It’s not that you can’t reason with the masses; it’s that you can’t reason with the visual media we use to reach them. Visual media, and moving pictures in particular, do not lend themselves to complexity of thought, or, in particular, to thought at all. This is not to say that thought-provoking films and images don’t exist, but they exist in spite of their media, not because of them. Film finds itself better used by the polemicist than the intellectual: Jean-Luc Godard’s tendency toward filling his movies with lectures is a case in point; in opposition we see Leni Riefenstahl’s propaganda, which can be understood almost completely without a single word coming into play. Even the seemingly subtle masters of the form are more likely to produce emotional punches than provoke rational discourse: Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner is frequently noted as asking profound questions, but it asks maybe three or four of those in its almost two-hour running time, and it asks far less of the viewer than the Phillip K. Dick novel upon which it is based. Even Stanley Kubrick failed, by his own admission, to successfully address the issues brought up in Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange.
The intellectual content of movies, at least that which isn’t expressed through the standard narrative techniques familiar from theater, exist in and are created from the juxtaposition of images. Eisenstein recognized this early on: that meaning could be created beyond the juxtaposed images themselves through the act of juxtaposition. Montage does not discount the meaning in the images themselves, but the moving picture doesn’t often allow the kind of interaction with an image that a static picture invites. A still photograph, painting, or sculpture, creates a distinct relationship between the viewer and the work. There is a boundary of surface and space that eventually forces the viewer back into herself, the moment of contemplation. Cinema, with its incessant images in motion, tends to cloy the senses and therefore demands increasing levels of sensation in order to reach its numbed audience. The viewer becomes invaded as much as she invades; contemplation, the movement back into the self, becomes increasingly difficult.
The basic problem of making moving images mean, and not merely emote, can be seen in what television has done to the electoral process. Even if Barack Obama had wanted to discuss complex solutions to difficult issues, he would not have had the chance: there just isn’t time until the next question, the next image, the next segment. Radio, which is slightly more “literary” and certainly more verbal, has become the new medium of the mind, such as it is. And even it is extremely time-sensitive, unable to maintain the close audience/author relationship of text.
All this is well known—nothing I’ve written here hasn’t been observed before. But what is even more interesting is how current trends in visual media are to substitute something even more primeval than emotion into their communications instead of any intellectual content. Orwell approached this idea with the concept of “ducktalk”: ideological blather so devoid of substance that its delivery resembles the quacking of a duck. What we go for now is pure gut-(re)action, the physical movement within of tension, the simple stimulation of some basic vestige of the lizard-brain. We wish, after all, not to feel, as that might make us aware of our actual state. We wish to avoid the subversive possibility of compassion—both our corporate minders wish to avoid this and we ourselves do. All we really ask of our mass media is that they force us to react, that they check to make sure our reflexes are still functioning, like a doctor’s little rubber hammer.
So numb we are in our little felt-walled cubicles and our commutes, our savage layoffs and our abstract wars, that we seek entertainment that elicits only the most simple of reactions. The broad comedy, the slasher flick, the graphic war movie, all circumvent the most problematic human attributes, feeling and thought, and place us back into the cognitive state of the mayfly. Thus atrophied, the two distinguishing sensibilities of higher-order creatures are easily dismissed so that we can more efficaciously ignore the inhumanity and alienation of what we do: obeying idiots, “serving” the customer, eating empty calories out of Styrofoam clamshells.
These media have not really caused the end of a civilization predicated on a literate populace, but they have marked it. For certainly it is possible to create great and thoughtful works both cinematic and televisual. Our lives as led make the lowest and worst of these compelling. Some of the best television consists almost entirely of just two people talking, like what Bill Moyers has done on PBS over the years. But what percentage of the 200 some-odd cable channels provide this? And many of the best movies ever made move slowly enough for the viewer to ask questions—the films of Abbas Kiarostami come to mind—and ask either directly or through the trials of their characters important questions about life, love, morality, jazz. But how many of the movies most people see would have any plot at all if it weren’t blown from place to place by big, orange explosions? The latest Batman movie may be a good movie, but do most people see it for its finer points, or do they just want to gut the dead guy who plays the Joker?
All this may also be why some of the better films and TV shows these days are satires or allegories: we let them exist because they work on a gut level that rarely infects the intellectual level on which they also work. They can be “read” by those who are capable and willing, and the rest can just enjoy the dick and fart jokes.
It’s no surprise, either, that the World Wide Web became popular only when it became the Web, that is, when it became visual. The strings of text that populated BBSs and listservs had a limited appeal, and anyway, it was hard to do hardcore porn in ASCII. Hypertext led the way, of course, by giving people the ability to gut their way through webpages; the destination was always clicking through, not hassling with content. Thus the user has the illusion of control, of exercising judgment, of “interacting.” But what is created in the mind of the user by this is debatable, and real change occurs in the mind when intellectual work is done. Blogging offers some hope, and the numbers who fall away from it every day offer hope as well since those who have something to say and some compulsion to say it may have a chance to be read in the aftermath of the collapse. But it, too, rarely encourages a sustained reading, being more about pith than wit, quirk than commentary.
The best of the moving-image media stick with the viewer not in terms of the trauma of their imagery, but because of their ability to expand, improbably, what the viewer is able to imagine.
The degree to which poetry is about itself is the measure of its irrelevance.
Apply this idea at will and with the necessary substitutions to fit your situation.
