Archive for the 'Movies' Category

Harvey’s birthday too

May 22 is my birthday, but of course I share it with plenty of famous folks (Lawrence Olivier, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and so forth).  But one person with whom I am particularly proud to share it is the late San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk, the first openly gay man elected to public office in America.   Had he not been assassinated in 1978, Harvey would be 76 today.

Next to Star Wars (which I saw countless times as a kid), the film I have seen more often than any other (at least thirty times) is The Times of Harvey Milk, which won the 1984 Academy Award for Best Documentary.  I always show it in my gay and lesbian history class, and of course, I showed the first part of it this afternoon — the first time I’ve managed to do so on Milk’s birthday. 

Only three students in the class had even heard of Harvey Milk before my lecture on him last week and the showing of the documentary today.  Every movement has its martyrs, but while almost all students know the names Malcolm and Martin, far too few young queer students even know the name (much less the story) of this extraordinarily important figure. The Time magazine profile is here

Movements need heroes, and kids need to know the names of their heroes.  This is why I am so strongly supportive of SB 1437, currently in the California state assembly, to require the mention of gay and lesbian history in the public schools and in state textbooks.   All of us need to know who Martin was, who Malcolm was, who Cesar Chavez was; all of us need to learn about Susan B. Anthony.  But we also need to learn about Harvey.   Gay and lesbian students need heroes, and the rest of us need to understand that Queer History is a vital part of the American story. 

Names like Karl Ulrichs, Henry Gerber, Donald Webster Cory, Harry Hay, Phyllis Lyon, Barbara Gittings, Del Martin, Evelyn Hooker, Frank Kameny, Elaine Nobel are entirely ignored by our textbooks.   How many readers know even three of these names?   Even one of them? All are vital figures in gay and lesbian history, and their stories are virtually unknown.

I may have seen the Times of Harvey Milk thirty-plus times, but showing it today, I teared up again as I always do.  For Harvey’s sake, let’s get this bill through.

Further notes on Crash, car accidents, and race

I’m planning to pull myself together in the next two hours and make it to school.  One nice thing about being home sick — I get to watch the Wigan-Manchester United match live on Fox Sports World; Wigan is up a goal and I’m very pleased.  They’ve become my new darlings in the Premiership.

But I can keep one eye on the soccer and one on the blog, all the while pumping in the broth and the tea.  I just downloaded Dolly Parton’s "Travelin’ Thru" (which missed out on the Academy Award for best song); it’s free right now (today only) on Itunes.

I’d like to follow up, briefly, on my remarks below in response to "Crash" winning the best picture Oscar.   As much as I enjoyed certain aspects of the well-acted, well-written film, I felt it presented a distorted vision of the Los Angeles I know. 

I am a bit of an oddity — raised on the Central Coast and in the Bay Area, I’m passionately attached to Los Angeles.  Though I think often about retiring to the little town on the coast where I was raised, I’m very happy living in this metropolis.   I’ve been blessed to do a lot of traveling, and I enjoy seeing new places, but I’m rarely happier than when I look out the window as a long international flight drops back into L.A. at night, and I see the sparkling lights of my home sprawling as far as the eye can see.  I feel fundamentally at home here, and not merely in certain neighborhoods.

Los Angeles is a city of freeways, as everyone knows.  In the early 1990s when I was in grad school, some friends and I made a commitment to spend our weekends traveling the county only using surface streets.  We drove from Westwood to Watts to Winnetka, Lincoln Heights to Larchmont to Lawndale, Venice to Vernon to Van Nuys, Santa Monica to San Marino to San Pedro — all without hitting a freeway.  And we didn’t just drive; part of playing the "surface street game" meant going to restaurants and cafes and shops in all the neighborhoods we visited.  We were a multi-racial group ourselves; my first wife (to whom I was married at the time) was half-Chinese, half-Filipino.  With her and my other friends, I learned to eat lumpia and menudo; challah and carnitas and catfish; I ate grits and injera and came to love it all.

Our trips were daytime trips, mind you.  We didn’t take foolish risks, but at the same time, we tried our best not to let prejudices and fears hold us back from new experiences.  For example, I got my hair buzzed in an African-American barbershop on Crenshaw Boulevard; some folks ignored me, others engaged me in friendly banter.  I didn’t feel like I was "slumming" (a derogatory term often applied to middle-class whites who venture into the ‘hoods); I felt like I was trying — humbly and respectfully — to learn, to taste, to know something new and different.

And yes, I had a car accident — the central subtext of "Crash".  I had bought my first car not long after I moved to Los Angeles, a used 1983 Honda Accord.  One bright summer day in 1989, I was transitioning from the 101 to the southbound 110 when a big rig rear-ended a little Nissan a few cars in front of me.  We all slammed on our brakes, but my Honda didn’t stop until I’d rear-ended the Mercedes sedan in front of me.  Ours were the only four vehicles involved; no one was hurt.  Though it was more than sixteen years ago, I remember the other drivers vividly: the big rig was driven by a black man; the Nissan he hit was driven by a Latina; the Mercedes was driven by an elderly Chinese couple who spoke limited English.  We all exchanged insurance information on the side of the road, and as we did so, I began to cry.  I know it was childish, but I was so upset I had done so much damage to my "new" car (the Mercedes I hit had only a scratch, while my Honda was, if not totalled, much more heavily damaged).  The Chinese man patted my arm and assured me it would be okay, while his wife smiled at me wanly.  The CHP officer — Latino — saw that my license still listed "Carmel" as my home address, and by way of comfort, told me he’d grown up in the Salinas area and couldn’t wait to move home to our native Monterey County.

No one yelled.  No one got upset. (Well, I did, but those were tears of self-pity, not rage).  There were no racial epithets, either.  And it never occurred to me that there was anything odd about the civility of our experience that hot morning on the Harbor Freeway.  I’ve had two fender-benders since (one my fault, one not); both involved drivers of other ethnic groups.   And in neither of those instances were harsh words exchanged about our respective backgrounds!

I am quite confident that my experience has not been all that unusual.  (This is not to deny the reality of racism, a reality to which I confess I am often blind.  I know damned well that I can play the "surface street game" with relative impunity because I am white.  I can drive up and down South 167th street more easily than a black man can drive up and down Charleville Avenue in Beverly Hills.  One of us is a heck of lot more likely to be pulled over than the other!)  There are millions of folks in this county in interracial relationships like mine, who have successfully (if not effortlessly) blended our families and our kitchens and our workplaces and our bedrooms.  And in reference to the film’s opening conceit, we sure as hell don’t need to crash into each other just to feel some human contact!  But when we do crash — by accident, thanks — most of us manage to resolve the problem without resorting to ugly caricatures.

