Intent

Everyone is capable of enjoying cruelty, and none more dangerously so than moralists, idealists, and ideologues who deny they do, for they are the ones who – indulging in a particularly poisonous variety of sadism – will mask their cruelty as justice and fool themselves with their own mask. (Out-and-out criminals do more harm than moralists one-on-one, but moralists outnumber them and do vastly more harm en masse.) That is not to say we need yield to the impulse, but it is well to remember that cruelty is as much a part of human nature as kindness; it is all the easier thereby to turn the impulse in a more constructive direction – sublimation, to use an old-fashioned but still useful Freudian expression. Nietzsche argued that humor was sublimated cruelty, and few of us would want to go through life without humor. A harmless way to nourish our dark side is with such entertainments as murder mysteries and horror movies. Dramas with anti-hero protagonists or villains whom we on some level secretly admire remain enduringly popular, e.g. Dexter of the Jeff Lindsay novels or the Joker in The Dark Knight. A less lethal but still malefic pair are Kathryn Merteuil and Sebastian Valmont of the 1999 movie Cruel Intentions.

Based on the 1782 novel Les Liaisons Dangereuses by Pierre Choderlos de Laclos but set in 1999 Upper East Side Manhattan, Cruel Intentions is part cult classic and part guilty pleasure. Mainstream critics for the most part were unkind to it at the time of its release, but it clicked with its target audience and critics have warmed to it in the years since. Premise: Wealthy private-schooled teen step-siblings Kathryn and Sebastian (Sarah Michelle Gellar and Ryan Phillipe) embrace decadent upper class hedonism and play cruel games. Sebastian plans to seduce the new headmaster’s famously virginal daughter Annette (Reese Witherspoon) before school starts but Kathryn bets him that he can’t do it: the stakes of the bet are Sebastian’s classic Jaguar and Kathryn herself. Meantime Kathryn plans to corrupt innocent young Cecile as a pawn in a revenge scheme of her own. Everything proceeds more or less according to plan until Sebastian falls for Annette and develops a conscience, the one thing he cannot afford.

The Kathryn character is arguably diagnosable as having ASPD (anti-social personality disorder), commonly called sociopathy. She nonetheless is impressive. Sebastian has less of an excuse: he is capable of empathy, but chooses prankish malevolence anyway. Both are wickedly enjoyable to watch, both when they succeed and when they meet their comeuppances. Also, the 90s soundtrack is marvelous.

A musical adaptation of Cruel Intentions is currently playing off-Broadway at Le Poisson Rouge, a dinner club in Greenwich Village. I couldn’t pass that up, so a friend and I drove into NYC last Saturday. It is a campy production in a fairly intimate setting, and is definitely worth a look, though seeing the movie first is, if not a must, at least strongly advised. Nostalgia is much of the point. There are a few of the iconic numbers from the movie soundtrack (Bittersweet Symphony, Colorblind, Every Me and Every You), but most songs are not from the movie. All are hits from the ‘90s, however, and unless you never turned on a radio in that decade you’ll know them. The audience was a mix of all ages but was extra-heavy on younger GenXers and older Millennials.

Cruel Intentions the Musical runs only until March, but I suspect it will turn up again in other venues. I recommend revisiting the Valmont/Merteuil residence if you get a chance, whether for this production or another one. It’s a fun way to tickle your dark side. Call it catharsis.

  

Catching Ketchum

Humans think of themselves – quite rightly – as predators. I’m referring at the moment to the food chain, not to other uses of the term. But of course we also are prey. Let us put aside for the moment attacks on us by tiny feeders such as mosquitoes even though they (or rather the diseases they carry) kill 725,000 people per year worldwide. Consider just the big ones. Even in the 21^st century 100 people per year are killed by lions. 25,000 are killed by dogs, but of course that is because there are so many more dogs than lions. The risk is very very low in today’s urbanized world, but it still happens. People still get eaten. For our hominin ancestors the risk was high and constant. For them the world really was full of monsters, and among them were fellow humans. Over millennia they honed the instinctual fears later exploited by horror writers and filmmakers.

