Tonight's Bout: Reality vs. "Reality"

            For those few remaining charmingly naïve souls that watch reality shows for the real-life drama and pathos, the cat’s out of the bag. They’re being manipulated, and the proof is on display in a new series called UnReal (no need to get up from the couch, it’s on teevee!). Not that there haven’t been reams of comment on the verisimilitude of such programs going back to the original - MTV’s Real Life - but now the industry itself peels back the curtain to unveil a new form of meta-entertainment, a program presenting the real reality of reality television. This thinly veiled satire of The Bachelor/Bachelorette franchise was created by Sarah Shapiro, a former producer for the program, and offers cognoscenti of irony a bitchy, nasty skewering of the whole televised-quest-for-true-love genre. UnReal’s cast members are characterized as either publicity whores looking to launch a career, or hopelessly naïve bimbos who were born to be exploited, while the show’s producers keep the pot simmering with alcohol, feigned friendship and well-timed provocations of the cattle.

            The underlying mission of the show is to demonstrate that reality is a construct that must be massaged every step of the way in order to produce a coherent narrative. True love must overcome a series of challenges in order to be finally achieved: the sorting of the candidates, the assessments of their motives, the exploration and prioritization of physical desire, the vanquishing of rivals, the anguish of the failed contenders, the confused approval of the families, and above all, the relentless examination of past hurts. A candidate who cannot properly articulate their victimhood is no good to anyone, and worse, not very entertaining.

            Somehow, this most recent violation of the fourth wall puts me in mind of the Republican National Convention and the Trump candidacy in general. Ordinarily, political campaigns are well managed affairs. One might even say (and many campaign managers do) that election campaigns require well constructed narratives designed to present the candidate in the best light possible and to push the emotional buttons of the electorate in that time-honored way that drives them straight to the poll to make the right choice. The key word here is narrative – a constructed reality that marshals the facts in an organized way to produce an expected result.

It is the complete absence of that sort of organization that characterizes the Trump campaign, and by implication, indicts the manipulated reality of the established political order. That’s why the masters of the system are outraged; Trump has dispensed with the producers. His reality show doesn’t care if it’s coherent. He doesn’t mind if it makes any sense. He’s indifferent to the trappings of the traditionally managed politician: position statements, endorsements, strategies, ground game. Trump just opens his mouth and spews whatever he’s thinking, and coherence be damned. In so doing, he inevitably (it would be a leap to credit him with intention) exposes the existing system as the farcical theater that it is.

So now we arrive at the newest edition of The Greatest Show on Earth, the Republican National Convention. As we’ve come to expect, it is completely improvised, intermittently chaotic, and astounding at every turn. Shiver at the frothings of the mad dog Giuliani!; ponder the ineptitude of Melania, the arm candy that speaks!; marvel at the endless succession of offspring who really really really love their Dad!; watch the Speaker of the House address an empty hall!; hiss the sore loser  who has to be hustled from the stage! These puppets need no strings.

As we consumers of the spectacle delight in the unexpected wonders of this junior high talent show, the village explainers raise baffled brows. They strain their wonky little brains to tell us what it all means, to put it in context, to bring order to our chaotic sense impressions. Heavens to Betsy, it’s at least 96 years since the convention has been without a Bush in attendance! What about the floor fight to acknowledge non-Trump supporters? Does Trump even believe in the necessity of a running mate? Has Chris Christie destroyed his political career? Yadayadayada.

            Now, if only someone will hijack the Democratic Party and destroy it, Trump will have done some lasting good.

Corveth Ousterhouse, Actor

I won’t argue with studies that say we spend far too much time surfing the internet, but I also have to admit I’m the person for whom IMDb was invented. Within 10 minutes of viewing any cheesy movie of the distant past I find myself firing up the laptop to investigate one forgotten actor or another. I’m the guy who has to know what happened to the starlet who played Potiphar’s seventh daughter, and what her life was like after a series of roles of “Girl,” “Waitress,” and “Crying Jury Member” on early ‘60s detective shows dwindled. Was that acting career anything more than a whim for a pretty girl? Did she find some steady guy to take care of her and give her children in lieu of stardom? Was she left with any lingering regrets at surrendering her dream?  As the proverb has it, many are called but few are chosen. Never more so than in Hollywood, where Fame is the bitch goddess that casts down the multitudes into ignominy while elevating only the fortunate few.

            Still, an entry in IMDb, like a diamond, is forever. Whatever the subsequent career – real estate, personal trainer, chef – the evidence remains: Actor. And considering that the website allows one to write one’s own biography, the results can vary widely from barest facts to self-aggrandizing mythology. That self-funded, late-career comeback attempt can be presented as a triumph of determination over undeserved obscurity, without providing any evidence the film was ever seen. More often, the facts stand for themselves, and the mundane reality is that the actor transitioned in the industry to a behind the scenes role as costumer, producer, or casting director, taking advantage of inherent connections built while acting. Even in Hollywood, most of the jobs are jobs.