I won’t say I’ve been "everywhere", but I’ve done a fair amount of travelin’ in my day, across this state, the country, and the globe.  And with the possible exception of Cape Town, I can’t think of a place I’ve been to where racial harmony amidst tremendous diversity is so evident as it is in my beloved adopted home of greater Los Angeles.  When I think of how "Crash" may have only reinforced the stereotypes of L.A. that outsiders have, I’m angry and grieved.

I’m also mildly grieved by a late Man U goal that has robbed Wigan.  I think I’m ready to teach my night class!

Home sick, and an Oscar disappointment

Yesterday morning, both my wife and I woke up with food poisoning.  Hers was mild, mine fairly severe.  It knocked me flat, and though I feel better this morning, am not in shape to teach just yet.

I am going to campus later today to hold office hours and teach my evening class.  I hate cancelling classes without warning.  I know that plenty of students rejoice when they see the little blue or green "class cancelled" notices posted on the classroom door, but I still feel bad that so many make the trip to the college for nothing.  In  the event that students in my 12 noon or 1:35PM classes are reading this — you folks are off today.  Tonight and tomorrow will be as normal.

I was so out of it that I was forced to sleep through most of the Oscars, which was a real disappointment.  I was right about the screenplay, actress, and director awards, but deeply disappointed that "Crash" won best picture.   A film with a few moving and melodramatic scenes, "Crash" left me — and lots of other Southern Californians — saying "This is not a Los Angeles I recognize."  I don’t live in splendid Pasadena isolation, either.  I’ve lived in the LA area for seventeen years, in nine different zip codes (from Culver City to Altadena, Santa Monica to Van Nuys) and four different area codes.  I’m in a happy inter-ethnic marriage that doesn’t simmer and bubble with racial tension, and I teach at a majority-minority college.  I have never once had a racial confrontation in Los Angeles– not even in those explosive days in April 1992.   I "bought" Brokeback Mountain; I "bought" Good Night and Good Luck — hell, I bought every second of A History of Violence; Crash didn’t resonate for me at all, despite some impressive individual performances. 

Kenneth Turan’s devastating piece in this morning’s Times captures my feelings perfectly:

I do not for one minute question the sincerity and integrity of the people who made "Crash," and I do not question their commitment to wanting a more equal society. But I do question the film they’ve made. It may be true, as producer Cathy Schulman said in accepting the Oscar for best picture, that this was "one of the most breathtaking and stunning maverick years in American history," but "Crash" is not an example of that.

I don’t care how much trouble "Crash" had getting financing or getting people on board, the reality of this film, the reason it won the best picture Oscar, is that it is, at its core, a standard Hollywood movie, as manipulative and unrealistic as the day is long. And something more.

For "Crash’s" biggest asset is its ability to give people a carload of those standard Hollywood satisfactions but make them think they are seeing something groundbreaking and daring. It is, in some ways, a feel-good film about racism, a film you could see and feel like a better person, a film that could make you believe that you had done your moral duty and examined your soul when in fact you were just getting your buttons pushed and your preconceptions reconfirmed.

So for people who were discomfited by "Brokeback Mountain" but wanted to be able to look themselves in the mirror and feel like they were good, productive liberals, "Crash" provided the perfect safe harbor. They could vote for it in good conscience, vote for it and feel they had made a progressive move, vote for it and not feel that there was any stain on their liberal credentials for shunning what "Brokeback" had to offer. And that’s exactly what they did.

Oscar predictions

My wife and I will be eagerly watching the Oscars Sunday night.  No other annual televised non-sporting event means as much to either of us, and we’ll be watching the pre-and post-show activities as well.

On January 31, I posted my top ten films of the previous year.   I hadn’t seen "Capote", "Walk the Line", or "Constant Gardener" at the time I wrote the list — I still haven’t seen "Gardener", but did catch the other two.  (Well, most of "Capote".  It was on the little screen on our flight to London two weeks ago, and I took a mini-snooze during part of it). "Capote" would make my top ten, but not the top half — and "Walk the Line" would be in the same general vicinity.

Here are my hopes and my predictions in each major category:

Best Supporting Actress: I both hope and predict an Oscar for Michelle Williams in "Brokeback Mountain."  It was a crime that Maria Bello wasn’t nominated for "A History of Violence."

Best Supporting Actor:  I hope for William Hurt for "A History of Violence", though his screen time was very small.  I predict it will go to Paul Giamatti.

Best Director:  I hope and predict Ang Lee for "Brokeback".

Best Original Screenplay:  I’d love to see Noah Baumbach for "Squid and Whale" win, but it will go to Paul Haggis and Bobby Moresco for "Crash."

Best Adapted Screenplay:  I can’t root against "Brokeback Mountain", but might secretly hope for Josh Olson for "A History of Violence."

Best Actor:  I’m hoping for Heath Ledger, and predict Joaquin Phoenix.

Best Actress:  Just to be contrarian, I think  it would be great fun if Judi Dench won here, but that won’t happen.  If Reese Witherspoon doesn’t win, I’ll be floored.

Best Picture:  I predict Brokeback, the best of the nominees.  I don’t think the ultimately dull "Munich" deserved the nomination it got, and I would have substituted in "A History of Violence" or, perhaps, "Syriana."

And for what it’s worth, I have little time for the "red state" folks who accuse the Oscars of being "out of touch" for nominating serious films that have not been blockbuster hits.  By that logic, Stephen King and Barbara Cartland should long ago have won Nobel Literature prizes, and Milli Vanilli should have won a Grammy.  (Oh. Wait a minute…)

Academy Award Notes

The Academy Award nominations are out, and for the most part, I am well-pleased.  I’ve seen almost all of the nominated films with two big exceptions: "Capote" and "Constant Gardener", but I’ll offer my own "top ten" list of the past year regardless.

10. War of the Worlds
9.  Crash
8.  Squid and the Whale
7.  In Her Shoes
6.  Matchpoint
5.  Good Night and Good Luck
4. Syriana
3. A History of Violence
2. Brokeback Mountain
1.  March of the Penguins

"Penguins" was an easy choice.  Yes, I know #7 will surprise a few folks — but I’m a huge, huge Toni Collette fan.  I’d have loved to see her nominated, frankly; I also think Jeff Daniels (for "Squid") and Viggo Mortensen (for "History") deserved nods.  My top five would have been my choices for best picture nominees.  Again, I’ve yet to see the two important films mentioned at the top, and that might change my list.  Yes, I saw "Munich" and might have stuck it in at #11.

