Here's the second of four essays I found recently on old floppy discs. It's 2000 words. about a ten-minute read. It's about ten years old, its title Brutality and Vulgarity in Entertainment.
Everyone agrees
that free speech is a blessing. It has its drawbacks, of course, as does
everything in life. Pornographers use it as defense, as do those who vilify
soldiers in harm's way. My concern here is the brutality and vulgarity that
pervades today's arts, a brutality and vulgarity that is sometimes compelling
in drama, hilarious in comedy. These few occasions form a strong argument
against censorship, demonstrating why that which appalls and/or offends must be
defended.
In the last
decade I've returned to all my unpublished novels and eliminated most of the
profanity and explicit sex. My self-published novel, Close to the Edge, has
half the four-letter words of the original manuscript. In the 26 short stories
I've had published, there may not be more than a handful of cusses. It is my
retaliation against the overuse of foul language, especially in film. I strove
for nuance, art if you will. In one of the works I substituted what I call
"Brooklyn Sicilian" terms for profanity. In another, about people who
work at a commodity exchange, I decided that the portrayal would not be honest
without the bluest dialogue. Still, I may have been wrong. After all, in the
most famous Seinfeld episode, The Contest, only euphemisms were
used. In this instance the constraints of prime time network television, which
have all but evaporated in its struggle against cable, had the writers reaching
for a cleverness that became art. There should be more of this. Unfortunately,
modern artists prefer to bludgeon either in an effort to be hip or real or controversial
or perhaps only for the sake of commercial appeal to the young. One must learn
to grin and bear it. The trend may be curtailed in the future, but it will
never go away, nor should it. There are many instances where brutality and
vulgarity work well. Unfortunately, our elderly suffer the most. There has been
a huge leap from the sanitized language and sex of pre-1960's works to today's
freedom of expression. The rest of us have been weaned on permissiveness.
In Michael Mann's
Thief, Robert Prosky, the loveable
second Sarge from Hill Street Blues,
delivers a riveting monologue rife with profanity and bigotry as he stands over
the pummeled James Caan. It is the language of a street scholar, too perfect
perhaps, but this is the case with much of the great dialogue in drama. I don't
know how many times I've replayed it in my mind. I am in awe of its perverse
wisdom and rhythm.
The Farrelly
brothers have made several comedies of a vulgar nature. Only Kingpin made me laugh. I looked forward
to their follow-up, There's Something
about Mary, which was championed by the press. I was disappointed and
sensed critics went overboard in its praise because they’d missed the boat on
its predecessor. The late Gene Siskel was one who recognized it, naming it to
his top ten for that year. I cannot pinpoint why it had me guffawing and other
Farrelly films barely raised a chuckle, but I'm glad the loose standards of the
day allowed them to make it. Perhaps they'll create something as good as Kingpin in the future.
I don't laugh as
readily at screen comedy as I do at that of real life. On Seinfeld, only Kramer makes me laugh, but I still find the show
fascinating in its depiction of the selfishness and neuroses of moderns. I reacted
the same way to Garry Shandling's turn as a fictional talk show host, which
featured a ridiculous amount of profanity, and to Larry David's Curb Your Enthusiasm. These are astute
observations of human nature, occasionally exaggerated for comic effect. I
don't understand why, but I always look forward to the appearance of the
potty-mouthed, shrewish wife of David's manager, who isn't the type of person
one would want to meet in real life. I never objected to the content of the
Dice Man's act -- I just didn't think it was funny. Many did. Comedy is the
most subjective of all entertainment forms. A bit either elicits laughter or
doesn't.
In literature,
Henry Miller was at the forefront in the tearing down of barriers to free
expression. Although I no longer have the admiration for his work I once did, I
believe all modern writers owe him a great debt. He taught us fearlessness in
the depiction of sexuality, using a language that was blunt, without bull. I
doubt anyone will ever make explicit sex as funny as he did, although in the
end it may be merely the best pornography ever written. In queries to agents
and publishers, I say of one of my works: "Can a novel be both sexually
explicit and meaningful?" I'm not sure I succeeded. It may have been more
a product of hormones than intellect, wish fulfillment than a frank look at a
modern relationship.
At the time,
Miller’s use of profanity was fresh and daring. Profanity has now become
commonplace, gratuitous. I’ll never forget the reaction evoked by Mel Brooks’
send up of the wild west, Blazing Saddles.
Many walked out of the theater. The rest of us laughed ourselves silly. The
content crossed a line previously crossed only in nightclubs. Today its shock
value is diminished by the torrent of vulgarity that has ensued. It is not
nearly as funny or exciting. Then again, a punch line is diminished once it is
known. I wonder, had Lenny Bruce emerged in this era, if he would be telling
clean jokes. That would be pushing the envelope these days. After all these years
of permissiveness, I still believe the best sex in cinema is that which is
suggested rather than explicit. A perfect example of this is the first dance
Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse do during the Broadway
Melody segment of Singin’ in the Rain.
Without dialogue or nudity, sexuality is transformed into high art. Another
example is a wife’s simple, rapid closing of shutters in Chocolat.
