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Politics Short Essays TV and Film Writings

Angels and Perry Mason, Defend Us

At what point do we admit that we are wrong about something?

In most Perry Mason episodes that I remember, Mason interrogates the guilty party on the stand in a hearing and pushes them into a logical corner, where they promptly confess: “Alright, Mason, I did it! You got me!” Cut to Mason having a drink in his office with Paul and Della and reflecting on how he’d reasoned out the truth yet again, garnished perhaps with a bland joke.

In that neat fictional world, a game has been placed to completion. A winner is decided. The loser has conceded. A new legal and social ritual begins next week.

But the entire structure is dependent on the guilty party conceding. They never take the Fifth, delay the trial, refuse to attend the hearing. They fold when Mason raises with a full house, because that’s the best play for them and everyone. This is what I call the “Perry Mason” or “fair cop, gov” standard of guilt. When confronted with a reasonable proof of guilt, one concedes, because the contest is over.

To step out of the Perry Mason realm of logical accountability is to cease to be human and become something else, and so it never happens in the show.

Note that conceding is not apology. Mason is not trying to get his guilty party to apologize, but to just admit they are guilty and that they have lost, so the episode can conclude. We can see this same reasonable structure in another hokey TV show that began the year Mason ended, 1966. A little more aggressive, but Kirk always sought resolution before victory, and afterward, he reclines in his captain’s chair, attended by Spock and McCoy, and cracks a joke.

In all cases, the story must end so another can begin. The opponent at the very least must slink back in the shadows because if they don’t, a two-parter will be needed to resolve the tension.

But that is popular fiction – real life rarely resolves neatly into one-hour chunks, minus commercials.

I’m not saying real life never resolves. What I am observing is that the frequency of resolution seems to have declined from my perspective. What would have triggered an instant fold no longer seems to apply. It wasn’t that long ago that the simple accusation of an extramarital affair would have triggered an immediate resignation by an elected official. Fair cop, gov. You got me, Mason. You win this time, Kirk. Game over.

To be more abstract, I see much less of a closely shared sense of what constitutes decent behavior in any significant contest of wills.

So the problem is not a lack of apology, or the need for one, that is not being met. Rather, it is a lack of admission, to refuse to even admit wrongdoing in the face of the obvious.

Even Gollum followed the rules of his riddle-game with Bilbo (he planned to murder him at some point later, true, but the game itself was completed without fatality, so points where points are due).

But at some point, however, the Gollums of the world have learned that there is a certain power in not admitting defeat. They deny defeat itself, because they have learned that as long as they don’t admit defeat, their story can continue, opening other strange possibilities.

This of course offends my Perry Mason sense of morality. When someone who is obviously guilty of something refuses to concede, it’s maddening. Not that they’re logically inconsistent – that’s already apparent. No, it’s maddening in the sense that a refusal to concede erodes the game of society itself. It is both a deeply unconservative and completely illiberal action. I’ve written about the technique of fence-pissing before as a means of eroding societal discourse; the decline of the Perry Mason standard of guilt is a parallel phenomenon. It’s not quite the same thing, though.

The most obvious contemporary example of a Perry Mason violation is Trump, as he delays his trials again and again in the face of painfully obvious guilt, We can also see it in even weirder hangers-on like George Santos or Marjorie Taylor Greene or Rudy Giuliani, who in any other society would not qualify for the rogue’s gallery of 1966-era Batman as its members knew how to surrender to the authorities when the situation called for it.

That would have been a very different show if, say, the Joker decided that he wasn’t going quietly, he wasn’t conceding, and he would take down the entire structure of Gotham out of pure selfishness just to see if he could break Adam West. Cue the plot of The Dark Knight.

But there is no Batman. There is not even a Perry Mason. And despite the title, I don’t believe in angels. I do believe in people that have only the most shallow respect for rules or society, however.