A note on the “History of Violence”

I’m feeling "blogged out" at the moment.  Most of the time, I’m not at a loss for topics — but sometimes, I feel utterly drained.

I will say that we went to see "A History of Violence" on Sunday night.  We’re doing our best to see all the Golden Globe nominees before the awards shows, and this was next on the list.  We approached the film with reluctance — neither my wife nor I are fans of graphically violent films.  But we both admire Viggo Mortensen, and the film’s inclusion on so many "best of 2005" lists helped us to overcome those reservations.

It’s a bloody, disturbing, thoughtful, and supremely entertaining film.  And as sometimes happens with well-crafted gore fests (like Quentin Tarantino’s pictures) I leave feeling aroused and ashamed of that arousal.  I don’t mean sexual excitement, mind you — I mean a different sort of excitement, the sort that comes from having seen images you haven’t seen before, or at least not in a very long time.

I don’t do well with explicit violence.  Oddly, the last time I walked out of a theater with a similar sense of nausea and excitement was after the Passion of the Christ.  I do my best to avoid films that will be profoundly gory, but I make exceptions for films that have generated sufficient acclaim.  Sometimes (as with "Natural Born Killers") I’m simply left empty and disgusted; other times, as with the "Passion" and "History of Violence", I’m left challenged and moved.  In an odd but compelling way, this was a deeply Christian picture — it’s a movie about marital devotion, redemption, rebirth, and the corrosive nature of violence.

(Warning, spoiler ahead) 

In the climactic scene of the film, the Viggo Mortensen character ("Joey",) kills his older brother Richie (a splendid William Hurt).  Right before he’s shot, Richie exclaims "Jesus, Joey" — and his brother replies, calmly, "Jesus, Richie."  In the context of the film, this is not our Lord’s name in vain, but rather a moment of sudden catharsis for both men.

Though "Brokeback Mountain" remains the best film I’ve seen all year, "A History of Violence" has been the most challenging to me spiritually.  Its violence is so graphic and unrelenting that it is difficult to recommend, and yet the underlying humanity and beauty of the film is undeniable.  I’m still haunted by it.

I will try and get up a "Top Ten films of 2005" list after I’ve finished seeing all of the nominees.

Brokeback Mountain, Christianity Today, and an opening door

I’m a long-time devoted reader of Christianity Today.  It’s indisputably the flagship journal of American evangelicalism, a tradition to which I in part do very much belong.  I’m well to the left of most of the editorial positions taken by CT, and well to the left of most of the magazine’s readership.  But the magazine "speaks my language" much of the time, and I enjoy keeping tabs on what going on. 

On December 16, Christianity Today published a review of Brokeback Mountain.  The film is already the Oscar front-runner, but its review in the nation’s leading evangelical publication is sparking heated debate.  CT gives the film three out of four stars, but the editors add this caveat at the beginning of the review:

The film is a hot topic of conversation around the nation, and we’d be remiss to simply ignore it. Part of our mission statement is "to inform and equip Christian moviegoers to make discerning choices" about what films you’ll watch—or won’t watch. And this review, just like all of our reviews, certainly accomplishes that. As for the 3-star rating, that is only in reference to the quality of the filmmaking, the acting, the cinematography, etc. It is not a "recommendation" to see the film, nor is it a rating of the "moral acceptability" of the subject matter.

The review, by a Lisa Ann Cockrel, is largely positive.  The direction and the acting are praised, though Cockrel (like other reviewers) is disappointed at the relatively small screen time given to other characters besides the two leads.  And she suggests to her largely conservative readership that the film is nuanced enough to allow moviegoers to approach the subject of homosexuality from a variety of worldviews:

Brokeback Mountain creates vast plains of space for the audience to interpret Jack and Ennis’ actions and the hopes and fears that motivate them. It’s quite possible that no matter what the viewer believes about homosexuality, he or she will be able to read their own stance on the issue into this story.

That’s a clever way of giving conservative folks "permission" to see the film, by stressing that Brokeback is not another Hollywood offering in the culture wars, designed to insult the values traditional evangelicals hold so dear.

Predictably, CT has come in for a firestorm of criticism for the Cockrel review.   They’ve published some of the responses they’ve gotten.  While a few readers praise the courage of the CT editorial staff in running such a positive review of a gay-themed film, the majority of respondents are outraged.  Some feel CT shouldn’t have reviewed the film at all, while others think that the review should have focused solely on the moral depravity of the protagonists.  Four samples:

Yes, you should review it, but it shouldn’t warrant anything close to 3 stars, because its content is despicable,and is a clear, ideologically inspired attempt to drag the culture down even further. CT readers want a different perspective.

We need an informed opinion about films, especially when they are controversial. So many times Christians react to movies with the jerk of the knee instead of the mind. Your reviews of such films help me at such times.

So, sodomites write reviews for you now? I had heard that cT (small case intended) had become a notoriously banal depiction of christian writing (small case intended). Your review probably broke the camel’s back for many. I expect that a Christian magazine would review movies considerably different than a local newspaper. Obviously it is no longer your intent to look at movies with a biblical frame of reference. You failed your target audience and perhaps your (G)god. Perhaps your god is the one who calls his people to slavishly impress the secular reviewers rather than those backwards evangelicals who are still looking for some help. Cowboys know how to chase women, and perverts need no encouragement. May God have mercy on you.

I think it is responsible and necessary for Christian publications to review all films—no matter what they depict. Christians are called to be light in the darkness. If we don’t know what we are fighting, we can’t effectively go to the places or speak logically/rationally about the darkness we are trying to overcome. If we speak out against something without understanding about what we are speaking of, we come off as brainwashed and unable to think for ourselves.

Now, I loved Brokeback Mountain.  I "bought" every minute of the film, and was deeply moved by it. (Oh, and whatever your politics, if you love "alt.country", you’ve got to get the soundtrack to the movie.  Emmylou Harris, Rufus Wainwright, Willie Nelson — sweet indeed.)  Obviously, I’ve reconciled my evangelical faith with a belief that homosexual activity is not inherently sinful, so I’m in a different category than most of my fellow Christianity Today readers.  But I’m heartened, deeply so, that such an influential voice in the evangelical world would subtly encourage its readers to see the film, even with a plethora of caveats.

