Posted by: striphe on: December 22, 2008
Cast of Characters
McDougal…………………………… Director of accounting for the Patterson Ad Agency
DeSoto……………………………….. McDougal’s secretary
Higgins……………………………….. a bean-counter
Connelly……………………………… another bean-counter
Van der Graaf………………………. another bean-counter
Stradlater…………………………….. another bean counter
Patterson……………………………… chief executive of the Patterson Ad Agency. His office is one floor above everybody else’s.
Time
A Friday morning, earlier this year.
Place
Fifth floor of the main office building of an advertising agency.
Setting
It is the end of the week in a contemporary office environment. Most employees are content with their jobs, although they also feel that there is a lot of drudgery to office work. Lately, an odd string of thefts on the fifth floor has left the workers feeling uneasy.
Scene 1
An elevator opens. A handful of employees walk out into an office setting and go to their desks and cubicles. As they do so, they greet each other with “good mornings.”
STRADLATER
Working here used to be not so bad. What the heck is going on with all our missing stuff? I mean, so far it’s just a few office supplies and baubles and what not, but what if it gets worse?
HIGGINS
Yeah. I don’t know how this started or who started it, but it’s gone way too far. Management should do something. I’m going to talk to the VP about all this. Right now.
VAN DER GRAAF
(Aside) It looks like the walls are closing in. This all started with me trying to maneuver Connelly out of the picture for my promotion. Maybe I’ve gone too far.
CONNELLY
(Aside) Van der Graaf is still here. Maybe I haven’t gone far enough. Time to really do something bold. Snatching that audit report they’ve been working on all month ought to do the trick.
(CONNELLY notices that MCDOUGAL, the VP, is occupied, talking to Higgins. Sneaks into MCDOUGAL’S office, finds a huge binder marked “Annual Audit,” and makes his way back to his own office.)
CONNELLY
Today, Patterson & Associates Advertising, accounting division! Tomorrow, the world!
Scene Two
(Fifth floor, same day, an hour later).
MCDOUGAL
Secretary! Can I see you in my office in a minute?
DESOTO
Of course. I’ll be right in. (Enters McDougal’s office, closes the door)
MCDOUGAL
I’ll get right to the point. We have a problem. The Annual Audit our division has been working on for weeks? It’s gone. I can’t find it anywhere.
DESOTO
What? But we all worked hard on that, like, forever. What happened?
MCDOUGAL
I don’t know. I need you to help me find it.
DESOTO
What can I do?
MCDOUGAL
For now, just ask around and find out if anyone’s seen it. Maybe somebody picked it up? By accident? Meanwhile, I’ll call a meeting and see if we can’t get everyone to redo their spreadsheets and reconstruct the report.
DESOTO
But that might take days!
MCDOUGAL
We need it now. This is the only thing I can do. Thanks. (Steps out of his office.) Can I have everybody’s attention, please?
(All the accountants look up from their cubicles.)
MCDOUGAL’S
We have a huge problem. Our audit’s gone. I need it re-written.
(All the accountants gasp in their cubicles.)
HIGGINS
But we worked on that for weeks!
MCDOUGAL
Shut up, Higgins. If we don’t do the audit, the Board will send investigators.
HIGGINS
Bring ‘em on! Plenty of things need investigating around here.
MCDOUGAL
Who said that?
(CONNELLY and VAN DER GRAAF point to each other. HIGGINS points at DESOTO.)
MCDOUGAL
Shut up, Higgins. When they investigate, they’ll find out what it is we really do down here.
CONNELLY
Which is what, exactly?
MCDOUGAL
Shut up, Connelly. Nobody knows what we do, and I’d like to keep it that way. So hop to it people. Get this report done asap.
Scene Three
(It is lunchtime. VAN DER GRAAF, HIGGINS, and STRADLATER sit around a table, playing cards.)
VAN DER GRAAF
How was your vacation?
STRADLATER
It was grand! I’d never been to the west coast before. Look what I brought back! (Digs into her purse and produces two snow globes, one from Los Angeles and one from San Francisco).
HIGGINS
This is the best hand ever. Looks like I win! (Places his cards on the table.)
VAN DER GRAAF
No, actually this is the best hand ever. I win! (Places his cards on the table.)
(HIGGINS gets mad, begins to yell unintelligibly. HENNESSEY
tries to plead with HIGGINS to calm down. In the confusion, VAN DER GRAAF quickly takes the snow globes off the table and puts them in his pocket).
HIGGINS
I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m so on edge. I just keep losing all this stuff. It feels like my things just fly out of the room whenever they want.
(VAN DER GRAAF exits. A card falls out of his sleeve as he leaves.)
STRADLATER
I know what you mean. I try not to let it get to me.
HIGGINS
You do always keep your cool. What’s your secret?
STRADLATER
Xanax. Want one?
HIGGINS
I was afraid you would never ask! I can’t find mine.
STRADLATER
That explains an awful lot.
Scene Four
(CONNELLY’S cubicle, just after the lunch hour. While Higgins stands around just at the cubicle’s entrance, CONNELLY sits at his computer, working on spreadsheets).
HIGGINS
Something is fishy around here.
CONNELLY
What do you mean?
HIGGINS
It’s not just me. Everyone in the office has been having stuff come up missing lately. The other day it was Stradlater and her coffee mug. Today it’s her snow globes. Before that, it was her potted plant. What gives?
CONNELLY
A potted plant?
HIGGINS
Clearly, someone is messing with us. I talked to the bosses about it, but I don’t think they really care. We need to do something (Exits).
(DESOTO enters).
DESOTO
Hey Connelly, I need a favor.
CONNELLY
Sure. What’s going on?
DESOTO
Well, we have to present our audit to the VP today, and we can’t seem to find the report.
CONNELLY
So I’ve heard. Shouldn’t McDougal have it?
DESOTO
No. We think it’s been misplaced (Trips over a potted plant placed behind a stack of papers). You’ve got a lot of stuff piling up in your office these days. No chance the report is somewhere in here?
CONNELLY
Feel free to look around, I guess.
DESOTO
Is that a new hat you’ve got there? It really clashes with your jacket.
CONNELLY
Um. But it brings out my eyes.
DESOTO
If you say so.
(DESOTO gives the cubicle a once over, but nothing strikes her. She leaves and goes to HIGGINS’ cubicle.)
DESOTO
So. I was wondering about something. Did I hear you say you’ve had some of your things stolen this week?
HIGGINS
(Snorts) Is that what you heard?
DESOTO
I thought I did. Maybe we could help each other.
HIGGINS
Oh, I’m sure you have no problem helping yourself.
DESOTO
Whoa, down boy. I think you’re getting ahead of me. Can you explain what you mean?
HIGGINS
Oh I think you know what I mean.
DESOTO
I’m pretty sure I don’t know what you mean. What do you mean?
HIGGINS
You and our boss must be getting a real kick out of watching the rest of us scamper around, frazzled and frayed.
DESOTO
Wrong, Higgins. Some of us are just as frazzled and frayed as you are. Whatever. Could you just make sure you’re done on time?
HIGGINS
Whatever.
DESOTO
Whatever.
HIGGINS
Hey, what ever happened to my fancy hat? Oh who cares; that Xanax is finally kicking in.
(Not hearing him, DESOTO leaves, walks to VAN DER GRAAF’S cubicle).
DESOTO
So. Whatcha got going on in here?
VAN DER GRAAF
I’m putting cover sheets on my TPS reports.
DESOTO
(Picks up bottle on the desk) I didn’t realize you were on medication.
VAN DER GRAAF
(Takes the bottle from her) Oh that? Those are just vitamins.
DESOTO
I’ll bet they are. Oh look. I didn’t know you like to travel (picks up a pair of snow globes from VAN DER GRAAF’S desk).
VAN DER GRAAF
Just to those two cities. Lovely ones.
