shocking banality and shallowness, then congratulate themselves on their boldness. Audiences are, indeed, left speechless. But it is not the speechlessness inspired by the likes of Virgil, Homer, Tolstoy, Wagner, Bach or Beethoven where one is transported by the beauty of genius: it is the speechlessness the old Cheers character, Cliff Clavin, inspired in his listeners - can you really be that much of a rube? We folksies are not astonished at them; we're embarassed for them.

When I come across a TV Preacher talking about love or a left-wing activist talking about compassion on television, there is a trick I use to determine if I'm going to give them a hearing. I mute the sound and watch their faces for a few moments. If their faces are mostly contorted in hate and rage I'm not interested in the brand of love and compassion they're peddling.

If you plan to see Brokeback Mountain I suggest a similar device. Imagine that the love interest is a woman. If, as I suspect, the love story then becomes insipid and formulaic your money would have been much better spent on something involving Julia Roberts, Meg Ryan or Sandra Bullock. (I'm actually rather fond of chick flicks. But when I see one, I want a chick worth watching). And here's hoping that in this New Year the glitterati will quit mistaking gimmicks for depth.