As the responses to the review indicate, some Christians just aren’t ready to engage the culture.  Others are willing to do so, but will insist on interpreting what they see through a lens of what they believe to be reliable biblical teaching and tradition.  And a few others are, thankfully, interested in separating what Scripture actually says (and doesn’t say) about same-sex sexuality from centuries of accrued cultural biases.

As a progressive evangelical, I understand that changing the hearts and minds of my fellow Christians on this subject is not going to happen overnight.  It’s a slow, gradual process.  It involves a great deal of prayer.  My secular activist friends don’t understand my deep and abiding affection for my conservative Christian brothers and sisters; my evangelical companions don’t understand how I reconcile a personal relationship with Christ and a belief in limited biblical inerrancy with a enthusiastic response to the prospect of same-sex marriage.  But I’m convinced that I don’t have to choose between the cross and inclusion, and I’m eager to find new avenues for dialogue about this most controversial of subjects.  From that perspective, the CT review of Brokeback Mountain is an enormously positive step, and may indeed mark a watershed moment for this most influential of evangelical publications.

Two quick notes — UPDATED

Like most finals weeks, it’s an extremely busy time and I have very little time to post.  I may get something up later today –or not.

Two quick notes:

My wife and I saw Syriana on Saturday night, easily the best film I’ve seen this season.  (Given that our pace of movie-going always picks up in January and February, that may change.)  I like a film that makes the assumption that the audience is reasonably intelligent and can follow a plot!  I don’t know the whole story behind Participant Productions, but I’m deeply impressed that they’ve turned out three major films (along with three major social-justice campaigns) in the space of just over a month.  North Country, Good Night and Good Luck, and Syriana are all major awards contenders — and all have serious, thoughtful, political messages.  I’m sorry that North Country has struggled, but am happy that the other two have had both splendid reviews and excellent box office.

Also, the governor has not yet annouced his decision on clemency for Stanley "Tookie" WIlliams."  I remain prayerful, but if I look at the issue dispassionately, cannot imagine why granting clemency would be a "smart" move for Schwarzenegger.  He can announce today he’s agonized all weekend, and still allow the execution to go ahead.  It won’t assuage anti-death penalty advocates, but I suspect our numbers are small,  Granting clemency would further damage his already weakened relationship with his conservative base, and I don’t think he can risk that.  I hope I’m wrong, but I doubt it.

UPDATE:  Clemency denied.  I have a little ritual that I go through whenever California executes someone.  I play the Kathleen Battle version of "He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands".  I’m praying for Stanley Williams, his victims, and all those who are involved in tonight’s execution.  I am also asking, as I always need to around executions, for the strength to be kind and charitable today and tomorrow towards those who support capital punishment.  The urge to be vicious is strong in me, but I will not surrender to that temptation.

A note on Cal, a movie recommendation, and a surprisingly vigorous defense of Michelle Malkin

It’s not yet 8:00AM, but I’ve already been up three hours.  I felt well enough this morning to do some light lifting at the gym.  I expect to be back to a regular training schedule tomorrow.

It’s a short week, so there are loads of things to do. I always cancel my classes the day before Thanksgiving; the one year I did teach on that Wednesday, fewer than a third of my students showed up.  I’m mystified as to why it isn’t a holiday here at PCC; many of the local K-12 schools do give kids the extra day off.  But a two-day week, as luxurious as it is, just means more work compressed into a very short time frame.  Lots and lots of grading to do, and writing, and so on.

Two notes on the weekend:  First, my Cal Golden Bears won the Big Game against Stanford for the fourth year in a row, a streak unseen since the second FDR administration.  In my four years at Berkeley, we won only once.  For those folks who remember the famous "play" in 1982 (where Cal scored in the final seconds by running through the Stanford band), that victory came at a high price.  Over the next 19 games from 1983-2001, the Cardinal held a 14-4-1 edge over my Golden Bears.  Those were hard years indeed!

Second, my wife and I went to see "Bee Season" last night.  Starring Juliette Binoche and Richard Gere, the film has had generally positive reviews.  My wife and I split on the film — I liked it very much, she didn’t.   Kabbalah is one of the film’s themes, and that had piqued our initial interest.  One thing I can say for Richard Gere — he may not be a great actor, but he’s become darned good lately at portraying self-satisfied, middle-aged narcissists who undergo a dramatic catharsis!

And I write this morning with considerable sympathy for, of all people, Michelle Malkin.  (Hat tip: XRLQ).  The right-wing syndicated columnist, blogger, and commentator is one of my least favorite mouthpieces for the conservative agenda.  I don’t read her blog regularly, largely because I’m not one of those people who takes pleasure in being exasperated. 

But Malkin is an Asian woman, married to a Jewish man.  I’m sorry to say that far more than her white counterparts on the right, Malkin has apparently been subjected to extraordinary sexual and racial ugliness from those whose politics are close to my own.  Last February,  Malkin posted some of the criticism that regularly comes her way; most of it falls into the "yellow whore" camp of nastiness.  This weekend, she posted about it again, as the issue of her race and her marriage resurfaced when she was a guest on a radio talk show.  Malkin, the mother of a kindergartner, writes:

The racist and sexist "yellow woman doing a white man’s job" knock is a tiresome old attack from impotent liberals that I’ve tolerated a long time. It is pathetic that I have to sit here and tell you that my ideas, my politics, and my intellectual capital are mine and mine alone in response to cowardly attacks from misogynistic moonbats with Asian whore fixations. My IQ, free will, skin color, eye shape, productivity, sincerity, and integrity are routinely ridiculed or questioned because I happen to be a minority conservative woman. As a public figure, I am willing to take these insults, but I cannot tolerate the smearing of my loved ones. Because I have always been open and proud about his support for my career, my husband has taken endless, hate-filled abuse from my critics. His Jewish heritage, his decision to be a stay-at-home dad, and even his looks, are the subject of brutal mockery.

Enough.

If you have a problem with my work and what I stand for, go ahead and take me on. Keep calling me whatever four-letter-word makes you feel better when you can’t win your arguments. But leave my family alone.

Well, Michelle, I could have done without the "impotent liberals" bit, as it does knock you back off the moral high ground you’re rightfully occupying, at least on this issue!  Still, I share Malkin’s outrage even as I abhor her political positions.  As a pro-feminist progressive, I’m angered whenever a woman who chooses a public life is attacked with misogynistic rhetoric.  (Heck, I’m happy that Malkin is willing to use the word "misogyny"; some of her colleagues on the right deny that visceral hatred of women still exists anymore in public life).  As a man in a mixed-race marriage, I’m also angry when tired old stereotypes emerge around that issue, as they have in the case of the Malkins.