DESOTO
Look, Van der Graaf. The jig is up. I know what’s going on.
VAN DER GRAAF
(An ace of spades falls out of his sleeve). All right; ya got me. I cheat at cards. I play on my lunchbreak. Don’t tell anyone. Here are your TPS reports. Okay, thanks, bye.
(DESOTO shakes her head and leaves).
VAN DER GRAAF
This is a fine mess. I’ll have to throw her off my scent ASAP, and hopefully on to Connelly’s. (Patterson, the company’s chief executive, walks by the cubicle. Sensing an opportunity, Van der Graaf quickly pilfers Patterson’s phone, which is hanging on his belt). Now to stash it in Connelly’s office and make sure someone finds it.
Scene Six
PATTERSON is walking around on the floor. He stops to talk to HIGGINS, then CONNELLY. Meanwhile, DESOTO and MCDOUGAL can see him from MCDOUGAL’S office.
DESOTO
Uh oh. Look who’s coming. I still haven’t found the report. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’m pretty sure Van der Graaf had something to do with it.
MCDOUGAL
Excellent work. I’ll deal with him.
DESOTO
That Higgins is also up to something. Best do something about him too.
(PATTERSON enters MCDOUGAL’S office, with VAN DER GRAAF in tow).
PATTERSON
I’ve just received a complaint about office supplies missing. What’s going on in this office?
MCDOUGAL
Uh, this is the first we’ve heard about it sir. I’ll look into it right away! We’re getting the audit ready for you to look at.
PATTERSON
That was supposed to have been ready by now! What is it you guys do down here, anyway?
MCDOUGAL
Many important things! Don’t worry; we’re just running some final checks. The report will be ready for you very soon. I promise.
PATTERSON
Well, that’s great. Now I’ve got to call and tell the entire board of directors their yearly audit is still not ready. (Searches pockets for his phone). What happened to my Blackberry?
VAN DER GRAAF
We’ll find it, sir! I’ll call it from the desk phone.
(Ringing is heard. They follow the sound, through corridors and cubicles. At length, they come into CONNELLY’S office. His arms are full of papers. Connelly is momentarily surprised by the ringing cellphone in his desk drawer. He quickly silences it, then picks up his own phone.)
CONNELLY
Hey everyone! I’ll be right with you in a second. I’ve really got to take this. (Into the phone) Hi snookums! I wuv you very much!
(A lengthy pause ensues, as nobody knows how to react).
PATTERSON
Of course. Sorry to disturb you. Everybody else,back to work!
Scene Seven
(A poorly lit conference room. Connelly and VAN DER GRAAF sit at opposite sides of a table, with MCDOUGAL standing over them. All of the items stolen this week are piled in front of him, on the table.
MCDOUGAL
A hat. Five points to Van der Graaf. A coffee mug; another five to Van der Graaf. Bennett’s potted plant. Five points to Connelly. A deck of trick cards. Interesting; ten points to Van der Graaf. Snow globes; not particularly my style, but I’ll bet the sentimental value on these is sky high.
VAN DER GRAAF
I agree.
MCDOUGAL
Glad that’s settled. Twenty points to Van der Graaf. Valium? Really? Valium? And by the label, it’s Higgins’. Twenty points to Van der Graaf. The boss’s Blackberry. Thirty points to Connelly.
VAN DER GRAAF
No fair! I stole that.
MCDOUGAL
Then how’d Connelly get it?
VAN DER GRAAF
I tried to get him caught. It was a complicated maneuver. Unfortunately for me, it seems to have backfired.
CONNELLY
(Chuckling) It sure did. With a bit of quick thinking, I turned it into a score. I am a genius.
MCDOUGAL
Shut up, Connelly. Brilliant move by the way. (To VAN DER GRAAF.) What can I say, kid. Possession is nine-tenths of the game.
CONNELLY
It sure is.
MCDOUGAL
Patterson’s Annual Audit Report. Thirty points to Connelly again. Nice job on that heist, by the way. God I hate working here. I’ve always thought Patterson was a total jerk. What do you think?
CONNELLY
I agree.
MCDOUGAL
Glad that’s settled. Anyway, it looks like you win Connelly. Sixty-five points. The promotion’s yours.
(Suddenly, DESOTO stumbles into the room, disheveled. She and PATTERSON are embracing and making googly eyes at each other.)
DESOTO
I am so glad this week is over. (Kisses Patterson, then turns around). What the hell? I thought everyone had gone home. Wait, what’s going on here?
MCDOUGAL
(To CONNELLY and VAN DER GRAAF) Gentlemen! I guess the game’s over. You two are fired. Have a great weekend!
Posted by: striphe on: June 12, 2008
I am not into hip-hop. I have never been. I never look right in the clothes. I walk too stiffly to roll with gangstas. I’ve had a lisp all my life that makes me sound dumb when I try to sing or rap. I am aware that this makes me uncool and nerdy. Although my age puts me squarely in with the bracket that grew up on hip hop, I am by all accounts an outsider to the culture. Yet I’ve got nothing against it. The only way this affects the substance of my argument is that there will be no name-dropping, no insiderey mention of “talented artists” to confirm my cultural cred.
There seems to be this unspoken theory, stuck there in the backs of the minds of anyone pondering the state of the modern world, that Culture originally floated down to us on seraphim wings. Culture, by this theory, was originally divinely inspired. Any developments since the dawn of time are, by definition, a corruption.
Therefore, the coming of age of every new generation has always been accompanied by hand-wringing over what the whippersnappers are into these days.
So.
Hip-hop makes our young men into violent misogynists. It makes young women into sluts. Fifty years ago the same thing happened with rock n’roll.
I hear Elvis swung his hips around sumthin’ awful! Decades later, rock is iconic. The music, the culture, the celebrities are ingrained into The American Identity. Modern rock has stolen hip-hop’s birthright.
The generation before that probably also said that swing dancing promotes sin, which in my humble opinion, is not necessarily a bad thing.
The young ‘uns were even out of control 3,000 years ago. Scope out Ezekiel 23:
1: The word of the LORD came again unto me, saying,
2: Son of man, there were two women, the daughters of one mother:
3: And they committed whoredoms in Egypt; they committed whoredoms in their youth: there were their breasts pressed, and there they bruised the teats of their virginity.
Gals like that are great at parties. Later in one sister’s life:
19: Yet she multiplied her whoredoms, in calling to remembrance the days of her youth, wherein she had played the harlot in the land of Egypt.
20: For she doted upon their paramours, whose flesh is as the flesh of asses, and whose issue is like the issue of horses.
21: Thus thou calledst to remembrance the lewdness of thy youth, in bruising thy teats by the Egyptians for the paps of thy youth.
People say this stuff about everything. People said Paris Hilton was ruining culture. They say Facebook and blogging are ruining the world. They say cable TV is ruining the world. I guess we would all be better off if we lived our lives the exact same way the previous generation lived its lives. We would all be better off if, instead of developing, nothing ever changed at all.
We’re not all perfect. No one is a model citizen. No culture has ever been an absolutely perfect culture. Whining about the decline of civilization is as old as civilization itself. The only thing that’s actually being lost is one generation’s domination over the culture, as the next pries it out of their reluctant steely grip. The hand-wringing is, by and large, the expression of resentment over a loss of cultural power.
Are there pernicious elements to modern culture? You bet. But does everyone seriously believe that they just sprung up out of nowhere, that we just made up misogyny — among other things — all by ourselves? We got it from the last generation of culture; we inherited the art, the social hierarchy, the everyday social interactions, and in turn made all this into our own, just like every generation had done before. We play with it a little; maybe fight it a little, maybe accept it a little, and who knows what else.
But for some perspective on this phenomenon, I shall cite Sturgeon’s law: ninety percent of everything is crap.
