A Timely Rant

There has been quite a bit of comment of late on Of Clay and Wattles Made, and most of it has been absolutely irrelevant. That is, the comments for the most part respond in some generic way to a posting—any posting, really—and then goes on to advertise another blog altogether or refers me to some website at which I might purchase something. Other than sex or painless dentistry I have not yet been able to figure out much what I am being offered, though today a comment sent to the blog post cautioned me against toxic mulch and directed me to a Nursery that I presume does not carry such product.

            Here’s the point: what the hell is going on? The incivility displayed by ignoring my post—lame as anyone but me considers it—to usurp my space for his/her own purposes, appears to me the epitome of the vulgarity of our time. I am appalled by the remarkably low level of public discourse and social display. Forget Congress! The papers have been filled for the past two days with comment upon the Oscar ceremonies. This one liked the host and that one detested him. That one thought him tasteless and this one thought him funny. This from the lead in the Times: “Jewish, women’s and family organizations on Monday publicly flung knives at Seth MacFarlane’s off-color Oscar show. Hollywood for the most part stayed true to form and aimed its cutlery at his back.” And the pictures of the best and worst dressed are splashed all over the internet and will certainly be a feature in People and Us.

            Who cares? Who cares about any of this? Best picture? Best actor or actress? Who is kidding whom? Why should one give measure to that measure at all except that the award will earn more money for the already grossly overpaid actors and actresses? How to compare Spielberg’s Lincoln, that I very much enjoyed and appreciated and admired, with Haeneke’s Amour which I appreciated, admired, and found so painful to watch. I loved Jennifer Lawrence in Silver Linings Playbook but there is no way to compare her performance in that movie with that of Emmanuelle Riva in Amour. I mean: the roles demanded such different evocation of talents that it is absurd to attempt to equate them so that one could win an award. How could a best actress not be in the best picture? And what about Argo made it worthy of the best picture. I came. I saw. I was not impressed.

            I am in the mood to rant. So much money and time is spent on this frivolity. I adore going to the movies: sometimes I think I am happiest sitting in the center of a relatively empty movie theater on any afternoon when the lights dim and the screen lights up. But I hate the idea of being subjected to this spectacle as some final measure of the product. I hate finally that my enjoyment is tainted by the necessity of public displays of false affection.

            To a person who doesn’t eat meat, no steak is good. I don’t care what people say about Quentin Tarentino’s films: I walked out of Pulp Fiction and have never returned.  His is not a world I want to enter, and that is for me a final arbiter of quality. I don’t particularly like what I think Tarentino thinks of me, the viewer,  that I would even want to enter the world of his films. Yet, there he was up for the award for Best Picture. Can’t people who like his movies go to them?  

            As painful as was Amour, it was a world filled with amour. But whether it was the best picture of the year: I couldn’t begin to measure. And few of the reviews I read of Silver Linings Playbook saw in it what I did, You’re right from your side, and I’m right from mine . . . why bother giving an award to either.

            So, to those who irrelevantly and rudely comment on my blog, and to those who give credence to any award: phooey on you. You should be ashamed.