There are many analyses in both popular and academic literatures on the appeal of horror fiction. They talk of catharsis and of the combination of fear with safety – much as a good roller coaster combines the two for enjoyable thrills. Whatever the source of the appeal truly may be, there always is a market for the stuff. While it’s not my first choice of genres, I’m not immune to its allure. I can and do read HP Lovecraft, Edgar Allan Poe, Robert Bloch, and Stephen King with pleasure. One of the best authors, though not for the squeamish, is fellow New Jersey native Dallas Mayr, who died today at age 71. Mayr wrote under several pseudonyms for various genres, but for his horror fiction he went by Jack Ketchum.

Ketchum rarely flirts with the supernatural. You won’t find any ghosts, werewolves or vampires. In She Wakes he did unleash Hecate – yes, that Hecate – but that was an anomaly. It was an effective anomaly, it must be said. Nine times out of ten his monsters are all too human, and all scarier for that. Be aware that Ketchum pulls no punches anywhere in his prose. When the plot turns violent (and it will) we get the full in-your-face unexpurgated picture. This unsettles some readers. Ballantine Books despite reservations took a chance with his first novel Off Season in 1981 and was pleasantly surprised by its commercial success. Yet, the very same publisher turned down his next manuscript Ladies' Night, a tale of a chemical spill that eliminates women’s (and only women’s) inhibitions against violence. It was published only in 1997 after Ketchum’s success with other novels.

Critics are of two minds about Ketchum. Early on, a reviewer in The Village Voice decried his graphic style. Yet he won a string of writing awards, including the Bram Stoker Award, and he counts many accomplished authors, including Stephen King, among his fans. Even his harshest critics admit Ketchum writes well: graphically but well.

Jack doesn’t just shock for the sake of shock. He has something to say. He likes to tell us that we all have a dark side, and that the difference between monsters and the rest of us sometimes comes down only to chance and circumstance.

Ketchum’s most successful novel is The Girl Next Door, which was made into a deeply disturbing movie (not the comedy of the same name) that Stephen King called a dark side Stand by Me. Based loosely on the very real Sylvia Likens case, the book and movie detail the abuse and eventual murder of a teenage girl by a suburban woman, her sons, and neighboring teens of both sexes. The protagonist of the novel, a neighbor boy, is fundamentally a good kid, but he is drawn into witnessing the abuse by the dark fascination of it all. He wants to intervene when the cruelty becomes extreme, but by then his own tacit complicity is an issue that delays him from seeking help. His dilemma is both appalling and understandable; adults as well as kids all too often fail to act morally when in similar binds.

A few other Ketchum novels also have been adapted to film including Offspring, The Lost, and Red. Red is probably the most successful. Once again, Ketchum is not for the easily offended, but neither for that matter is Poe, a granddaddy of the genre. The quality of the writing nonetheless stands out. I regret there will be no more titles from Mayr/Ketchum, but his books are on my shelf and I regard every one as a keeper.

Trailer: Red

Before the Thaw

According to forecasts the cold weather, after doing much hard work locally for the past month, will take the next week off. At this writing (8:26 EST Saturday morning) it is still freezing outside my door, but daytime temperatures should climb to 47 (8 C) today and then remain within spitting range of that number for the rest of January. I squeezed in a little winter fun yesterday while temperatures remained in the 20s, starting with running out of fuel oil for the furnaces and then by riding a toboggan (see photo in earlier post Brrr) down the slope in front of my house into the brambles. The latter was more fun – until the last few seconds anyway. At night I stayed comfortably at home with a movie and a book:

Impulse (1990)

Theresa Russell in Black Widow, which,
unlike Impulse, is pretty good

Back in 1990 I saw Impulse on the big screen. Directed by Sondra Locke and starring Theresa Russell (an appealing actress who looks sultry even when she doesn’t want to), the movie starts off as just another cops & crooks drama with an utterly clichéd drug-deal-gone-wrong. Then it takes an odd turn. Lottie (Russell) is a vice cop with debts she can’t pay and a creep for a boss. One night, after a particularly rough bust and still dressed as a working girl, she goes into a bar and quickly is approached by a man who puts down a ridiculously large pile of C-notes. Instead of arresting him she goes home with him. While she is in the bathroom at his house the man is murdered. She checks the body afterward and finds an airport locker key. The locker contains a case full of cash from that drug-deal-gone-wrong. She doesn’t turn it in. There is evidence, however, that could lead to her.