Vulgarity isn’t
restricted to language and gratuitous nudity, of course. It is manifested in
graphic violence, gore and simple outlandishness. Married with Children had a long run. Its premise, the sitcom
family that does everything wrong, promised much more than it ever delivered,
too often sinking to the lowest common denominator. There isn’t an episode that
is above average, but there are many great moments, especially in the zingers
the cast leveled at one another. Two gleeful scenes stand out in my mind. In
one Peg is making outrageous claims to an investigator of some sort, who asks
how she would account for such a rich fantasy life. She gazes off screen and
the camera pans to Al, who is on the couch, T-shirt rolled up, hands gripping
his flabby gut, anguished look on his beleaguered mug. Not only is this funny on a simplistic level,
it’s also wonderful commentary on how a spouse’s quirks loom large over time.
The second moment finds Al, a shoe salesman, trying to get an undersized shoe
on a fat woman. It reminds me of the hilarious, borderline obscene moment in The Dentist, where W.C. Fields is locked
between a woman’s thighs as he tries to pull a tooth. How in the world was that
allowed in 1932? Fortunately it was. It will always be funny, timeless.
Unfortunately, such vulgarity works only occasionally, and it may be argued
that these few moments are not worth it in light of an overall coarsening of
culture. Married with Children had a
running joke about the teenage daughter’s promiscuity. Although it fit the
overall theme of the show, I wondered if making light of such behavior was
encouraging it. For years I’ve wondered if the zany vulgarity of pro wrestling
was a sign of a crumbling society, and if I were contributing to the decay by
secretly indulging in the guilty pleasure of it. I liken Vince McMahon to the
media mogul in Ayn Rand’s The
Fountainhead, whose cynical view of life has him cater to the lowest wants
in man in a perverse sort of capitalism at the opposite end of the spectrum of
the lead character, an honorable, uncompromising architect. McMahon once showed
up at court in a neck brace, which I couldn’t help but wonder was done not only
to sway the jury but as a shot at those who brought him to trial. He may have
carried the chicanery of his oddball profession into the halls of government.
If so, it was a vulgar stroke of genius. He also introduced a crazed wrestler in
a frightening mask, the wacky Mick Foley, as “Mankind.” I wondered if this were
more than a joke, if it were his actual view of the human race, perhaps warped
by his bizarre use of steroids. Perhaps in taking them he was proving they were
safe, setting an example for his charges, many of whom have died young, the
latest Eddie Guerrero, “Latino Heat,” at 38. One of Guerrero’s slogans was: “I
lie; I cheat; I steal.” Knowing how tightly scripted pro wrestling is these
days, I’d guess this was McMahon again injecting his world view -- and the fans
loved it, loved Eddie. Rest in peace, vato, you gave it your all.
When Sam
Peckinpah first used graphic violence, he was doing it in serious films, not
all of which were successful artistically. He broke a barrier and Hollywood
eventually opted for such bloodletting even in light entertainment.
Fortunately, this has been curbed to a large extent. Saving Private Ryan was an exception. The cinematic genius of
Steven Spielberg brought viewers as close to the carnage of warfare as they
would ever get. In watching it, I felt like a voyeur. Here was a depiction of
an actual event – and I was deriving entertainment from the annihilation of
young men. Curiously, I reacted similarly to Titanic. I recalled reading a teacher’s account of her
disappointment in the fascination of the young with the cold savagery in Schindler’s List. Had these films been
released when I was a teenager, I’m sure I would have reacted similarly.
According to director Samuel Fuller, a decorated veteran of the Big Red One in
World War II, the only way to depict combat accurately would be to have snipers
behind the screen and bombs under the seats. People have told me they’ve become
lost, forgotten they we watching a film. I’ve never felt that, although films
have moved me to tears, brought an ache to my gut or made me laugh
hysterically. Michael Mann achieved the extraordinary in his version of Last of the Mohicans. In the climactic
showdown he somehow made poetry of brutality, romance of rage. Larry McMurtry’s
epic novel, Lonesome Dove, is
uncompromising in its portrayal of the violence and hardship that characterized
the settling of America. It arouses an appreciation of what pioneers suffered,
and shows modern man how fortunate he is to be living in the 21st
century, where life expectancy is nearly double that of the 19th and
early 20th. All these works were better for not having been
sanitized.
Modern music is
in love with profanity, largely in hip hop, which I know almost nothing about.
Marianne Faithfull took pop to another level in her rant: Why’d Ya Do It? The song features such foul language I would listen
to it only through a headset. Only a boor would subject the general public to
such a screed, enthralling though it is. I doubt it would have worked as well
had moderate terms been used. It is for adults only, much more so than
pornography, which appeals to the adolescent in men. The notorious Green Day,
an American punk band, proved its worth in the breezy opening of Longview. The blend of drums and bass is
beautiful. This brief moment forgives any youthful excess of which they may be
guilty. Although such groups’ works are all but gone from my music collection,
there is value in hardcore for those who have the stamina for it.
Brutality and
vulgarity in the hands of certain artists becomes art. Just as in any era, we
must sort through the mediocre and the muck to find gems.
What do you
think?
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