Though I am obviously not as public a figure as Michelle Malkin, in the past year, I’ve received several hundred "hate e-mails" and hundreds of nasty comments here on this blog.  Because I’ve taken a pro-feminist position and attacked the men’s rights movement, I’ve regularly had my masculinity questioned.  I’ve been called a "mangina" (man + vagina), "pussy-whipped", "a traitorous piece of shit", a "pathetic eunuch", and worse by dozens and dozens of readers.  In a couple of instances, I’ve been threatened — anonymously — with physical violence.  I very carefully don’t disclose my wife’s name or much about her identity, but even in relative anonymity she too has been attacked, at times with racial slurs directed at her mixed-race (African-Colombian-Croatian) heritage.

Above all, my critics use one charge more than any other: self-loathing.  Because I’m so hard on my brothers, because I am so committed to pro-feminist principles, my critics have decided that I must be seething with nearly pathological hatred of my own masculinity.  Over and over again, I’m told by my critics that if I really liked myself — as a man — I wouldn’t hold the views I do.    What’s so tiresome about the charge of self-loathing, of course, is that it is impossible to refute.  How do I prove to anyone — especially on a blog — that I am comfortable in my own male skin?  I’ve given up trying, but that hasn’t stopped the critics.

Here’s where my real empathy for Malkin lies: as an Asian woman with right-wing, anti-feminist politics, she too is tarred with the charge of "self-loathing."  She and I are both accused of actively betraying those who share our sex or our ethnicity.  Her critics assume she’s desperately currying favor with white men, while my critics assume I am eager to be validated and affirmed by women, particularly feminists.   In other words, because our views contradict cultural and social expectations, there can be no legitimate explanation for why we believe as we do.  We are either dupes of our allies (white men or feminists), or we are filled with self-hatred (for our heritage or our sex), or we are simply crass opportunists, using novelty (a woman of color with right-wing views, a straight evangelical man with pro-feminist ones) to attract attention.

If there’s one thing I am clear on, it’s this: one’s skin color, one’s heritage, and one’s sex do not, in and of themselves, impose specific political obligations.  Michelle Malkin, as a woman of color, is under no obligation to toe any party line.  She can be an interesting and effective spokeswoman for her side without being a misguided dupe, a self-hating woman of color, or a shrill manipulator.  I happen to believe that she’s wrong 95% of the time on virtually every major foreign policy, economic, and social issue of our day.  But when she is attacked not for her politics but for her person, she has not only my empathy, she has my vigorous support.

No more silent “good guys”: some thoughts about North Country

Last night, my wife and I were finally able to see North Country, the new Charlize Theron film about sexual harassment in the Minnesota iron mines.  I’ve been eager to see it since I was first asked to be part of the Stand Up online community organized by the film’s producers, Participant Productions.

What struck me most about the film was the pivotal role that seemingly good men play in allowing sexual harassment to flourish.  The iron mine in which Theron’s character works has a long-standing culture of hostility and resentment towards women, often expressed in brutal and degrading ways.  But not all of the men in the mine are flagrant harassers.  Others are simply witnesses, even with flashes of sympathy for their female co-workers.  They do not participate in the abuse, but they are unwilling (at least until the end of the film) to confront the harassers.    What allows the harassment to flourish in the film — and in so many settings in real life — is not only the complicity of management, but the silence of the "good guys". 

I’ve worked with young  - and not so young — men around issues of sexual violence, date rape, and harassment for quite a few years now.  I often get the same line:  "I don’t need a training program.  I’m a good guy!  I don’t harass women; I know that "no" means "no".  In the workplace, in college fraternities, any one who does sexual harassment prevention work will run into many a "good guy" who will vehemently insist that only a small minority of men are real threats to women.  In a very literal sense, they "good guys" may be right.  But the goal of sexual harassment prevention is not only to target the harassers or potential rapists! The goal is to reach the "silent majority" of "good guys" who are too afraid to challenge the harassers and the culture that encourages them.

The pre-eminent scholar of masculinity, Michael Kimmel, points out that American men live their lives in a heavily homosocial culture.  We are raised to seek the approval of other men on the athletic field, in the workplace, in the bar.  Homosociality means that most men are more likely to risk disappointing women rather than their "brothers."  And of all of the rules of male homosocial culture, one stands above all others: the importance of silence.  Men are raised not to call each other on their treatment of women, no matter how offensive or abusive it may be.  To speak out, to "stand up", is to risk being thrown out of the brotherhood.  (Brotherhood is an important subtext in the film.)    To stand up against sexual harassment is to risk ostracism from a community of men whose acceptance is vital to most men’s self-concept.

The key goal of sexual harassment prevention, at least as I’ve been involved with it, is never just about reaching potential harassers. It’s about creating a climate where men feel emboldened to challenge each other.  It’s about identifying the "alpha males" (not always the bosses or the presidents, just the guys with the highest degree of homosocial credibility) in the office, the fraternity, the factory, and getting them to "buy in" to the idea that men can and should hold each other accountable for how they treat the women with whom they share public and private space.  Effective sexual harassment prevention is about reaching young men, and empowering them to speak up when they see other boys or men engaging in abusive behavior.  Above all, effective harassment prevention is about undermining a culture of silence that allows so many men to imagine that they are "good guys", even as they are complicit in the abuse and mistreatment of their coworkers, sisters, daughters, and female friends.

Let me be honest:  in my work, I’ve found that nothing is more difficult than getting men to hold each other accountable for how they treat women.   And yet, I’ve seen many guys start to do just that.  The key, as always, is offering them role models whose masculinity is unimpeachable, but whose commitment to standing up against a culture that encourages harassment is unquestionable.

I’ve got no qualms about using the language and rhetoric of masculine culture to try and undermine the conspiracy of silence.  Though some of my feminist allies cringe when I use the phrase "real men", I’ve found that the most successful way to reach guys is to make use of familiar concepts and ideals.   My friends as Men Can Stop Rape have been doing this for years with their "men of strength" campaign which offers an alternative vision of what it means to be a powerful, authentically masculine man.

Above all else, the vital message of North Country is one of individual responsibility.   Stopping harassment and abuse is about making every one of us, especially men, aware that remaining silent in the face of the mistreatment of women makes one a co-conspirator.  Real men stand up.

Penguins

First off, Amanda at Pandagon has an interesting response to my post yesterday inspired by "Sixteen Candles."