I remembered those basic details before spinning up the DVD all these years later. The flawed protagonist, as I recalled her, seemed an interesting type of character. Regrettably, I had forgotten why I didn’t rush out to rent the film for a repeat viewing when it became available on (at that time) videotape. Now I remember. The movie is dreadful. The dialogue is unintentionally hilarious while the acting somehow combines over-the-top with indifference. There was some potential in the movie’s concept, but it was lost in the execution.

Thumbs Down.

**** ****

Why Acting Matters by David Thomson

There are some people (all too few, but still some) who are great company thanks to erudite and free-ranging minds. In an age when click-sharing simple-minded propaganda passes for philosophical discussion, they seem to have something original and thoughtful to say about everything. Movie critic and prolific author on the popular arts David Thomson is one of those people. That this book is not very focused is actually to its benefit. Thomson digresses about his personal experiences, about the history of theater, about acting schools, and about the human condition. It’s a pleasure to join him on his wanderings even when they are distant from the supposed topic of the book.

He does return to the main question now and again, however. Thomson repeatedly turns to Olivier and Brando as representatives respectively of the traditional and naturalistic acting schools, though, as he points out, neither really can be pigeonholed as neatly as that.

Thomson’s basic point is that we all are actors (yes, that William fellow once said something similar) who adjust our personas to time and circumstance. (Persona, btw, is Latin for “mask.”) Witnessing someone act well on screen or stage is as rewarding and edifying as seeing someone do so in “real life” – the distinction not always being so great as we imagine. Observing the career of a favorite actor from youth to age is a template for the roles we ourselves play in the different stages of our lives. He concludes: “Acting is an entertainment, but it is a model for our existence and collapse. We try to act human. That seems the least we can do, and as long as that condition prevails – do not trust it forever – then acting is our engine and we are driving on a desert road.”

Thumbs Up.

Trailer Impulse (1990)

Dry Season

I saw 2018 arrive in my favorite place and state: at home, warm, and dry – dry in beverage sense. The hangover cures that peppered newspapers and net sites on and shortly before New Year’s Day were of pleasantly little personal interest. Besides, there are no cures. There are minor palliatives at best. Hangovers ultimately have to wear off on their own, and (ceteris paribus) this takes longer for some people than for others. I’m one of those for whom it takes longer. Frank Sinatra once remarked, “I feel sorry for people who don't drink. When they wake up in the morning, that's as good as they're going to feel all day.” In my case the morning after bibulation is as bad as I’ll feel all day – sometimes the next day, too. The usual supposed preventatives (hydration, fatty foods, white liquors only, etc.) make little or no difference to me. (Yes, moderation is always an option, but the topic is excess.)

I’m not virtue-signaling. I like a good buzz as much as anyone. Alcohol accordingly was something of a hobby for me in my 20s. The hangovers were not milder then. In that decade I simply was more willing to accept the price for the nights before. I have no judgments to make about those who still are, or who pay lower prices as a matter of course. By my 30s, however, for no other reason than pain avoidance I had tapered back to an annual intake about equal to the CDC’s suggested maximum for a week (14 drinks). Yet, even now I can see wisdom in Raymond Chandler’s advice: "A man ought to get drunk at least twice a year just on principle, so he won't let himself get snotty about it." Twice has been about my number in recent years. It’s enough to remind myself why I don’t indulge the other 363 days, and also enough to remind myself why so many people do. There is much to be said be said for the night before. We all are aware of the risks and downsides (some potentially lethal) to the night before, but there is still much to be said for it. My preferred tipple on those two days: Wild Turkey 101, a flavorful moderately priced bourbon that, at 101 proof (50.5% alcohol), achieves its intended effect expeditiously and with no worse (albeit no better) aftereffects than any other pick.