And the episode does not end. There are no commercial breaks. No deus ex machina. If we are to build a culture with a Perry Mason standard, we will have to embody it and demonstrate its worth over the more selfish conceptions of life. If there are no Perry Masons, we must become them – and of the trio of fictional worlds covered here, his strikes me as the one closest to the ideal – a world where justice is still difficult to achieve, but possible with teamwork and diligence.

What troubles me, though, is that in terms of actual plausibility, Mason might as well be Kirk or Batman. What happens when Mason meets the crook that defies his logical courtroom trap, concedes nothing, and escapes to do more evil and mock any concept of justice?

For that, alas, is the show that we live in. Its ratings may be poor, but there’s nothing else on.

Categories
Politics Short Essays TV and Film Writings

The Knights of Gamestop

Seems all I do now is write about coup attempts.

The last one was pitiful. The most recent one, however, is not.

Storming the gates of Congress doesn’t seem to have made a fraction of the impact of a much larger horde of barbarian traders outmaneuvering hedge fund managers. No action scenes from the Capitol, just pasty folks swiping smartphones, but all the classic takeovers were accomplished with coordinated bureaucrats, so it’s fitting.

The company, however, is not. Gamespot is an antiquated storefront that has no realistic value in 2021, or even early 2020, the last time when a responsible adult could walk into one without a face mask. Not that there was any reason to do so. Everything they sell can be gotten far easier and cheapest online, and most of the console gamers have moved online as well thanks to applications in their consoles. Their PC presence is long dead, too, thanks to Steam. Unlike board gaming, which actually has a sustainable niche model for a storefront, Gamespot has no more future than the 1995 Blockbuster store that Carol Danvers crashed into early in Captain Marvel. The name has nostalgia value, sure, but not at $300 a share.

But hey. I am all for a legal redistribution of funds from the rich to the poor. This suggests a glaring logical discrepancy, then, in the name of the company Robinhood, whose app had a hand in making the short squeeze happen. The mechanics of their suspension of trading seem to have more to do with a glaring lack of financial preparation for a run on a single stock than the guts to empower their user base, but that reputation hit was a doozy. Errol Flynn to Eric Idle in one press release. It’s hard to recover an edgy stance after having gallantly chickened out.

There are bigger coups out there, of course. Brave Sir Robin is only one of the many technological knights pursuing the Holy Grail of transforming all humans into electrical conduits for profit. Facebook and Twitter, having reduced Donald Trump to a limbless social media torso that cannot acknowledge its electoral defeat, are marching on, regardless of what progressive Europeans think of their elderberry-smelling policies. The would-be autonomous collectives currently propping up Gamestop are just peasants mucking about in the mud and dung. Arthur has his eyes on the prize; Lancelot, more on ancillary carnage. C’mon, map them to who you wish; it’s pretty easy.

Needless to say, the end of that film is its most fantastic and unrealistic element. Having summoned a ragged army from nowhere, the shit-covered Arthur announces a frontal assault on a castle in a bog without a single piece of siege equipment handy. Cue the constables, who quickly round him and the knights up, hustled possibly to asylum care.

Does anyone seriously think the boldest and most dogged antitrust lawsuits could accomplish this with Facebook or Twitter or Amazon? In our world, the castle has long fallen. We are not even the French guys on the battlements, clucking disapprovingly and launching a cow or two without much enthusiasm.

No. We’re the peasants in the muck, ineffectually whining about the arbitrary nature of authority. Meanwhile, well-organized corporations took what they wanted, mostly because we gave it to them freely, accepting the growing tech feudalism with more enthusiasm than any historical serf. Broadband internet, a LCD TV, a smartphone and a game console, and you can take whatever you want from us.

Still, the film and legends do have one thing in common. The quest is a pointless one that leads only to tragedy and farce. Seeking immortality or a technological singularity helps no one. Even Indiana Jones figured it out in The Last Crusade, choosing family over glory.