Sunday night, my fiancee and I stood in a long line at the Laemmle theatre here in town to see what surely is, in my mind, the best film of the year so far:  March of the Penguins.  We are rather mad animal lovers in our house; we are also devoted subscribers to National Geographic.  But we had never seen a film like this: every single scene left me gasping in awe at the filmmakers (who spent a year in the brutal conditions of the Antarctic) and at the beauty of the Emperor Penguins.   The film is narrated by Morgan Freeman, but I would have been happy to watch the whole thing without human voices, just listening to the sounds of wind and the water and the animals themselves.  (To be fair, the sounds of the penguins were apparently enhanced by foley artists, but that doesn’t detract from the picture at all.)

Please go see this film if you live in Los Angeles or New York or Europe (where it is already playing); it will expand nationwide soon.  Though it’s rated G, there are scenes that could disturb the very young ones, and move older sensitive folk to tears.  But it’s a profoundly serious film for all ages, and though I don’t usually turn a blog post into an advertisement for a movie, I’m doing so here today.  Honestly, I haven’t cried so much in a film since the last ten minutes of Lost in Translation.

For those folks interested in conservation efforts with penguins, check out the work of Falklands Conservation, which sponsors an adopt-a-penguin program on East Falkland.*  For 25 quid, you too can adopt a King Penguin, the closest relative to the Emperor Penguins of the film.  (There are no charities currently working on wildlife conservation in Antarctica, for understandable reasons.  Let’s hope that they are never necessary on our coldest continent.)  We’ve adopted a couple of penguins in our household at Matilde’s request.  Please see the film, and if you are able, consider a contribution to the work of Falklands Conservation.

*My father, brother, sisters and I are all British citizens.  But we also have Argentine cousins who would rather we call these islands the Malvinas.  I recall that back at our Easter gathering in 1982, there were some rather tense words amongst the family at the time of the war.  And as a fan of English football, there’s no team in the world I’d rather see beaten regularly than Argentina.

“Sixteen Candles” inspires a reflection

Today is one of the darkest days in sports:  baseball is on the all-star break; there is no football, basketball (NBA or WNBA), or hockey.  The Tour de France is on a rest day.  The Gold Cup of soccer is taking a day off.   No golf.  No major track meets.  No auto racing. This is,as far as I can tell, the single worst day of 2005 to be a sports fan.  Fortunately, I have all my college football preview magazines with which to amuse myself!

Anyhow…

My fiancee and I watched Sixteen Candles on television last night.  It’s one of those films ("Breakfast Club" and "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" are others) that helped define what it meant to be a high school student in the early-to-mid-1980s.    I had a fleeting crush on Molly Ringwald, as did half the boys I knew.  (I ought to use Google to find out what has become of her).

The film seems dated to me now; certain themes (ranging from racism to date rape) would be nearly impossible to portray in the same way in 2005.  That’s probably a good thing, overall.  But I found myself shifting uncomfortably during the scenes with actors Anthony Michael Hall and John Cusack (long before the latter was a major star.)  The two portray "geeky freshmen" obsessed with sex; last night for whatever reason, their depiction of fourteen and fifteen year-old nerds really resonated with me.

This will no doubt come as no surprise to any regular or occasional readers of this blog, but I was a very nerdy high school boy! (Click the link for an embarrassing photo.)  My clothes came from Sears (Tuffskins jeans, of course); I was nearsighted, slightly overweight, shaggy-haired and nonathletic.  Mind you, I didn’t have the miserable high school experience that so many self-proclaimed "geeks" seem to have had.  I had a small circle of friends who shared my interests in books, music, and politics.  (There were two kinds of brainy, nerdy kids in my school: the ones whose primary interest was in math and science, and the ones who were drawn to English Lit, drama, and government.  I was definitely in the latter group.  I’m not sure if we were any less nerdy merely because we carried around copies of the Federalist Papers rather than a slide rule.)  I became friends with many teachers, and was twice president of our little chapter of the very-nerdy Model UN.  (Junior year, we were Zaire; senior year, we were Peru at the state Model UN convention in Berkeley.)  But though I can say with all honesty that I enjoyed high school, it was not without its humiliations and disappointments.   And last night, for whatever reason, many of those unpleasant memories came back to me as I watched the film with my beloved.  I’m not sure why these memories are coming up now, though it is possible that my 20th high school reunion in October has something to do with it! 

My fiancee and I talked a bit last night about our very different high school experiences.  I always protect her privacy on this blog, but I will say that she and I did not travel in the same sort of high school circles.   She was a popular girl in high school; she was drill team captain and an accomplished club soccer player.  She was — and of course I’m biased — gorgeous as a teenager (and still is).   Before last night, we’d never spent much time talking about what sort of  cliques we belonged to in high school, and it was an enlightening conversation.

When I was in my late twenties, I went through a brief and rather nasty period where I quite consciously thought of myself as getting "revenge" for what had happened to me in high school.   When I was 29, I was in a brief relationship with a gal simply because she was a dead ringer for the most popular girl in my high school, a girl on whom I had had a mad crush but who had never given me the time of day.  I confess that nine years ago, I was quite a jerk.  I dated a former prom queen largely because she had been just that; I was consciously living out a fantasy from my adolescence, and this twenty-somethin’ gal was more or less a victim of that fantasy.  We broke up after a few intense weeks, and I’m pleased to say that years later, I was able to make amends to her for having intentionally "used" her.  To my surprise, when I told her about this, she laughed and laughed and said, "Hugo, after the way I behaved in high school, I probably had it coming!" 

Obviously, I’m well past the stage where I feel the need to prove that I’m not the chubby, awkward "nerd" that I was nearly a quarter-century ago.  But it hit me last night that so many of the young folks with whom I work at All Saints are going through the same sorts of insecurities that I went through.  Before I went to sleep, I brought into my mind about two dozen faces from my youth group: boys and girls; frosh and sophs, junior and seniors.  Some of "my kids" are, from what I can tell, very popular.  Others are on the fringes of high school life.  I began to wonder, and still am wondering, if I do a good-enough job paying attention to those kids who are more "nerdy", or more alienated.  I try very hard to spend an equal amount of time with each kid in the group each week (a daunting task sometimes).  But I wonder if my own life experiences affect how I interact with the seemingly "cool" and "uncool" kids.