For someone to sound the ‘end of the world’ alarms, he invariably has to cite the very worst examples of hip-hop culture, the gimmicks and stupidity that pander to the lowest common denominator of market shares; basically, everything you see on BET, and take these base examples to represent the entire culture. This is like pointing out a girl’s most hideous Halloween costume and then talking about her as though she wears it to work every day.
Even if someone did dress like a sexy jungle cat every day, so what? Bootyshaking and making cuss words rhyme is simply not the end of the world. It strikes me as arrogant for someone to pronounce it so. It seems to me that the biggest motivation behind such a pronouncement is to try and arrogantly put yourself above the culture, that this would be done out of fear and lack of understanding. That, for me, is the key: how can someone declare that hip-hop is leading us down a bad path? How would such a person know how any of this will turn out? Even Miss Cleo isn’t that good.
The introduction of mass media in the 20th century obviously put a megaphone in the hands of almost anyone who wanted it. No longer is hip-hop or any culture fully “marginalized.” No longer is it something you can find only by being cool enough, by knowing the right people, having the right style and knowing exactly what block to hang out on at the right time of night. Now it’s on your boob tube and in your face, even if it’s part of Sturgeon’s crappy majority, and if you don’t like it, you actually have to put some effort into avoiding it. Those who dislike it might resent having to actively avoid it. So they take their megaphone and rail against it louder and more stridently, which usually comes off as comic to the cool kids — the people they’re trying to malign.
Am I saying all the old-time fogeys shold just take a chill pill and let modern bootyshakers run amok? Absolutely not. The hand-wringing performs two valuable services for hip-hop.
Yes, it serves as a conscience, identifying and keeping the nastiest, most depraved elements in check. But it also gives legitimacy to an urge to push the envelope. A young subculture, revelling in its newfound acceptance, requires its detractors as a way of keeping its fresh, edgy feeling.
They are the waters being tested. As such, they are a vital part of the culture too. Offending the detractors is the surest way to know you’re crossing boundaries; crossing boundaries means you’re discovering something new, and that is the job of art.
Posted by: striphe on: June 9, 2008
One night two winters ago I was hanging out at my crappy retail job with a customer whose sense of humour was sharper and more flippant than mine (that never ever happens). Impressed with him, I called him “my nigga.” I’m actually very nerdy and square, so this was out of character for me. But I did it anyway, because I felt like it.
A white coworker who overheard me told me never to use that word. Instinctively, I thought who the hell is this chick that she can tell me how to talk to other black people? But then I thought long and hard aboujt the word, its painful past and the confusion tangled up with it today, and I very compassionately told that girl to GROW UP. This, for me, was what it’s about: on what basis is she judging me? What gives her or anyone else the authority?
It’s patently obvious that the word today carries several meanings. In order for that girl’s indignation to be valid, she has to commit a huge equivocation, making it out that the word means something different and far more offensive than I, the speaker, actually meant, which is also something my girlfriend does when we argue, and it’s just annoying.
The word’s Black detractors, too, fuming with memories of invective heaped upon them from decades past, insist that calling your buddy “my nigga” forgets the painful history behind the word. No disrespect intended, but that’s rubbish. We are reminded of the meaning and the history all the time. Even using it playfully: “my nigga;” even this only conveys a modern sense of cameraderie only because of its dark past, no pun intended.
Black or white, you and your nigga together are the ultimate outlaws. Not many other words carry that sense of absolutely not belonging where you are; of feeling the loathing of the entire world, like a sunburn on your exposed parts, whenever anybody looks at you. A friendship based on ‘we are outsiders together’ is a bond for the ages. You’ve gone where no one else can go; your loyalty is so strong, so primal as to be superhuman. A mighty oak of an endearment, growing out of the dung, the fertilizer of one of the most vile insults this great nation can imagine — which is one way of saying we’ve got no imagination.
It would really be something, wouldn’t it: a good word coming out of a bad one. On the other hand, it’s also the most normal thing in the world. It happens all the time. THIS IS HOW LANGUAGE WORKS. It’s a linguistic inevitability. Words shift meanings.
The biggest and most cited example is the gay-lesbian-bisexual-transgender community’s reclaiming of the word ‘queer.’ My personal favorite is the word jazz. It was based on a West African sexual term and originally used by the white musical establishment to slander the type of music niggers liked. Then suddenly everyone liked it! It’s no longer slander! Being jazzy isn’t crude sexual innuendo. It’s the paragon of artful class and technique and charm and fun. The word jazz is everywhere! The language is much richer for it. Because the language itself is jazzy. To insist that this one world has one meaning and one meaning only is patently ridiculous.
If we continue down this hysterical path, the following will happen: two years from now, Fox News will air some stunning expose. “This is how black guys talk when they think white people aren’t listening!” And it will be white people enforcing this. Rules are rules, after all. The dudes they “expose” will have to hire publicists and apologize to America on Larry King. “We’re really making some racial progress,” litigious-minded white hacks will say to themselves, smugly. And this type of verbal policemanship reminds me of Orwellian newspeak — eliminating colourful words from language as a means of controlling thought, which is not very jazzy at all.
Why must we get our collective thongs in a bunch over this one word, of all things? When Boondocks’ creator Aaron McGruder visited my university, he was asked about his characters’ use of the “n-word.” He responded, “I’d rather people say ‘nigga’ than say ‘n-word’ because n-word is stupid. It’s fundamentally immature, like saying ‘dookie’ among first-graders; like we are running from a truth we all know is there.”
“I certainly understand the sensitivity and power behind it,” he continued. But it’s vapid and pointless to huff and puff all your outrage on that. “There are lots of people whose job it is to keep the conversation of race at the level of ‘we shouldn’t use the n-word on TV’,” he said, which keeps us from finding any real resolutions to real social problems.
We have more important things to worry about. This is a single word. This word itself is not racism. The fact of saying the word, in and of itself, is not racist. White people have said evil things; condescending things; fearful, sinister things, but not one has ever said the word ‘nigger’ directly to me. That’s the way it works: a backhanded pearl, so subtle, so well-placed; it doesn’t say ‘nigger’ so much as insinuating it. This has happened to me. But no one has actually said the word. I have occasionally pictured how it would happen. I’d be working behind the counter at Blockbuster. Some cranky, middle-aged Brentwood housewife, juiced on Starbucks’ caffeine and late-fee rage, sneers at me across the counter, then turns away, muttering “nig-ger,” just loudly enough for me and no one else to hear, leaning into the first syllable like she wants the word to bend over and topple on me.
Coming from her, would the word carry enough weight to crush me? I doubt it. The forties are over. I’d probably just laugh it off. I certainly wouldn’t feign indignation or even surprise. There’s a certain type of white person who, whenever his mouth is open for more than 30 seconds, let’s face it: you feel like he might say “nigger” or “faggot” at any moment. He probably wouldn’t even mean anything by it. He could be recommending an accountant. “This one Jap handles my taxes. He’s terrific!”
Posted by: striphe on: May 1, 2008
Tracy One
INT. BREAK ROOM, MORNING.
(Liz, Jenna, Tracy)
JENNA IS SITTING AT A TABLE WITH A LAPTOP IN FRONT OF HER. LIZ WALKS IN.
JENNA
Can you believe Starbucks was closed today?
LIZ
The entire city must be grinding to a halt right now. What are you up to?
JENNA
I can’t get enough of this celebrity gossip site. It’s so funny.
LIZ
Hey, that looks like you! Sort of.
JENNA
It is me! (reads caption). “Jenna Maroney is apparently the worse for wear from Starbucks’ three-hour shutdown this morning. Who is this mysterious hottie with her? An assistant? Maybe they should switch places for a day, if only to cheer up our sleazy cameraman.”
LIZ
The nerve!
TRACY
They’ve got a point. Even your smile came out frumpy. I can see the frumples on your cheeks.
LIZ
That, sir, was uncalled for.