I wonder if the knights of Gamespot will figure it out, too, or they will be like the fools of the Jan. 6 riot, a rogue wave trying to shatter a hydroelectric dam. They will not be the ones sitting at the right hand and left hand of the throne of the coming kingdom. Those seats are currently reserved for Google and Facebook, with a long and largely predictable queue just behind.

But don’t bother looking in another castle, Mario. The princess isn’t in this one. Or any other.

Categories
Short Essays TV and Film Writings

Making The Trench Run

I know that Luke Skywalker blew up the Death Star.

No. He didn’t. I know that. He’s a fictional character in a fictional story played by an actor in a film in 1977.

Emotionally, though, I know Luke Skywalker blew up the Death Star. I saw him do it. I was there. I felt it. In some ways, I blew it up myself.  

I know this as certain as my memories of the day I met my wife and when I was married and when our sons were born and when I earned my Ph.D. and every other major and minor life event. It is right up there, as it is the closest thing to straight-up myth that has ever come out of American storytelling.

Nobody thinks the events of The Godfather or Casablanca or Citizen Kane happened. Those are works of art and are clearly not real. Ditto Huck Finn and Grapes of Wrath and Beloved. They are all the tiniest of shadows on the wall of Plato’s cave compared to what, say, Disney’s Frozen has accomplished in terms of making images and sounds on film becomes something realer than real.

But today’s kids will never think the events of Frozen happened on an emotional level. Star Wars is the rare entry to a mythical category that even if you take all the works of narrative in human existence, only a few have reached. The Odyssey. The Bible. All five seasons of The Wire. Ok, maybe not the Bible. 

I remember asking an old Arizona roommate watching our college basketball team play on TV why he kept referring to the team as if he was playing. “We” scored two points, “we” needed to play better defense, when “his” ass was clearly sitting on “our” couch drinking beer. His instant answer impressed me: “Well, I’d be playing with them right now if I could!”

He wanted to be there. And in a way, he was there, even though he wasn’t, and couldn’t play basketball worth a flip. Likewise, if Luke hadn’t pulled the trigger on the Death Star, I was ready to hop into an X-wing and do it myself, and I know millions felt the same way.

Star Wars offers a world where friends are always lifelong and brave and true, and evil is both dastardly and easy to identify. Our world is monstrous, uncaring, and gray. Star Wars is only a gray universe in the sense that no one seems to wash their spaceships regularly save the Empire, which marks them as completely evil and makes Finn’s janitorial background in Awakens apropos.

Heroic journeys in such a universe have a narrow set of reasonable plots. You can take away the hero’s strength and have them prove themselves without it. You can make them doubt themselves so they can regain faith and resume their quest. You can threaten the people they love so they can save them. Or, in the least interesting variant, you can give them a worthy opponent to defeat. Or you do all of these at once, which Star Wars does.

Good myths allow straightforward and uncomplicated tests of virtue. We like to identify ourselves with a cocky kid from a farm who would climb into a spaceship we’ve never flown before and fly a suicide mission to save people we’ve never met and do it with one second left with our first shot only with the help of true friendship. The Russians never built a Death Star, but the most pacifistic American would have blown it and its tens of thousands of employees to smithereens in the 80s had an X-wing been available.

It was never a tough call. It still isn’t. And it’s all very silly.

Emotionally, though, it’s quite real. And it’s not silly. Not at all. Not because there are no Death Stars or X-wings, but because in the real world, Death Stars and X-wings are far harder to identify. They can take almost any form, and most disturbingly, the people sitting in the Death Stars think they’d make that trench run, too, not thinking about how they are far closer to a comfortable bureaucrat like Moff Tarkin than any honest rebel scum.

As for the ones sitting in the cockpit of an X-wing, they usually don’t have Red Squadron backing them up, and so they never get the nerve to make that trench run when it comes time. There are moisture farms to maintain, droid-free bars to tend, profitable mining operations to supervise and deals to make with the Empire. You know how it is. You can’t change the world, right?