I remember one night a few years ago when I was first leading a discussion on sex,  that the conversation quickly became dominated by a small group of older, popular teens.   Without always labeling themselves as such, these were the "experienced" kids.   I had opened up the room to open discussion about feelings and experiences, not realizing that the most sexually precocious kids in the room would quickly take over.   Too late, I noticed that many of the younger kids, as well as the less outgoing and popular ones, were dead silent.  A couple of animated, talkative senior girls had hijacked the conversation — and I had allowed it to happen.  Someone overhearing what we talked about in the lounge that night might well have assumed that all of our kids were sexually experienced and eager to share about it!   I forgot that in that room, there were as many teens who had "never been kissed" as there were teens who had already had sex.    A week later, during a follow-up discussion, I made a gentle and oblique apology to everyone for allowing so many of our young people to be left out.

Now, I’m not saying that it’s accurate to describe high school as a place where "popular=sexually active."  There are plenty of exceptions; some popular and attractive kids are proud virgins; some kids who are on the margins of high school society are quite experienced.  But I have noticed that my teens perceive that equation to be real, just as teens in my era (and in "Sixteen Candles") did as well.  For my generation of high school boys, losing one’s virginity before graduation was seen as the Holy Grail that would guarantee us admission into a "cool" clique of those who had "done it."  There was no more effective way to disprove one’s geekiness than to find a girl willing to have sex with you!  The homosocial desire for approval and acceptance was as much a driving force towards premature sexual activity as biological lust. For too many kids, perhaps boys in particular, the "popular=sexually active" equation is an unquestioned truth in secular high schools.

It took me many years (more than a decade, frankly) to come to terms with the humiliations and disappointments I experienced in high school.  Indeed, one of the reasons I wanted to work with high school youth was that I knew first-hand how unhappy a time it can be in the lives of American teens.  But I realize that I still have work to do. I must be vigilant about not giving more attention to the cool and the popular kids than to the awkward ones.  It’s a genuine effort sometimes to treat all kids the same; even youth group leaders pushing forty can be affected by subconscious messages that suggest that the pretty, the handsome, the athletic,and the articulate are more deserving of time and attention.  I know I do a pretty good job of dividing that attention equally, but there is still more I can do, and I resolve to do it next year.

Peeps and a simple-minded attachment to atonement theory

I’m sitting in my office on this Easter Monday morning a stack of ungraded journals by my side.  We spent Saturday and Sunday with my father up in Santa Barbara, marking both his 70th and the resurrection of our Lord.  In honor of these two important events, I ate far more than was necessary, and I have that vaguely queasy feeling in my tummy this morning.

It’s not Easter without an egg hunt, and my beloved and I hid three dozen plastic eggs around my father’s garden yesterday morning.  The rest of the family hunted with varying degrees of enthusiasm, with relatively few complaints from the shorter folk about my nasty propensity to wedge the goodies high up in trees.  Once all 36 eggs had been found, our group shared the bounty together.  It was discovered that few save your reporter were fond of marshmallow peeps.  Thus I ate far more than my share, and this might explain my shakiness this morning.

I am also proud to report that, egged on by my sister, a number of us (including my father), braved the frigid waters of the Pacific off Henry’s Beach yesterday afternoon.   I felt very proud.

I did enjoy the long Good Friday service at All Saints.  Three hours is a bit long to sit in church, I realize, but I was struck by how many people were only able to attend for a portion of the liturgy.  I’m hoping that they all had work or family commitments that kept them from sitting vigil for three hours; I wouldn’t like to think that most of my fellow Episcopalians just don’t have the endurance to remain focused for that long. 

I think it’s hard for progressive Christians to focus on Good Friday.   The desire to rush ahead to Easter morning is overwhelming.  This seemed especially true for our rector, my friend Ed Bacon, during his brief homily on Friday afternoon.  Let me say for the record that I do love Ed.  He’s one of the reasons I came to All Saints, and I do think he often preaches prophetically (I know, an overused adverb among liberal Christians, but hey, it’s accurate).  Still, I’m sorry that he chose the course he did in his short sermon.  He began with an attack on traditional Christian atonement theory and last year’s Mel Gibson movie, saying that he had found the Passion of the Christ to be, and I quote very much in context, "disgusting."  Ed wasn’t just angry at the violence of the film (which I found a bit overwhelming myself) but the theology behind it.  Like most contemporary liberal Christians, Ed finds the idea that Jesus died to "pay for our sins" to be offensive, and he let us know that in the strongest possible terms. Even more unfortunately, my friend Ed then connected atonement theory to the rising power of what he called the "far right-wing theocracy", offering the recently piece of Terri Schiavo legislation as evidence.  (If you’re having trouble following that, trust me, so was I in the pew.)

Sometimes it’s very hard to be a theologically conservative evangelical with a left-wing world view.  As I listened to Ed last week, I squirmed uncomfortably.  When I first became a Christian, the defining feature of my spiritual experience was the stunning, overwhelming awareness that Jesus had died for me.   One of my cousins, who is very religiously conservative, told me, just before I accepted Christ,  that she had been praying for me daily for more than a decade.  She told me "Hugo, when Jesus was dying on the cross, He was thinking about you."  The first time she told me that, I excused myself from a family party, went into the bathroom, and burst into tears. 

My belief in the atonement was reinforced through prayer and simple experiences. I knew how to poke holes in atonement theory.  Heck, I had to slog through St Anselm’s Cur Deus Homo in Latin when I was in grad school, and wrote a typically snide paper about the influence of feudal law on theology.  I can spout all the feminist critiques of the theory as well, about the problems of "blood sacrifice theology" and the "sacramentalization of violence."   Been there, read that, said that.  But I’ve got to say, in my heart, I’m a very, very childlike guy.  To put it bluntly, my own theology owes more to the likes of Jennifer Knapp and Lee Strobel than it does to a Niebuhr, a Yoder, or a Duns Scotus!   I may have Ph.D. after my name, but my faith is, I admit with a wince, remarkably anti-intellectual. 

I first came to love Jesus because He died for me, not because some progressive preacher told me that he "successfully embodied a radical new ethic of inclusiveness and community"!.   The notion that Jesus was just a man who lived a remarkable life of peace-making and justice, a wonderful role model and no more — that’s not a faith that changes lives. It sure as heck wouldn’t have changed mine. 

I’m aware that this "Jesus died for me" theology is, when unaccompanied by the call to action,  self-centered to the point of narcissism.   And yet without it,  I know that I don’t have the power to do whatever small good things I am able to do.  Whatever small amount of good work I am able to do with my students and with my youth group stems from the absolute certainty that Jesus shed His blood for me, as He shed His blood for countless others.  Despite the violence of Mel Gibson’s movie, I loved it because it made me newly, viscerally aware of the suffering Christ endured for me.  I did cry, quite a bit, and I walked out of that theater feeling humbled and loved and extraordinarily grateful.    The pope may or may not have said "It is as it was" in response to seeing the film — but for me, when I saw it, it was all that I had imagined and more.  It added powerfully to my Easter experience last year, and will continue to do so for years to come.  But it didn’t contradict my commitment to the idea that Jesus wants us to do justice in this life!  And I see no reason why the theology of the atonement ought to be associated with conservative positions on a whole host of economic and social issues.