Yet again my students prove they cannot listen—that simply hearing is beyond them. They must be distracted because otherwise they might actually start thinking about something in the world around them, or, worse yet, they might start thinking about something in the past or something in the world that is not immediately around them, maybe something from a cubicle or from a rat-infested Mumbai slum. They might accidentally think about some massive machine slowly leaking fluid onto a factory floor. They might realize there’s a price somebody else pays for their comfort or that others unknown pay for their suffering. Aside from the children of the very rich, the children of America’s middle class are the most privileged beings on the face of the earth. They—which is to say “we,” as I was one too–do not suffer in the sense that others do, from famine or war or the violence and paranoia of political oppression. Yet any one of them will moan of a terrible life, of privation from all that’s holy and cool, of a series of arbitrary parental usurpations of rights and entitlements. He’ll also tell you that the poor just don’t work hard enough, that the wealthy have all earned what they have, that the smart are far from cool. They’ll tell you that they’re all going to be basketball stars and captains of industry, rappers and designer clothing moguls, actors and celebrities-without-portfolio, that the future is boundless and full of glory on the court, the screen, and the stage.
The American adolescent is a creation of marketing. No one is more sure of who she is than the American adolescent, and one of the things she’s sure of is that she’s “finding herself,” that this is a “difficult” and an “awkward” age. He knows this because he’s been told it. She knows what she is supposed to listen to on her iPod, indeed that she should be listening to it on an iPod. Jazz is off-limits, classical is for commercials when an air of sophistication is meant to be portrayed. Everything is better with a hip-hop beat. These are a people sure that carpenter pants are out for now and that ripped jeans are back in. They know precisely what’s bad or ugly or old skool and precisely what’s hawt and new; though they may very well disagree on the particulars, that does not change the precision of their opinions.
The American adolescent wears his neediness like an American Eagle t-shirt that she changes from day-to-day. She wears it as a badge of her hurt and her vulnerability which she’s sure of because that is part of what’s packaged as adolescence. Margaret Meade may have been the first to recognize adolescence as a Western concept, but now we must wrangle with it as a product of marketing. Adolescence is an exploitation of the indulged offspring of the middle class, whose buying power itself is a projection of the status of their parents. The best training they’ll ever get in being consumers happens here, and as such it is a de facto right of passage. Here is learned that there is no distinction between their best interests and their “style,” that individual style is a definition of self, and, because of this, that there is no distinction between political liberty and consumer choice. This pattern is maintained long into, if not throughout, adulthood, with style and image-creation largely supplanting personality. Image is a boon to marketers, since it must be continually updated, continually groomed for the next life stage.
And so Americans don’t develop much until they are in their 20s, and may not develop at all, or may never develop past their glory days of being marketed-to at 16 or 17 or so. This is not here, as it may be in some societies, a detriment. It may even be an asset. The current president of the United States was elected precisely for his adolescent brashness, bullheadedness, and peevishness, all of which we find endearing.
The irony is that many Americans who view themselves as most grown-up are the ones who encourage and promote perpetual adolescence: America’s conservatives. Conservatism in America is associated with fanatical militantism, intolerance, black-and-white thinking, an absolute hatred of ambiguity, and an unswerving faith in marketing and in the private sector generally. It also worships power, and so American conservatives encourage in their children behavior that would be seen as outré in most civilized societies: bullying, schoolyard vigilantism, unwarranted aggression of the field of play. Indeed, American football can be seen as perhaps the condensation of the American conservative ethic; it is hierarchical but also anarchical, violent, competitive for its own sake, and reliant on a purely externalized set of purposes and goals. It is no surprise that many notable American conservatives are football fanatics, from Patton to Nixon to Condoleeza Rice. This is something they share with many male American adolescents.
The confluence of politics and marketing creates perpetual consumers, perpetual adolescents, and a group of people absolutely certain of what they’re about, as their values-as-lifestyle-choice are reinforced at very turn. That we would blunder into Iraq the way we did, and that this particular president would do it, should not surprise us at all.
Americans love to get their bobby-soxers in a rumble; we like nostalgia at a penny a pound; we
blush Coke Red and ware Pepsi Blue: America the pre-packaged in sanitary cello fain for your
projection. Freud was a dalliance, but we prefer numbers, have left our black turtlenex in the
trunk of the Lincoln, have rounded forced and are rumbling home. Somebody needs to make a
sport of jumping privacy fences, one of the last defenses of the mythically modest. LBJ taped
himself discussing his nuts with a tailor from Texas: Johnson’s southern-fried ego a
manifestation of privilege, which is to say, in America, of paranoia. It could have been the meds,
though. Everybody was on ‘em: LBJ, Nixon, Elvis too. JFK, Norma Jean. Maybe not Kissinger.
He needed no help to collapse into the universal loathing that comes pre-packaged with power.
Americans absolve themselves, hide behind leadership to forget their roles when black-shrouded
Muslims dance atop boxes, the wires gator-clipped to their fingers–If you fall, you die. That
motto resounds from the Capitol down; it rolls through Wall Street like a cloud of choking dust,
the pulverized bits of glass and wallboard and CRTs pulmonating through, a benediction.
Which we couldn’t hear, wouldn’t because revenge is so much sweeter to the strong who, our
inner myth tells us, deserved it all along. America, home to juice boxes playing pop songs and
Pop Rocks on acid and the wavering from radio north a vague mummery rejiggered to sell jeans.
America, your midriff is bare; your navel dances into view, has forgotten the true and grooves to a new beat, syncopated with the pulses of A/C, modulated by an atom of industrial cesium
beneath a mountain in high Colorado, defensible, Colorado who would lead the souls lost to
secularism toward heaven or its simulacrum by parting the seas of regurgitated Reds or scything
down the weeds of the Fertile Crescent.
America, your thighs thunder.
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