            Then there are the enigmas, the one-shot roles that led to nothing more, and left behind no trace of even wishing to be remembered. A person like Corveth Ousterhouse, for instance. Who, you ask? Let me start by reminding you of the career of Tommy Kirk. He was Disney’s all-American boy from the late ‘50s through the early ‘60s. Kids of my generation remember him in “Old Yeller,” “The Shaggy Dog,” “The Absent Minded Professor” and “Son of Flubber.” His boyish charm might have lasted into the ‘70s if he hadn’t been outed as gay and dropped like a steaming turd by Walt himself. From that point on Tommy “distinguished” himself in a series of forgettable beach party romps and monster pictures whose producers desired his name for instant cachet. I’m not saying he was a great actor, but the material and budgets were certainly a step down from the Disney empire.

One of those knock-offs, which featured perhaps the most ridiculous movie monster ever conceived was, It’s Alive,! from 1969. Kirk plays a cheerful paleontologist roaming the Ozarks who is charged with ending the psychotic reign of a crazed hillbilly who lures tourists to his ramshackle roadside attraction in order to feed the monster he keeps in a cave. In the cast is one, Corveth Ousterhouse, playing the snooty husband of a newlywed couple who reluctantly indulges his wife’s interest in the bucolic pleasures of country life. His disdain for simple folk, and genre necessity, marks him as an early casualty of the monster, but his role is substantial and competently delivered. I’ve seen many worse performances than this one. His IMDb bio consists of one sentence: “Corveth Ousterhouse is an actor, known for It’s Alive! (1969)”

Even granting that the transparent unlikelihood of the actor’s name may signal one big nom-de-goof designed to protect a reputation, Google provides no further amplification on the matter. Every single link loops back to the IMDb bio. Even the B-movie horror blogs, while freely expounding on the dreadfulness of the movie, accept the name at face value and offer no explanation for the singular performance. For now, we are left to wonder, whatever became of Corveth Ousterhouse, and more mysteriously, where did he come from?

Steve Jobs Finally Dead

You’re familiar with that voice of doom from movie trailers? And then…everything changed!? Depending on what narrative you subscribe to, reality as we know it altered irrevocably either when Steve Jobs founded Apple or when he ceased to be its guiding force. Before and after Steve, so to speak. Before there was an Apple there could be no cult of Apple; after Jobs’ passing, no living guru to guide its adherents. And now with the semi-revelatory iPhone 4S (a disappointing substitute for the anticipated 5) we have the final emanation from the great man, his ultimate gift to mankind.  The gaunt, turtle-necked wizard is gone from the stage.

            Even the most starry-eyed devotee will have to admit that Apple produces consumer products - albeit glossy, seductive, addicting products. But ultimately, tools to be judged by their relative utility. Is this particular pad or pod or phone effective for my uses is the question to be asked. So what could be the basis for this sect’s emergence over the last few decades?

Macs have always been the province of design types, multi-media developers, desktop publishers. Better operating system, intuitive interface, specialized applications they’ll be happy to tell you. Evidently some professions require what the Mac delivers and those were the people who always gravitated toward Apple. But it wasn’t computers that turned Apple into an industrial juggernaut and the largest corporation by market cap in the world. No, what made the Mac nearly irrelevant to the success of Apple was the unending phenomena of the phones and the mp3 players and the tablet computers and all the successive upgrades. Toys made Apple great! Consumer envy made Apple great! Upgrade fever made Apple great! And it was Steve Jobs – chief marketeer - who personally explained the indispensability of every new product in his much anticipated ritual roll-outs. Each iteration offered just enough snap, crackle and pop to keep the slavering masses lining up at midnight to be the first to acquire the new bauble. It was pure marketing magic.

Yet nobody really needs an iPhone. Options in the very mature cell phone market are near limitless. And what makes an iPod superior to the dozens of other music players that abound, other than its parasitic tethering to the iTunes store? Jobs’ genius was to incite cravings; convincing the credulous consumer that she must have what he was selling. Does that make him a visionary? Good for shareholders undoubtedly, but I’ll  save my praise for the unsung toilers at Bell Labs and Xerox who invented the stuff that made Steve Jobs and Apple possible. I’m a PC user, never have purchased an iTune and rely on an old dumbphone by Sanyo that’s good for nothing but phone calls.  And my life remains mostly unaffected by Steve Jobs, may he rest in peace.

Premises

The Klatsch will operate as both a forum for discussion and a zone of contention in matters of Kultur. High/low, pop/serious, trash/legacy, it’s all grist. Music, film, food, television, books, people, events, and other sundry manifestations of humanity to be addressed. Observations will be made, bloggish spouting will issue forth, sensitivities will be bruised. Fer instance, I’ve got a notion that Dylan is the worst possible interpreter of his own music and without certain iconic covers he might not enjoy the reputation he has today (not to mention the publishing royalties). How about Miles? The great unwashed who know little about jazz other than to do a little name-dropping consider him the ne plus ultra of cool. I say the man surrounded himself with good people and they did most of the heavy lifting while he became very rich. You see a theme here? I’m a natural contrarian, always looking for the chink in the armor; the point of leverage to overturn accepted wisdom. Who’s the most dangerous man in film? Stephen Spielberg obviously, who’s done more to shlockify modern cinema than any ten low-budget hacks. Worse, he’s spawned a whole cadre of disciples. You know who I mean.

So what mightn’t qualify for inclusion? I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, pour yourself a couple fingers of Blanton’s, settle back, put your feet up. I’ll take care of the rest.