One of the reasons I like this blog is because I can put into writing what I am unable to defend intellectually.  I’m not interested in offering up an apologetic treatise on the atonement theory. I’m simply sharing how vitally important it is to me, and how painful it is to have this central facet of my simple faith attacked in the church that I love.   

By the way, if you’re willing to pay a small fee, the best defense of the atonement theory against its critics comes from another man I am proud to call a friend, Fuller Seminary President Richard Mouw.  Mouw, incidentally, was once a former student of my father’s at the University of Alberta…

I must get to some grading.

Oscars done

As always, I’m grateful for the thoughtfulness and the insight of my commenters; there’s some very good stuff below my previous post.

As of last night, my  beloved and I have completed our task of seeing all of the Oscar-nominated films prior to the handing out of the Academy Awards.  (For the record, until I moved to Los Angeles, I wasn’t nearly as interested in such things.)  Not that it’s of interest to anyone else necessarily, of the five films nominated for best picture, here’s how I’d rank them:

1.  "Sideways" (Like last year’s Lost in Translation, a film with dialogue so accurate about the male soul it took my breath away)
2.  "Finding Neverland" (Glorious and moving.  Of course, I’m  a very biased Johnny Depp fanatic).
3.  "The Aviator"(I didn’t want to like it, but I did)
4.  "Million Dollar Baby" (Good, but somehow I just didn’t buy it)
5.  "Ray"  (I loved the acting, but found the film much too long and utterly unengaging)

And I’d very much like to see Annette Bening and Johnny Depp win the Best Actor and Actress Oscars, and Sophie Okonedo and Thomas Haden Church take home the Supporting awards.   No dramatic physical transformations, no evidence of extreme use of the Method, just pure craft.

Whose deep throat?

This morning’s Los Angeles TImes (registration required) has a review of the just-released documentary, Inside Deep Throat.  In both my women’s history and gay and lesbian history classes, I spend a fair amount of time on the sexual revolution and the coming of the pornography industry.   On occasion, I have discussed the impact of Deep Throat.  While it is probably possible to exaggerate Deep Throat’s importance, there’s little doubt that this low-budget 1972 film had a significant impact upon American society.   The protests the film aroused helped (along with the Roe v. Wade decision the following year) to galvanize social conservatives; the modern culture wars indeed have a seed in this one movie.

But I’m not going to see the documentary.  It’s rated NC-17, and has much explicitness, including extended outtakes from the original Deep Throat.  I’d love to see some of the interviews, but I have no intention of sitting through that much pornographic imagery.  Others will make their own decisions, and I wouldn’t dream of condemning those who go to see the documentary. .  But I’ve got a pretty good gauge of my own comfort level these days, and this film clearly would exceed it.   (If an edited DVD is ever released, featuring just the interviews, I’d love to see it.)

The Times review is enthusiastic and upbeat:

By turns funny and sobering, sweeping and intimate, the consistently
entertaining "Inside Deep Throat" plays like a giddy prance through the
minefield of the last three decades of American sex and politics. It’s
a timeless story, really. Bawdy, can-do upstarts raise the vengeful ire
of the cynically pious.

(Cynically pious?  Ouch!)

Most of those associated with the film are to be interviewed.  At least, all the men involved in making, producing, acting in, and distributing the film.  On the other hand, the star of the picture is not on hand to be interviewed.  Linda Lovelace, who in her later years became a key anti-pornography crusader, died in a 2002 car accident.  Hers is a complicated story.  As Joe Bob Briggs pointed out in his obituary for Lovelace three years ago,

Lovelace may be the only American celebrity to publish four best-selling autobiographies. The first two celebrate free uninhibited sex as the most liberating form of human expression since man learned to speak. The last two describe pornography as a felony assault against women, a menace to the future  of civilization and the very essence of evil. In this one desperately unhappy woman we have both the yin and the yang of the sexual revolution played out before our eyes.

Lovelace, (born Linda Boreman), like so many women who would follow her into porn, came from a background of abuse and neglect.  In the 1980s, she made repeated and consistent claims that she had been forced into making that one famous movie:

When you see the movie ‘Deep Throat,’" she told the Toronto Sun  in 1981, "you are watching me being raped. It is a crime that movie is still showing; there was a gun to my head the entire time."

Whether that gun was literal or metaphorical, no one can say.  What is clear is that Lovelace was addicted to drugs at the time she made the film (she was arrested not long after its release for cocaine possession).  While male co-star Harry Reems ended up a born-again believer and a wealthy real estate broker (after getting sober in the late 80s). Lovelace’s last job was working as a night janitor in Denver office buildings.  She died penniless.

By all accounts, Inside Deep Throat pays scant attention to Lovelace’s claims and sad end.  Producer Brian Grazer told the AP that "I was less interested in the story of Linda Lovelace and more on the movie’s effect on popular culture." 

That’s convenient, Brian.  Though a discussion of the film’s impact on society is a worthy goal, to ignore the impact the film had on its female star is troubling.  Despite some legal troubles, all of the men associated with the film seem alive and reasonably well.  Harry Reems, bless his heart, is a millionare.  But the one woman whose performance was so critical to the picture’s success is unavailable to be interviewed.  She’s not in a position to laugh and reminisce with the fellas who made the film with her.  It’s not the fault of the producers of this documentary that Linda Lovelace died in a car accident.  But to put it graphically, hers was the "throat" that made the movie a success.  (And by naming the entire film after a woman’s orifice, the makers of the film set an industry standard for objectification.  And yes, I am aware that "throat" in this instance functions as both noun and verb.)  Her story and her perspective is absolutely vital to an understanding of the film — and to ignore that voice and that story is irresponsible and wrong.

Of course, perhaps it’s convenient that Lovelace is no longer alive.  If she were, the producers might feel compelled to interview her.  And her version of the story might spoil their "giddy prance" through our recent social history.

Note:  I wrote this BEFORE reading Echidne’s excellent post on this subject at Alas, A Blog.  There’s a particularly good discussion of the much-maligned Catherine Mackinnon that’s well worth a read.