TRACY
Sorry, Liz Lemon. I didn’t mean to make both of you feel frumpy. But Jenna doesn’t quite fit in with my peeps the way she looks now.
DOT COM WALKS BY WITH A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN ON EACH ARM. THEY WAVE TO TRACY.
CUT TO:
Jack One
INT. THE HALLWAY RIGHT OUTSIDE THE ELEVATOR – MORNING
(Liz, Jack, Kenneth, extras)
JACK MEETS LIZ HEADING TO HER OFFICE.
JACK
Hi there Lemon. All rested up for a big week?
CUT TO A MONTAGE: “FRIDAY” FLASHES ON THE SCREEN. WE SEE LIZ LYING AROUND ON THE COUCH, WATCHING TV. “SATURDAY” FLASHES; LIZ, AGAIN, IS ON THE COUCH. THERE ARE DIRTY DISHES PILED UP NEXT TO THE COUCH. “SUNDAY” FLASHES NEXT; MORE DISHES PILED UP.
LIZ
Yeah, more or less.
JACK
I hope you didn’t just languish on the couch, watching TV and ignoring your dishes the whole time?
LIZ
(SURPRISED)
No! Why, what did you do, try out for the Olympics? With your heart, you could make the French team.
JACK
Very funny, Lemon. No, actually the Wall Street Journal’s new owner took a bunch of us to lunch at his country club. We all had a rather pleasant afternoon! For his age, the guy is into some pretty extreme sports. Croquet, archery, polo, clay pigeon shooting, and competitive cash burning.
QUICK CUT SCENE OF JACK, STANDING OUTSIDE IN A CIRCLE WITH OTHER EXECUTIVES, SMOKING CIGARS AND CHORTLING AROUND A CONFLAGRATION OF DOLLAR BILLS.
JACK (chuckles).
All in all, it was a satisfying weekend.
LIZ
I’ll have to take your word for it. What did you mean when you said “big week?”
JACK
The network just decided to make some of our shows available on the Web.
LIZ
Excellent!
JACK
We were hoping you and your team could get together, read through the scripts for some of the old shows, and write some synopses for them.
LIZ
I don’t know. We’ve already got –
JACK
Fantastic! Thanks Lemon. I knew I could count on you.
JACK
(OVER HIS SHOULDER)
Just bring it to her office, guys!
KENNETH AND SOME OTHER PAGES WALK BY WITH HUGE CARDBOARD BOXES FILLED WITH PAPERWORK.
JACK
Just have Kenneth bring it back to me when you’re all done.
CUT TO:
Cerie One
INT. DR. SPACEMAN’S OFFICE
(Cerie, Dr. Spaceman)
CERIE IS SITTING IN THE CHAIR OPPOSITE DR. SPACEMAN’S DESK, FLEXING HER ELBOW.
CERIE
I’m not quite sure exactly what caused it to hurt, but I’ve been picking up a lot of stuff lately. Paper, pens, clipboards. Lately Liz has been giving everyone a lot of stuff to do.
DR. SPACEMAN
So you have a heavy workload?
CERIE
You can say that again.
DR. SPACEMAN
Do you often have trouble focusing on getting through your workload?
CERIE
Yes. It’s a good thing the guys around the office are so helpful.
DR. SPACEMAN
Cerie, I think I’d like to have you try something to help you focus on your work.
HE PRODUCES A WHITE PLASTIC BOTTLE.
CERIE
What’s that?
DR. SPACEMAN
This is Adderall. Sweet, sweet Adderall. Taking this should really help your day go smoothly.
CERIE
Will this work better than my Prozac?
DR SPACEMAN
Satisfaction guaranteed.
CUT TO:
Toofer One
INT. ROUNDTABLE ROOM – MID DAY
(Pete, Frank, Toofer, Cerie, Liz)
THE WRITERS, MINUS LIZ, ARE SITTING AROUND THE TABLE BRAINSTORMING AND AD LIBBING CONVERSATION.
CERIE ENTERS, SHIFTS AROUND AN ARMLOAD OF PAPERS. PUTS HER BOTTLE OF ADDERALL ON THE TABLE.
PETE
Let me help you with that. Oh, whatcha got there?
CERIE
Oh, Dr. Spaceman gave me some Tylenol or something. I don’t need it any more.
PETE
My head hurts a little bit. Couldn’t get my caffeine fix this morning. Mind if I have one?
CERIE
Sure. Go ahead.
PETE TAKES A PILL.
TOOFER
Umm, that’s not Tylenol. Read the label: That’s Adderall. My classmates at Harvard, where I went to school, used to take that stuff in order to crank out, so to speak, term papers.
FRANK
No kidding. Did you ever try any?
TOOFER
Absolutely not! Winners don’t do drugs. Ha ha, just kidding. Cerie, may I have one?
CERIE
Sure. Knock yourselves out. I don’t really need it any more.
CUT TO:
THIRTY MINUTES LATER. LIZ ENTERS.
LIZ
Sorry guys. I had some stuff to finish up. How’s it going with the work I gave you guys earlier?
FRANK
We’re all over it. Want some uppers?
FRANK HANDS LIZ A CANDY BOWL OF ADDERALL.
CUT TO:
Tracy Two
INT. THE SET OF TGS.
(Liz, Tracy, Jonathan, Kenneth)
TRACY IS STANDING AROUND WAITING FOR THE NEXT TAKE. LIZ WALKS ONTO THE SET TO WATCH.
TRACY
How are you doing this afternoon?
LIZ
My staff is on drugs.
TRACY
Now you know I don’t have nothing to do with that. What other adults choose to do is up to them. I don’t create the demand. I respond to it. That’s the American way, Liz Lemon.
LIZ
Relax. I meant this.
PRODUCES BOTTLE OF ADDERALL FROM HER POCKET.
TRACY
Uppers? Has the culture of the workplace really arrived at the point where, instead of dealing with our problems through personal, human interaction we have to medicate our way into achieving productivity quotas? Ha, just kidding. But come to think of it, business has been a little slow lately. I wonder if this is the new thing.
JONATHAN WALKS BY, WITH TWO GIRLS FROM TRACY’S ENTOURAGE.
JONATHAN
So, I told Mr. Donaghee, ‘no, you put those cover sheets on the TPS reports yourself! Ha ha ha. [The girls giggle]
LIZ
How’d he get so popular?
THEY BOTH LOOK AT EACH OTHER
TRACY
Naaaahhhhh.
KENNETH WALKS BY WITH A GIRL ON EACH ARM.
TRACY
Oh no, Liz Lemon. You’ve got to put a stop to this.
LIZ
Oh really?
TRACY
Winners don’t do drugs, Liz Lemon!
CUT TO:
Liz One
INT. LIZ’S APARTMENT. EVENING.
(Liz)
THIS IS SHOT LIKE A MONTAGE, QUICKLY CUTTING BETWEEN EACH THING LIZ DOES.
SHE TAKES THE BOTTLE OF ADDERALL OUT OF HER POCKET AND SETS IT DOWN ON HER COFFEE TABLE. STARES AT IT. GOES TO THE KITCHEN AND COOKS DINNER. WHEN DONE, SHE BRINGS IT TO THE COUCH. EATS DINNER WITH TV ON; BOTTLE IS STILL ON TABLE. THROUGHOUT DINNER AND TV-WATCHING, SHE INTERMITTENTLY STARES AT THE BOTTLE. FINALY, SHE OPENS THE BOTTLE AND TAKES A PILL. SHE CONTINUES WATCHING TV.
THE REST OF THIS SCENE IS DISPLAYED AS THOUGH LIZ IS MOVING AT FASTER-THAN NORMAL SPEED.
AFTER A WHILE, SHE GETS UP AND STARTS CLEANING. THEN SHE WASHES DISHES. THEN SHE DOES LAUNDRY. THEN SHE RE-DECORATES THE ROOM. ON OCCASION, SEEMS TO USE “THE FORCE” TO MOVE FURNITURE AND OTHER ITEMS AROUND (POINTS TOWARD ITEMS AND MAKES THEM LEVITATE).