The intended effect is a change in perspective: an altered state that can be revealing. (Altered states can be achieved without extraneous chemicals, btw, but that is for another discussion.) The ancient Persians who, according to Herodotus, considered every important question both sober and drunk before making a decision may have been onto something. I suspect, though, that the significance of that story got turned around in Herodotus’ colorful retelling. I suspect that it was less a matter of sober Persians saying, “Let’s see what I think about this drunk” and more a matter of drunks saying, “Let’s see what I think about this sober.” I think the good sense of the latter is self-evident.

What brings all this to mind, besides the time of year, is a re-watch with a friend last week of Joss Whedon’s 2012 version of Much Ado about Nothing, a remarkable side-project shot in 12 days with B&W handheld cameras at his own home. During the first viewing I didn’t pay much attention to how much the characters drink, which is a lot. Yet, their intemperance was an inspired directorial choice. The characters, after all, don’t make very sober judgments, so it makes eminent sense for them to be not sober. This is unlike so many movies in which characters seem weirdly unaffected by drinking: e.g. Nick Charles, who retains his sharp deductive skills despite awe-inspiring consumption in the Thin Man movies; James Bond, who remains quick of wit and reflex despite those shaken-not-stirred vodka martinis; and the Western gunfighter of your choice who is as sure a shot as ever despite guzzling whiskey in the saloon.

On second viewing I recommend Much Ado about Nothing even more heartily than after the first. It may be the most accessible Shakespeare film in decades. I recommend seeing it sober though. Well, once anyway. Persian fashion would work, too.

WC Fields’ debt: clip from Never Give a Sucker an Even Break

Brrr

The winter storm that rolled over much of the East Coast this week merely glanced my inland NJ location on its way from battering the South to pummeling New England. Nonetheless, the few inches of snow in combination with temperatures of 7 degrees (-14 C) were enough to make me question once again why I live in a Northern state. They also make me wonder once again why our early modern human ancestors moved north at all.

Migrating into the cold was not the first instinct of our ancestors. Those that left Africa some 65,000 years ago (after not having bothered for 100,000 years) hugged the southern coastline of Eurasia in their initial trek outward. They reached Australia before they reached Europe. This seems eminently sensible to me. We are, after all, tropical creatures. Unclothed humans feel chilly at 77 degrees (25 C), so even a sunny Mediterranean climate requires some protection most of the time. Besides, Europe and much of Central Asia already were inhabited by cold-adapted Neanderthals and Denisovans; the small but notable percentage of DNA from both archaic species currently found in non-African modern humans dates from this early phase of the out-of-Africa migration as they brushed against the southern flank of their ancient cousins’ range. It was only after the southerly regions were in their hands that modern humans turned north and took those lands for themselves. Why did they? There were abundant resources up there. Colder climes were rich in fish and game – particularly large game such as ibex, aurochs, red deer, and horse, which provided a feast with a single kill – as well as edible nuts and plants. These attracted bands northward while the annoyance of fellow humans to the south repelled.

Still, I imagine they had second thoughts when the winter winds whipped up and their bearskin clothes failed to stave off shivers. More than a few must have succumbed to hypothermia. In subfreezing temperatures without proper protection this can happen in minutes. Even in fairly recent times cold proved to be a deal killer for would-be settlers. The Little Ice Age lasted roughly from 1300 to 1850, reaching the most bone-chillingly low temperatures around 1600. It put an end to Norse settlements in Greenland and North America. It scuppered several European attempts to secure a foothold in North America north of Spain’s tenuously held St. Augustine settlement in Florida. Jamestown was a very near thing – and that was Virginia.

My quasi-niece & friends enjoying
the cold

There are still attractive riches in northern regions, of course, which explains in large part why 21^st century humans choose to live there. It is possible to adapt to extreme cold even without modern conveniences. The Inuit, unlike the Norse, thrived in Little Ice Age Greenland. My own perseverance owes more to inertia than ambition, however. I grew up here, friends and family are here, and my home is here. Picking up stakes and moving would be both expensive and troublesome. Nonetheless, in a straight-up choice I’d pick a tropical grass hut over an arctic igloo any day. The day yet may come when I pick it over my current house, too.

Clip from Nanook of the North (1922)