Subtracting these two catatonic groups leaves only the shady criminal underworld that seems to be 90% of the Star Wars galaxy population. That’s probably why Jabba the Hutt passes for the leader of the free world these days. And of course, he thinks he’s Luke Skywalker.

But he’s not. Luke Skywalker is the guy who blew up the Death Star. Or, rather, he was the guy who realized he could blow up the Death Star and did, with a little help from his friends. Self-actualization is part of everyone’s dream.

Sure, call it space opera, puerile escapism, a childish thing that should be put away, the new ones not up to snuff with the old, even, if you’re feeling purist. But most narrative can’t touch a sliver of what that film did and still does.

Akira Kurosawa’s The Hidden Fortress is often cited as a precursor to Star Wars from a stylistic sense, but the one that I think of more is Ikiru, which, if you accept my analogy, is about a broken man who thinks he has toiled inside a Death Star for years and then suddenly realizes he’s in an X-wing and there’s a trench in front of him – and then he makes the trench run.

But Kurosawa doesn’t end the film there. The last third of Ikiru is the man’s funeral, attended by his depressed coworkers, who eventually depart without any confidence they will be able to duplicate his feat in their terminally bureaucratic mindsets. His brief glimpse of the ultimate is thus passing, brief, and lost, save to the viewer, perhaps.

That is cinema. Star Wars is not cinema, not by Scorsese’s standards, certainly. There is no hard look at the inevitable nature of death and the corrupt duality of man; Skywalker is not FMJ’s Joker. But his moment of surrender to the Force that allows the trench run repeats endlessly in an eternal present that is only dated a long, long time ago. He will always be right there, ready to make the trench run again,  forever in my streaming queue.

I watch the first film when it has been too long since I felt the quiet rush that comes with doing something unquestionably good. Empire is better, a classic, surely, far more artfully written and presented. And Return juggles its end-of-the-trilogy job as well as it possibly could have. But they don’t have the moral clarity and epistemic power of a classic myth. The Death Star was destroyed, yes, but it will also be destroyed tomorrow and the day after that, as much as Luke fired the causal torpedo and will do so again.

The story will be retold as it was told before.

I am in the middle of reading The Hobbit to my five-year-old son. We get through a few pages a night.

He does not understand much of it yet, but he does understand there is a journey, and there are heroes and those that help them, and there are bad guys, and there is suspense and danger and more than a little humor. He is often worried about the progress of Bilbo and the dwarves, and why Gandalf is so cantankerous and unreliable.

I reassure him even as Mirkwood closes in, though. I know how the story ends, I tell him. I’ve read it before. It was the same last time, as it will be once more. Bilbo did get to the Lonely Mountain and back again. I’m as certain of that as I know that Luke Skywalker blew up the Death Star. The narrative is fiction, but the emotional truth is not.

Humans respond to a call to the good in different ways – indifference, cynicism, opportunism, name your sin. The best reaction that we can build and encourage is a default urge to help despite danger. My son’s admiration for firefighters – it was not long ago he watched some fight a fire a street over from ours – suggests he is on a certain path where he will have some resistance to the default quiet ambivalence I’ve noted in most, where the world is what it is, and he holds no responsibility to improve anything but his own lot.

Perhaps I have overstated my case, though. Perhaps he will grow up and dutifully fire the giant laser that destroys Alderaan. I doubt this, however. He does not respond well to orders. I can’t even reliably get him to go to bed on time, and his sneaky methods of candy acquisition suggest I am raising a Han rather than a Luke.

But his sense of right and wrong is developing on schedule, in fits and starts, much like mine continues to develop. Anything that can keep us going in the right direction helps – even a fictional past.

So I will read to him as Bilbo nears the Lonely Mountain, and we will watch Luke take out the Death Star again and again. The impossible will always be there when we need it to remind ourselves of what is possible.