WHEN DONE, SHE SITS AT THE COUCH, ARMS FOLDED, TAPPING TOES. SHE BRINGS OUT A REMINGTON TYPEWRITER. SHE SITS AND BEGINS TO TYPE. TIME PROGRESSES; LIZ PUTS ON A VISOR AND STARTS CHAIN SMOKING AS SHE TYPES. THE COMPLETED SHEETS OF PAPER PILE UP. THE SUN COMES UP. SHE APPEARS SATISFIED.
CUT TO:
__________________________________________________________
Jack Two
INT, RIGHT OUTSIDE JACK’S OFFICE.
(Liz, Jack, Jonathan)
LIZ STORMS TO THE WAITING AREA RIGHT OUTSIDE JACK’S OFFICE. SHE FINDS IT STRANGE THAT JONATHAN IS NOT THERE, SO SHE TIMIDLY PUSHES JACK’S DOOR OPEN.
JACK
Is that you, Lemon? Come on in. Jonathan was just about to serve lunch. Have some bread.
HANDS HER A RESTAURANT-STYLE BREAD BASKET.
LIZ
Where’d the basket come from?
JACK
Jonathan made it as he was baking the bread. Which
reminds me.
[IN LOUD VOICE]
Garcon! More bread, please!
JONATHAN
Coming right up!
JACK
So Lemon, what can we do for you today?
LIZ
Well, it’s just that everyone has been acting pretty strangely around here.
JACK
How so?
JONATHAN COMES BY WITH A BASKET OF BREAD AND A SILVER PLATTER WITH LUNCH ON IT. AS HE PLACES THEM BOTH ON THE TABLE IN FRONT OF JACK, HE IS TALKING INTO A WIRELESS HEADSET.
JONATHAN
Bon apetit!
JONATHAN
[INTO HEADSET] Sounds like a plan. I’ll have the boys in legal fax you the details.
LIZ
Sorry, is this a bad time?
JACK
No. This is perfect, actually. I’m having Jonathan negotiate for the next season of Friday Night Lights. So, you were saying everyone’s acting strange?
LIZ
[LOOKS FROM JONATHAN TO JACK]
Oh, yes. Remember that massive amount of work you gave me yesterday? Well, everyone’s finished it already.
JACK
What’d you do, put a gun to their heads? Congratulations on successful delegation. I knew you had it in you, Lemon!
JONATHAN
[OVERHEARD]
Can I put you on hold for a second? Thanks.
LIZ
No, you don’t understand. I think someone gave the entire staff —
JONATHAN APPEARS BEHIND JACK. GESTURES FOR HER NOT TO MENTION THE ADDERALL. PHONE RINGS.
JACK
Oh, that must be my one o’clock. Jonathan, can
you take that, too?
(ENTHUSED, TO LIZ)
I wonder what he’s on today, eh? He really is a dynamo today!
CUT:
Posted by: striphe on: April 14, 2008
This report concerns the Yiddish accent in English. The accent is commonly understood to be used among New York Jews. It came to America with the culture of Yiddish-speaking Jews who immigrated in the late 19th century to avoid Russian pogroms. Yiddish is the language of the Jewish Diaspora. As such, it is an immigrant language. A pidgin language. A creole. It originated with Jews in Germany, who tossed Slavic, Old French, Old Italian, and medieval German into a bowl of Hebrew. Presto! Yiddish.
Much of New York’s intellectual circle in the early ½ of the 20th century was Jewish. As such, their writings wedged their way into the zeitgeist of the intelligentsia, especially among aficionados of American literary society. Much of their culture has been coded into novels that have become quite popular.
My favourite example is Philip Roth, who won critical acclaim for his first book, Goodbye Columbus. His second, however; Portnoy’s Complaint, made him hugely famous. It was the story of a Jewish boy growing up with way too many Oedipal issues; and how as a grown man, these issues still affect him way too much. The book was actually meant as one big dirty joke, a satire of psychoanalysis, and the narrator peppers the text with Yiddish words. Roth was especially fond of using the following:
Reading Portnoy’s Complaint, I couldn’t help but notice that every time Roth’s narrator used one of these words, it showed up in italics, drawing special attention to itself in print. Years after I read this, I temped in a Jewish synagogue. Yiddish was used relatively frequently, but it sounded just like it had been written in that book. When Cantor Frenkel spoke, one could almost hear him underline the Yiddish words he inserted into conversation. As though each word was some kind of celebration of familiarity, a secret handshake or a verbal elbow-poke that everyone else could see.
Using Yiddish this way doesn’t have the quick, fluid ease one might expect from polyglots and code-switchers. For example, I have observed Spanish-speakers speak English, but then switch to Spanish when they want to talk about you behind your back, then back to English to avoid drawing suspicion to themselves. Yiddish doesn’t quite work that way. This is because hardly anyone speaks the language fluently any more.
In the short story “Envy, or Yiddish in America (from which this report takes its title),” Cynthia Ozick touched on this subject:
“The language was lost, murdered. The language – a museum. Of what other language can it be said that it died a sudden and definite death, in a given language, on a given piece of soil?”
Yiddish is disappearing. A significant portion of those who spoke it fluently died during the Holocaust. In America, those who could speak it fluently are frankly very old. One crisis facing America’s Jewish community is the likelihood that Yiddish will die with its elderly.
“To speak of Yiddish” is “to preside over a funeral,” Ozick wrote.
The Yiddish accent, appearing in English, closely resembles the New York accent. In the late 19th and early 20th century, Jewish immigrants came to the U.S. through New York City and tended to live in the same neighbourhoods. Later, Jews spread to communities in other cities. In major metropolitan areas (Chicago, Los Angeles, North Miami Beach), the accent is still strong within the Jewish communities. One interesting observation is that, among other ethnic groups; Chinese-Americans, Chicanos, et cetera, the children of immigrants tend to lose their parents’ accents relatively quickly. Among Jews, however, the accent persists among immigrants’ children and their childrens’ children. Thus, you will find the accent strong among Jewish communities in New York and Los Angeles, even though there is obviously no longer an influx of Jewish immigrants from Europe.
Outside of a concentrated Jewish population, however, young people tend to lose the accent anyway. I’ve met a few Jewish people in Manhattan and I could not detect a trace of the accent. For a long time, years ago, I dated a Jewish girl who had grown up in Wisconsin. She was very conscious of a certain Jewish identity; linguistically, this came out the day she taught me how to say “Chanukah:”
“Hanukah,” I said.
“No. You’ve got to ‘hk’ your ‘hs,’” she said. “Almost like you’re coughing up something from the back of your throat.”
Although the accent resembles what we think of as the New York accent, it also includes certain Eastern European characteristics. Like with Slavic languages and Hebrew, it has the guttural K sound, distinguishing it as a Satem language. Another feature is that with someone who has a thick accent, “we” sounds like “ve.” It also employs an R-less pronunciation, but instead of just omitting the “R,” that section of the word is often replaced with a velar glide. “Where” would sound like “way-uh,” and “portion” would sound like “po-uh-shun.” This is not as smooth-sounding as, for instance, the Boston accent; rather, that velar glide gives special emphasis to the vowel sound. In many cases, the new schwa sound inserted into the word receives slight emphasis with an upward intonation. The aforementioned girl’s mother would pronounce the Spanish “Rancho” as “reh-an’-cho,” after which I often mocked her. For that I am deeply sorry.
A number of Yiddish words have entered common usage in English:
Many varieties of English have acquired a romantic character. To the American ear, Scottish or Irish carries a musical rhythm. The Yiddish twang, however, does not. The dialect seems to be pronounced with a nasally quality. People scrunch up their noses to mock it, like Dr. Hateley did when mocking you wacky Kansans.
Additionally, a great deal of the vocabulary is bound with a specific religious and cultural aspect; yarmulke, mohel, gefilte fish are not quite as portable and attractive as certain colourful Texanisms, and lack the “American” character of a proper New England WASP’s cheerfully condescending dialect. It also sounds very close to the New Jersey accent, exemplified among the wives in “Goodfellas,” which often strikes people as sounding low-class, thus casting the accent in a negative light in popular consciousness.
Because of this, to the rest of American-English speakers, the accent often comes off as somewhat shrill, perhaps even obnoxious. It is not propagated in popular music or movies with the same exotic glamour bestowed on the die-hard Southerner or the swaggering, blue-collar Irishman.
But for those who are in on the secret, speakers often take delight in this marginalization of the dialect. Use of Yiddish, even if it sounds somehow awkward or self-conscious, is a triumph, a celebration, a linguistic festival. Mazel Tov!
Posted by: striphe on: March 11, 2008
E
INT. CAFE NERVOSA. ROZ IS SITTING AT THE TABLE. FRASIER ENTERS AND SITS WITH HER.
ROZ
Hey Frasier. Shouldn’t you be at the station with Bebe, going over your contract?
FRASIER
Not just yet. (TO BARISTA) Can I have a double expresso, please?
ROZ
Wow, that’s gonna be hard to wash down.
FRASIER
Believe me, it’s not as bitter as my regret.
ROZ
Why? What do you mean?
FRASIER
Well, last night Bebe came by to talk about the state of my contract. We had a little to much to drink, and one thing led to another.
ROZ
Frasier! You must really drive a hard bargain.
ENTER NILES
Hi Roz. Hi Frasier. How’s it going? (TO BARISTA) I’ll have a double caramel macchiato with whipped cream and a fudge ribbon. Shaken, not stirred.
FRASIER
Having that in a small, misery, or extra defeated?
NILES
Maris left the race for wine club president. I must admit; I am partly relieved. It seemed like she couldn’t handle the pressure.
FRASIER
How could you tell?
NILES
When she’s stressed out, sometimes her complexion takes on a sallow, lifeless hue. (A BEAT)
ROZ
She wasn’t recharging in her coffin every night? Did you put a stop to that?
NILES
Well, last night, seeing her relaxed, lying in bed so peacefully, with the barest hint of a smile on her lips, it did cross my mind to wake her, but I thought better of it.
FRASIER
She still doesn’t know you can see her through the keyhole? (A BEAT)
NILES
So how’d it go with Bebe this morning?
FRASIER
I think it went well. I explained things to her calmly, and I don’t think she took it too hard.
ROZ
Wait a minute. You didn’t dump her, did you?
FRASIER
Well, we both have a good working relationship. I didn’t want to undermine that.
ROZ
Real smooth, Frasier. Isn’t she negotiating your contract this very minute? What makes you think she won’t do to you at that table what you did to her last night?
FRASIER
She’s professional and savvy. I have complete faith in her.
ENTER BULLDOG, frantic
BULLDOG
Hey guys, I’ve been looking for you all over! Bebe’s about to jump off a building!
EVERYBODY GRABS THEIR THINGS AND RUNS OUT OF THE BUILDING, EXCEPT NILES, WHOSE EXPRESSION TURNS SMUG.
Posted by: striphe on: March 1, 2008
What, exactly, does “national population policy” mean, if not forced abortions and euthanasia? What else could it possibly mean? Would it make sense to carry out these things in the most prosperous nation in the history of the world? In the nation that’s currently ranked the 179th most population-dense (out of a possible 242) – is there really a problem with resources? Is this policy consistent with our nation’s ideals – guaranteeing a right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?
There are never too many white people. Never too many rich, overcaffeinated jerks. Never too many corrupt powerbroking politicians. Never too many contractors, squeezing city halls dry all across America. The prevailing myth is that it’s always too many illegal Mexicans and too many black welfare mothers draining everything from Good Wholesome Citizens.
With a “national population policy” I picture something like forced abortions in China. Or something out of Margaret Atwood’s novel – the Handmaid’s Tale, in which the state dictates what you can desire, when you can desire it, and not a moment before or after. I picture a world wherein the Undesirable People are cruelly made to vanish from the Desirable Places in order to make room for the privileged, the higher-born, those who would benefit from the policy instead of fearing it, those who can manipulate the laws they write in order to suit themselves, and to hell with the rest of is.
Unacceptable.
It’s time to realize that we are not anywhere near overpopulation. According to Wikipedia, the United States is the 179th most population-dense out of 241 (the data was compiled before Kosovo’s independence). The very world “overpopulation” is just fearmongering and scapegoating, smoke and mirrors, a myth to keep the downtrodden clawing at each other tooth and nail for food and jobs and gas and clothes and heat and electricity and water that’s supposedly “limited.”
Just the other day, scientists reported a way to extract carbon dioxide from the atmosphere and convert it back into usable fuel. It’s an expensive process, for now. The necessity of it, like with computers and cellphones and automobiles, will stimulate increased production, then increased availability, which will ultimately drive the price of the process down. I hope. Once we, as a society, can make it so that clean air is no longer a threatened resource, hopefully we can follow suit with other resources.
Food? We’re about the most obese nation on the planet AND WE STILL throw away more food than some poor nations even consume. So obviously, the problem is not one of lacking food. The problem lies in getting our excess food to those who really need it. Charge a bit more for food, use that charge to subsidize distribution for food. The obese middle classes will be less reluctant to overeat, the poor will stop undereating, the universe inches closer to harmony.
Housing: In Los Angeles, my hometown, there is no hope. In Kansas, where I live now, hosing costs are actually not preposterously disgustingly sky-high. Less demand here, obviously, but maybe not everybody can live in the mot densely populated areas. Why not encourage people to eke out a living in rural areas, where they can afford it?
Health care: there are a couple of good people running for leader of the free world, who, if elected, will work hard to institute plans that will make sure we’re all cared for, and that we don’t have to force abortions or euthenasia on anyone, and although I am not a religious person, I pray to God with all my might that their dreams come to fruition. That’s the beauty of having a democracy with leaders who have society’s best interests in mind: I don’t have to solve all of our problems as long as I vote for someone who can.
In conclusion: we’re not playing a zero-sum game. Scarcity is artificial. The problem is one of distribution, of getting resources to the right place rather than letting a greedy few gobble them all up and blame scapegoats for draining it all. One day we might become the advanced aliens we see in sci-fi movies; the luminous beings with the domineering sense of culture and technological prowess – the ones who descend in a glowing pillar of light from a giant levitating disc, having cross the span of millions of light years and are merely annoyed, even though they haven’t aged one bit; those who have made themselves immune to genetic infirmities, infectious diseases, environmental pollutants, those who can spread peace and enlightenment to the far corners of the universe – those imperious cowboys could be us, if we make knowledge a priority and stop wasting money on bombing Islamic nations.
Posted by: striphe on: January 9, 2008
Are monsters born or are they made? How are they to be understood? Shakespeare’s The Tempest, as well as Shakespeare Behind Bars, present us with compelling and complex views of civilization and its discontents.
Prisoners live in an completely different world, entirely cast off from the rest of “humanity.” But when the camera takes us behind the bars, it presents a picture of prison life. It makes life in prison, as a monster, seem not so bad, seem not so different from our own lives. They hang out and shoot the breeze. They go about their chores. They overcome racism and struggle to come out of the closet. They get together and do Shakespeare, just like we do in class! Oh my gawd! Surely they can’t really be all that bad, you say to yourself, watching Caliban’s actor crip-walk as Triniculo raps some dialogue in style.
If the monsters can enjoy Shakespeare as much as we can, this humanizes them, as they become more like us. It also criminalizes us, making us more like them.
And despite the fact that the criminals are cast-off monsters, they started out just like us. They rejected that which was human through a specific historical act. Antonio and Sebastian almost did just this when they had the opportunity to kill Gonzalo in his sleep. Convicts know this dark side of the soul can lurk within any of us. On that basis, they feel guilt and experience redemption. It makes it possible for the camera to have anything to show us at all.
This point seems to be underlined in Measure for Measure. No one’s born a criminal; under the right circumstances, any of us can become one. “How would you be/ If He, which is the top of judgement, should/ But judge you as you are,” pleads Isabella to Angelo. And the incognito duke performs a sort of Shakespeare Behind Bars in order to understand the truth of his own city.
Caliban is a completely different breed of beast.
Caliban did not originate with this common understanding of the brotherhood of Western Civilization.
He starts out as snarling monster, chafing himself against the bars of the cage of servitude in which Prospero has imprisoned him. “You taught me language; and my prof’t on is, I know how to curse.”
Caliban originates with what the poststructuralists call “radical alterity,” a fancy way of saying that no matter what he says, we really have no idea what he’s thinking. He shows an obsessive attention to the “natural” features of his environment; the animals, the landscape, and the flora. We don’t really know what to make of this. We know what the landscape and the flora and the fauna are, but Western thought’s system of values doesn’t care about these things as much as Caliban does and hardly knows what to make of them, except to eat and drink until it finds a way off the island.
And yet, there’s more to Caliban than that. He dreams:
Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.
It’s beautiful. The recognition of beauty connects the monster to what we believe is essentially human, a belief that guides the hope that performing Shakespeare can reform convicts. And although at first Caliban’s prose seems to come out of left field, his tone also suggests that there is also something unknowable and sublime about ourselves. There is a monster within all of us.
How do the monsters understand us? The fairies of Midsummer Night’s Dream are basically frolicky people with magic powers and magic potions. There’s no other way to show them. Yet, they seem to be pretty sure they’ve got us pegged. “What fools these mortals be,” observes Oberon.
Is there necessarily a human inside every monster as well? Shakespeare wants us to think so of Caliban. And there is no escaping this: no matter how hard he tries, the Bard cannot pen a single word from Caliban’s mouth or imagine a single thought in Caliban’s head without employing human language and looking at him from a human point of view. This is the trap the postmodernists call “ethnocentrism!” Anais Nin once said “We see things not as they are, but as we are.” No matter how monstrous, we can only see the monsters in relation to ourselves, our language, our culture; thus absorbed by language, even differences can become likenesses.
Humanism, therefore, demonstrates the belief that nothing human is really alien to us simply by brushing that which is really alien to us. The camera can show us what the prisoners are doing and what they are saying, even capturing difficult and complex confessions. But it can’t show us why they got there: a historical event, involving victims that, in many cases, are no longer alive to speak on their own behalf. Although we watch Caliban’s character performed, we only catch him in glimpses. He is just words; we cannot see into his head or into his soul. Even the moment when we feel closest to him is a moment marked by a tone of profound mystery.
Posted by: striphe on: January 9, 2008
From the very beginning, Lear and his daughters had already staked out sides, were a battle to ever occur. This play is not the construction of those choices. This is the conclusion. And from the beginning, Cordelia’s nature is just as determined as Regan’s and Goneril’s. Cordelia’s angelicity (?) manifests by a reaction and aversion to her sisters’ animalness. From the beginning, therefore, man’s angelic potential is simply another type of taste. The angel has always been just a special type of animal.
Respect for others, reverence for the truth, and lack of self-centeredness characterize those with “angelic” natures. Cordelia, Kent, and France show this toward Lear, and expect the same from him. While Goneril and Regan make their foray into the text with a power struggle, Cordelia begins with a dilemma: isn’t her father playing a rather stupid game? “What shall Cordelia do? Love, and be silent” (I.1/line 54); “My love’s more ponderous than my tongue” (lines 70-71). When the time comes for her to play along and give false praise, she responds with nothing.
Cordelia has the capacity to overcome self-serving instincts and understand what’s really going on and how damaging it is. And she is not worried about gaming this rat race; Kent and France see this quality in her.
Kent: Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least
Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound
reverbs no hollowness.
Thus, Cordelia, representing humanity’s angelicity, unbound by material selfishness, is free to think and speak with truthfulness and respect toward all those around her. Being truthful shows respect and optimism towards the best and the highest in her her father.
True to angelic form, once Cordelia has said her piece, she is taken out of the play for its majority. Free to think, she is subsequently proscribed from any action. Her absence, however has a definite effect on the rest of the play. Without even being present, she nevertheless hovers invisibly over everything else.
This invisible hovering, even in her absence, suggests the importance of her angelesque nature. It hinges on virtues, which are important even when she is gone. Her presence takes the form of a loss that must always be recuperated. Thus Cordelia and her angelicity achieve a transcendent quality; virtues can last forever, even surviving despite and perhaps because of the disappearance of a “real” flesh-and-bone avatar.
The memory of her stands in relief against the predatory actions of her sisters, as they callously spurn their father. This reminds Lear the Thickheaded not only of the benefits of having a daughter who respects him, but also what those benefits are really worth: everything.
When Cordelia comes out of retirement, all the way in IV.4, she cites her affinity for “unpublished virtues of the earth,” perhaps innocently alluding to the fact that she is one of those virtues.
Despite its insistence on careful thought, informed judgement, and knowing the truth, man’s angelic side is either unwilling or unable to comprehend the animal side. Cordelia illustrates this fault with her parting words to her sisters: “Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides; who covers faults, at last shame them derides.”
Idealistically, Cordelia exhorts the angelic side of other natures, even when there is none. It misconstrues the animals as angels, and treats them so. As if outlining their vices will reduce them to quivering husks of shame, sorry for all the trouble they’ve caused and eager to repent. It just doesn’t work that way. Animals do not feel shame. Like the Terminator, they do not feel pity, or remorse, or fear, and they absolutely wil not stop, until you are dead.
Though animals and angels are invariably always at war, they each see the conflict differently. The angel seeks to reconcile with the other side. The animals hold more of a take-no-prisoners state of mind.
Because of this, the animal side experiences a converse type of liberty. Free from thinking, the beast is free to act. Goneril and Regan, the predators of this tale, are all appetite. They understand intuitively that one must often act without thinking, lest thinking not only delay action but call it into question and thus prevent it altogether. This is illustrated, somewhat, in the text, in that there is no lapse between Lear’s injunction to praise him and Goneril’s panegyric. She did not have to think about what she was doing it, why she was doing it, and how to go about it. She knew it instinctively.
Goneril and Regan are like lionesses stalking prey. Among a pride of lions, the females of the species carry out the lion’s share, so to speak, of the hunting. They are good at it. They are clever. They team up. They hide in tall grass, creep downwind of their prey so their scents won’t be detected. And when everyone’s in place, a lioness strikes! Panicked, the herd runs away from her. South, toward the river. They’re getting away – no, wait – is that another lioness? It was all a clever ruse, and now everyone’s trapped. From here the huntresses have an easy time picking off their prey.
Goneril and Regan did this when sucking up to Lear to get a share of the kingdom. Sure, they used flattery and words instead of teeth and claws, but the same predatory principle was in place.
Oops! They did it again, in II.4 when sending King Lear back and forth over the issue of disbanding his 100 knights. In I.4, he accused her of serpentlike behavior – in King Lear, Shakespeare’s characters associate the serpent with backstabbing and double-crossing:
Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend
More hideous when thou show’s thee in a child
Than the sea-monster.
Also:
How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is
To have a thankless child.
Oh snap! Thus feeling weepy and betrayed, Lear flees from Goneril: “Degenerate bastard! I’ll not trouble thee; yet I have left a daughter\.” He seeks out Regan, who he believes will “flay” Goneril’s “wolfish visage.” But the sisters are secretly in collusion, and Lear is unknowingly stepping into another lioness’ den. Trapped, Lear is coerced into completely disbanding his army of merry men.
Goneril: What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five, to follow…?
Regan: What need one?
They take their father’s well-being lightly. Later, when they hear that Gloucester has acted to save Lear from their “boarish fangs” (III.7/57), they punish him in such a merciless manner, it is as though they cannot take suffering seriously. The tone of the Great Gloucester Gouging (III.7) feels sort of like Seize him. Gouge him. Okay, we’re done; send him out and let him walk it off. And while he’s out maybe he could pick up my drycleaning. After they are finished, Regan says “Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell” (line 92). There is no hint of conscience or reflection. To them, Gloucester was just prey.
Without even thinking, the predators know what to make of everyone else. Goneril and Regan don’t need to understand anyone, as long as they know how to handle everyone – which is the same way they handle anything at all: kill it and eat it. No one is safe. It should come as no surprise that, in V.3, these bloodthirsty sociopaths end up killing each other. Goneril even instigates it with the same amused malice she takes to everything.
Regan: Sick, O, sick!
Goneril: If not, I’ll ne’er trust medicine.
Their deaths create what is always my favorite moment of any work of fiction: the moment that is best described as all hell breaking loose (Edgar: “What means that bloody knife?”).
In IV.2, Lord Albany limns the sisters thusly:
Tigers, not daughters, what thou have performed
Humanity must perforce prey on itself
Like monsters of the deep.
Nobody seems to know what to make of these predators in time to stop them. They are like a storm, an arbitrary hostile force rising up seemingly out of nowhere and swallowing everything in its path. From such a perspective, humanity has control and no choice but to just ride it out. This is how Lear seems to handle Goneril and Regan’s treachery – not from the perspective that I should handle this with justice and wisdom but rather, as though bearing an illness, here something unfortunate has occured. Thus Lear reacts to the sisters just like an animal would respond to a storm, going from foxhole to foxhole seeking shelter.
The appearance of a real storm in Act III holds a mirror to Lear’s conduct towards his daughters. The real storm is overt and aggressive. It does not waste time on guile or false flattery. The real storm comes out swinging. Lear, likewise, is able to vent his defiance. “Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow! (III.2)” Although animals instinctively seek shelter in foxholes, for a human being, standing outside in the middle of a thunderstorm makes one feel scraggly, resourceful, and determined.
Without an angel, the predators cease to be “evil,” becoming simply players in a zero-sum game full of like-minded competitors. In such a game, traditional ethics don’t apply. Man’s animal side performs its best and highest function in the presence of other predators.
The highest value of the angel is also forged against the backdrop of other predators. Man’s choice to be an angel derives its greatness from being in mortal danger. The predators eventually kill each other. One dies and is forgotten. Shouting at the top of her ethereal lungs, the angel asserts her individuality louder than the blood-curdled yapping of the predatory beasts around her. So loud, in fact, that her voice lives on to be heard even when the angel is long dead. This is how the angel earns her wings and becomes immortal.
Posted by: striphe on: January 9, 2008
The gulf between image and identity is wide and deep. A person can hide behind his image; he can be concealed by his image, he can oppose his image, he can serve his image, but no matter how hard he tries, he can never actually be his image. The supposed truth of what a person is buries itself behind layers of desire, repression, and performance.
Take, for instance, Henry Percy, who surges ahead with dreams of victory in his heart. To triumph against Henry IV will bring peace and justice to all of Great Britain.
No, that’s not quite right. Let’s say it this way: Henry Percy rallies all of England behind him, in a noble bid to oust the depraved tyrant Henry IV and bring liberty to all the land.
No, that doesn’t sound right either. Let’s try this: Although triumph from this battle will allow Hotspur and his cronies to slice up Great Britain any ole’ way they please, it’s only a matter of time before some other upstart Duke of Whateverham or Earl of Somethingshire gets ticked off, raises an army, and plunges the land into self-destructive civil war. Again.
Soldier-boy, where’s your nationalism? Shouldn’t a true soldier be a little less gung-ho about going to town on his own countrymen? Isn’t Britain at a continuous state of war with, say, France? A true soldier would probably be more worried about hopping across the pond and taking out some limp-wristed, crepe-chomping Frenchies. Instead, Hotspur is at home throwing a temper tantrum. Tres gauche.
Were he truly as noble and valiant as he pictures himself, being slighted by a petty, self-serving king would do nothing to diminish Hotspur’s luminous accomplishments.
On the contrary: being slighted by someone petty and self-serving is exactly what makes Hotspur’s blood boil. Blood is on Hotspur’s mind all the time. Hotspur referred to blood, to bleeding, and to wounds at least twelve times in Act I.3. That images of blood and steel filter into his dreams – as Lady Percy mentions in II.3 – suggests events of great shame and trauma in his past, probably at the hands of some indifferent aristocrat. As an adult, the mere mannerisms of such an aristocrat stoke Hotspur’s inferiority complex.
Therefore, it is not honor that rests at the core of Hotspur’s raison d’etre; rather, it is the lack thereof. Between honor and shame surges the constant approach toward honor. Hotspur needs to prove oneself, to show off what he’s really made of, and re-claim honor lost he long ago.
Whatever Hotspur has suffered, he re-casts his complex as soldierly pride, and fights to rehabilitate his wounded psyche. Hotspur needs to reconcile the contradiction between intense shame and pride; blood represents the power others have over Hotspur and the power he has over them. For him, blood is the truth of what a man is. When Hotspur rides into battle against the king, he does not want to win. He wants to bleed. During Percy’s death speech, both flesh and his thoughts were wounded by the prince.
The schizophrenic crown prince holds an interesting relationship to the truth. There is no single central core that unites Hal’s personas. It is like a coin, only surfaces; an index card with a different word on each side. You can look around whenever you want and see the other side, but you can only see one side at a time, and whenever he appears, he holds the special position of being able to construct his own truth through language and performance.
For Hal, kingliness, like everything else, is a duty, set of traits and rituals, a manner of bearing, a way of acting. Being the king is just a matter of impersonating kingliness. You model yourself after an archetype, who is in turn modeled after someone else; another leader, another archetype, who also had some traits, which were modeled after someone else, ad infinitum. In fact, Hal opens up the possibility that all the roles we play in life are filled by impersonation.
He makes this point most clearly when he and Falstaff role-play as the king in the tavern in II.4.
To underline it, he presents Falstaff continually as a vessel, a container that holds stuff. A bolting-hutch (flour bin), a bombard (jug), a trunk, a swollen parcel, and a cloak-bag.
He unloads phrases in a short, rhythmic pattern. “That trunk of humours, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that A of B, that X of Y,” and so on. Identity can be assigned. It can be present or absent, empty or full.
Hal brings both Falstaff and the king are in his comic crosshairs by taking on the role of the king in this scene. But if the prince will be the king one day, this humor is also self-effacing. To impersonate requires a true identity as a point of reference. The reason Hal can objectify his own truth, pour it out, put it into play and even attack attack it, then later fill himself up with it again, it is because he always has another truth, another performance – either the jolly scoundrel or the dutiful prince – from which to stand and drain that vessel of its truth, and fill it again as needed.
Both “truths” are real, as artfully constructed and performed as his tavern speech. Hal is eminently superficial, and neither surface excludes the other; rather, at this point in the story, each persona desires and serves the other, then conveniently goes away when not needed, just like a king’s subjects would do.
In conclusion, with regards to these central characters in the narrative, truth is not a fixed locus, but rather a derivative. Identity consists of a cover-up of alternatives. The real truth of these mens’ identities always governs their characters from the background. In Hotspur’s case, we may never know what trauma set his bloodlust in motion. In Hal’s case, we know eventually he’ll pick his princely side and toss out the other bit, but in the mean time, watching him go through the motions is endlessly fascinating.
